Chapter Four #2
Or the right idea, thought Flora—but she didn’t say a word.
She couldn’t have spoken even if she could have thought of a suitable retort, she was in such a state of turmoil.
And even though (disappointingly) he had let his hands slide from her hips, she felt as if he’d left his mark where he had touched her.
As if the light caress of his fingers had penetrated the wool of her overcoat, lighting a secret flame within her.
She wanted him, she realised weakly. She had wanted him from the first moment she’d set eyes on him.
When he’d arrived at the office like a dark and brilliant star which had tumbled straight from the heavens.
Every day since then she had wanted him more—he had managed to feed her hopeless hunger for him without even trying.
By now she should have become immune to his potent presence, but somehow she had not.
Her unsophisticated heart still beat up a storm whenever she saw him and her stupid body reacted in a way which was unfathomable.
‘What’s wrong?’ he prompted, regarding her with a mocking elevation of his brows, and Flora realised she was in danger of making a total fool of herself.
Unless she really imagined a man of Vito’s calibre would look twice at her!
Talk about getting carried away with herself, or did she think she’d inherited some of Amy’s glamour, along with her wardrobe?
Taking a step back, she tried to pretend that nothing had happened. Because nothing had. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she answered briskly. ‘I’m just keen to explore the rest of this place and try to warm it up.’
His expression suggested he didn’t believe her and now Flora was conscious of her boss’s proximity like never before.
She scooted along the narrow corridor to find another smaller bedroom but her offer to have this one died on her lips as she pushed open the door.
At the foot of each narrow single bed was a Christmas stocking, spilling over with walnuts and tangerines and shiny golden coins.
There was special bed-linen too—pillowcases and duvets covered with images of Santa and his sleigh.
On the floor in front of the empty fire grate was a plate, upon which lay a carrot and mince pie.
‘We can’t use this room,’ she said flatly.
‘You mean because the beds are obviously designed for hamsters?’
‘They’re designed for children, Vito. And since it’s obviously all set up for the Laird’s niece’s children and they might still get here if the airport opens tomorrow, I think we should leave well alone. But don’t worry,’ she amended quickly. ‘I can have the sofa.’
‘No, Flora,’ he said, with an impatient shake of his head. ‘I’ll have the sofa. I’m not that much of a brute.’
There was a pause. She could feel her cheeks growing red. ‘If you say so,’ she said, staring fixedly down at her boots.
As she lifted her gaze to his, unexpectedly Vito began to laugh and the unfamiliar sound shattered some of the tension simmering between them. But just as quickly the amusement vanished and his features assumed their mask of stone.
‘But right now, I need a drink,’ he snapped.
Nodding, she turned away. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
Had she deliberately misunderstood him? Vito wondered frustratedly, as he followed her downstairs, taking care to veer off in a different direction as she headed towards the kitchen, unwilling to torture himself any more by watching the sway of her delicious bottom.
He’d wanted some hundred-year-old whisky, not tea.
Something to relax him. To rid him of this sudden inconvenient desire for her, which had been ignited by a touch of almost laughable innocence and yet was manifesting itself in this hard and urgent aching at his groin.
And she had wanted him too. He was experienced enough to realise that there had been a connection and even as he thought about it, he felt himself getting harder.
But having sex with his secretary would be a bad idea, even if—strictly speaking—she was no longer his secretary.
He never blurred social boundaries by getting intimate with a staff member.
He swallowed, trying to focus on her negative traits, instead of her soft curves and trembling lips.
Telling him what he needed to drink instead of asking him what he wanted.
Was she now going to do that thing which all women seemed to possess at their beating heart—trying to badger him into doing what she wanted?
He went back into the sitting room and glared at the Christmas tree.
Trying to control him.
Well, good luck with that, he thought grimly.
But as he removed his cashmere coat and slung it over a nearby sofa, his simmering frustration showed no signs of abating.
He was someone who rarely sat still and was always powered by pure adrenaline.
Who filled every waking moment with activity in one form or another, because that was the way he dealt with life.
But his briefcase was still on the plane and there was no phone signal.
Nothing for his restless mind and body to focus on other than forbidden thoughts about his secretary.
At least the icy temperature stirred him into action.
He found a box of matches, lit the scrunched-up newspaper beneath the pyramid of logs in the grate and soon a fire was roaring, filling the room with warmth and heat.
Sitting back on his heels, he regarded his handiwork, unable to remember the last time he’d done something as basic as this.
For a few seconds he allowed himself the primitive satisfaction of watching the thundering flames, when he heard the chink of china behind him and glanced up to see Flora standing there, carrying a loaded tray.
The firelight was splashing her curls with copper and she had removed her green coat.
In her clinging scarlet sweater and tiny skirt, there was something so intensely feminine about her that Vito forgot his irritation and acted purely on instinct.
He rose to his feet to relieve her of the tray. ‘Here. Let me,’ he said. ‘Go over there and sit down by the fire.’
‘Thanks.’ But she seemed nervous as she perched on the edge of one of the velvet sofas and tried to object when he started pouring the tea.
‘Why don’t you let me do it?’
‘What’s the matter, Flora?’ He raised his brows in mocking question. ‘You think I’m incapable of such a simple task?’
‘I don’t imagine domesticity being high on your to-do list, no.’ She took the cup he handed her and shot him a curious look. ‘I expect you have people to cater to your every need.’
‘Si. I do. Aren’t I lucky?’ he questioned sardonically.
It had always been that way. He couldn’t remember any differently.
There had always been an army of people employed to keep his life running smoothly.
First through his parents and after that, through his own endeavours.
People who cleaned his luxury apartment and Tuscan castle and cooked him gourmet meals, any time he required them.
People who drove his top-of-the-range planes and cars, who fixed them when they broke, or replaced them when they were scarcely more than a year old.
People who knew his measurements, who provided him with the finest handmade suits and shirts and shoes, without him ever having to set foot inside a shop.
He consumed only the best the world had to offer and was protected within the privileged bubble of his billionaire lifestyle.
But sometimes that bubble felt lonely, he realised suddenly. And the last year had been as lonely as hell. The dark void left by his father’s and brother’s deaths had created a vacuum and into that vacuum had flooded the bitter memories and painful emotions he’d spent years trying to suppress.
‘Is something wrong, Vito?’
Her gentle voice snapping him out of his reverie, Vito found her green-gold eyes fixed on him watchfully. ‘You mean, other than the fact that I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere and have been forced to miss my flight?’ he retorted.
She shook her head, as if determined not to react to his short fuse. ‘Your face. It just looked…’
Instinctively, he tensed. ‘What?’
Did his tone warn her off? Was that why she scrambled to her feet and shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll take my tea with me and see what I can find for supper.’
He watched her go, allowing himself the brief, guilty pleasure of studying her compact curves before tearing his gaze away and trying to convince himself it was better when she was out of sight. Why torture himself with fantasies of the forbidden?
He threw another log on the fire and looked out of the window, where the snow was still falling in slow motion.
It was, he conceded reluctantly, very beautiful and very peaceful.
For once, the rest of the world and all its troubles seemed a long way away and the only sounds Vito could hear were the beating of his own heart and the spitting of the fire.
And somehow those things soothed him. He yawned.
Even the Christmas tree, towering over the room like a monstrous green monolith, was exuding the soft coniferous smell of the forest. As a long breath escaped from his lungs, he closed his eyes.
And slept.