But she wasn’t spending the nightwithhim. They might be incarcerated under the same roof but the Laird had said there were four bedrooms.
‘Four bedrooms’ was a bit of a misnomer. One had been repurposed as an office while a second was a repository for large pieces of furniture, covered in dust-sheets. Eventually, Flora found a double bedroom and heaved a sigh of relief. The big brass bed was covered with a hand-crocheted quilt and a flower-sprigged basin and jug stood on the nightstand beside it. It was a solid and traditional room and she wondered how many generations might have used this antique bed.
Lingering on the threshold, she imagined what these four walls must have witnessed. Married couples consummating their vows, and children being born. It suggested a sense of family and continuity. Everything she’d never really had and probably never would. Amy would have them, but on the other side of the world. How often would she get to see any little nieces or nephews? she wondered, her heart clenching with pain.
She turned away, so overcome with emotion that she cannoned straight into the man who was standing behind her, and it was like colliding with a solid wall of muscle. Like soft cream meeting brittle toffee. She swayed as their bodies made contact and Vito automatically reached out to anchor her. As his hands rested lightly on her hips she could hear her heart beating out a wild and frantic tattoo. She stared up at him and suddenly all the breath left her lungs. Was it that lack of oxygen to her brain which made her feel so dizzy, or just the overwhelming sensation of his proximity?
They’d never even touched before—why would they?—but that hadn’t stopped her wondering what it might feel like. She wanted it to be a disappointment, but it wasn’t. Despite the innocence of the gesture, it felt like she’d died and gone to paradise and she couldn’t seem to do a thing about her reaction. Suddenly her breasts were pushing hungrily against the soft wool of her sweater and she saw from the brief flicker of his gaze that her hardening nipples hadn’t escaped him. Was that why his blue eyes had grown so smoky—his sensual lips curving into a line of provocation? Was he feeling it too? Like she would go mad if he didn’t pull her even closer and bring his lips down on hers, in a hard crushing kiss which might rid her of some of this aching frustration.
‘Steady, Flora,’ he said softly. ‘Look at a man like that and you might start giving him the wrong idea.’
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 nothinghad. ‘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 forchildren, 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’llhave 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 whatshewanted?
He went back into the sitting room and glared at the Christmas tree.
Trying tocontrolhim.
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?’
