She glanced down at the pens still strewn on the silk rug as the bizarreness of the situation began to reassert itself and when she looked up again she realised that the man’s cold gaze was still fixed on her. And really, why was she letting some complete stranger come in here and start throwing his weight around?
‘Excuse me, but whoareyou?’ she said, knowing this was something she should have verified the moment he set foot in the office, rather than standing there drooling like a starving dog confronted by a juicy bone. Clearing her throat, she attempted to inject her voice with authority, which she tempered with a polite smile. ‘This is the office of Julian Wootton, the CEO and he has no meetings in his diary for this morning. Unless he’s scheduled something and forgotten to tell me.’
As she studied him questioningly, Vito felt another flicker of the irritation which had been hovering perilously close to the surface ever since his private jet had touched down, just as dawn had finished streaking the London sky. His ego certainly didn’t need massaging and he wasn’t someone who ever sought recognition, though in his native Italy that had always been a big ask—given his high-profile and infuriating reputation as one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. For this reason he usually embraced anonymity with enthusiasm, but…
He frowned.
Didn’t the fact that this woman didn’t know him reinforce how much he had taken his eye off the ball lately, and all the reasons why? He felt the twist of pain and self-recrimination, followed inevitably by the tang of regret. Always regret, he thought bitterly. As stubborn and unshiftable as the blame which accompanied it, whenever he thought about his brother.
Ruffled by this unwanted ambush of emotion, Vito sought to distract himself. Should he play a little game with her? he wondered cruelly. Pretend to be some hapless Italian who had wandered out of the elevator at the wrong floor and allow her to patronise him by speakingvery slowly. Or make her day by flirting a little? Judging by the way she’d been staring at him, it wouldn’t take very long to have her eating out of his hand.
But, even if this wasn’t business—and he never combined business with pleasure—she wasn’t the kind of woman he’d ever flirt with. He took in her damp and slightly frizzy russet hair. The rosy apples of her rounded cheeks. The cheap white blouse and utilitarian skirt which hinted at abundant curves beneath. He gave a disbelieving little shake of his head.
‘My name is Vito Monticello,’ he said quietly and saw from the way her lips framed her sudden shock that now she knew exactly who he was.
‘Oh, my…’ The shock became a wobbly smile as she held back what was obviously an exclamation of horror. ‘You’re the boss?’
‘The owner,’ he corrected bluntly. ‘Of the company which employs you, Miss…?’
‘Greening,’ she answered, clearly very flustered now. ‘Flora Greening. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you, but I thought…’
‘What?’ he queried and when she shrugged her shoulders, repeated silkily. ‘What did you think, Miss Greening?’
‘That you’d be…’
He raised his eyebrows in mocking query.
‘Older,’ she admitted. ‘And I wasn’t…expecting you. I mean, there was no warning you were coming here.’
He gave a wolfish smile. ‘That’s because I didn’t give any.’
Her head was darting from side to side as if she were expecting her boss to suddenly leap out from behind a piece of furniture.
‘Where’s Julian?’ she asked.
‘I’ve fired him.’
Her expression grew even more mortified and all at once he forgot the frizzy hair and the flushed cheeks, the ugly skirt and cheap blouse. Because her widened eyes were the most extraordinary colour, he realised, with a sudden unexpected punch to the heart. They were green and shot with gold, like sunlight falling onto the first leaves of spring.
‘Oh my goodness!’ She cleared her throat again, her next question coming out as a husky whisper. ‘Why did you do that?’
Impatient with the crazy trajectory of his thoughts—because since when did his heart ever miss a beat over some frumpy secretary’seyes?—Vito glared at her. ‘Are you telling me you’re surprised that I’ve let go of such a towering captain of industry?’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘Ah, I can see you’re reluctant to answer that particular question. Perhaps you’re worried about incriminating yourself?’
‘Of course I’m not!’
‘Then I suggest you stop biting your lip like a nervous exam student and sit down so I can ask you a few questions,’ he instructed, his finger pointing towards the chair in front of the desk. ‘Over there, if you like.’
She surveyed the proffered chair warily. ‘Honestly, I’m quite happy to stand. Or…’ She looked at him hopefully. ‘Perhaps I could get you a cup of coffee, Mr Monticello?’
‘It’sSignorMonticello,’ he corrected waspishly. ‘And no, you can’t.’ Did she think he could be placated with a warm drink of some unspeakable brew he had been served so many times outside his native Italy? ‘I drank some on the plane which is always mixed to my particular specification. And what’s more, I don’t appreciate what is obviously a stalling tactic in order to avoid what will probably be a difficult conversation. Do you understand what I’m saying, Miss Greening?’
‘I understand perfectly. You have made your position abundantly clear, Signor Monticello.’ She was blinking at him now—those long lashes fluttering over the amazing eyes like a pair of distracted butterflies. But she slid obediently into the seat he had suggested, her hands clasped together on her lap as she fixed her gaze on him.
‘Okay, let’s begin,’ he said, wondering why her hair was so damp when it wasn’t raining. ‘How long have you worked for Julian Wootton?’
Flora clasped and unclasped her hands, suspecting he already knew the answer to this particular question, but also knowing that she wanted to humour him. Shehadto. He wasn’t just drop-dead gorgeous, he was rich and powerful. He was also her boss and he held her future in his hands. Oh,whyhadn’t she recognised him? But she knew exactly why. He’d taken over after the death of his father a year ago, just after she’d joined the company, when everything had seemed so new and scarily different after her many contented years in the library. But that was all she did know about him. She made it her business to learn the names of everyone who worked in the building—from the cleaners to the executive board—because she liked as many facts as possible at her fingertips and then she liked to file them neatly in her mind.
But during her lunch-break she nearly always had her nose in a book and kept herself to herself. She certainly didn’t gossip with the other people who worked at the London headquarters of Verdenergia, who might have informed her that Vito Monticello looked like a god. She knew very well that the other women at the multinational energy company—and the men too, most probably—regarded her as something of a freak, but Flora didn’t care. Her experience had been so different to that of other people her age. Her teenage years had gifted her the legacy of feeling like a permanent outsider. Which she was. But that was okay and she was cool with it.
