Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she prayed Vito Monticello would be gentle with her. That he wasn’t on a mission to catch her out. Would he see her as the tainted ally of the man he’d just fired and dispatch her with similar speed and ruthlessness?
Because it would be easy to catch her out, wouldn’t it? She certainly wasn’t labouring under any illusion that she was nothing but a glorified diary keeper, who kept all the balls spinning in the air when her boss was too hung-over to deal with them himself. And yes, recently her conscience had been protesting that she needed to get herself a different job with better prospects which would make her feel more excited about going into work in the morning, and she was planning to do exactly that.
But not now.
Not yet.
Not with Christmas just around the corner.
The money was too good, and there was Amy…
Sucking in a deep breath, Flora willed herself to relax because she wasn’t going to think about Amy. Not with that granite-faced man scowling at her. She wasn’t going to risk exposing any of her stupid vulnerabilities to him. She wasn’t going to riskanything. She never had and never would. She swallowed. She’d learnt from bitter experience that risk was a fool’s game.
‘I’ve worked here for just over a year.’
‘And before that?’
Resisting the desire to suggest it might be simpler if he simply read her CV, Flora met his piercing blue gaze. ‘I was a classroom assistant, and then I worked in a library.’
‘Si?’ he said softly, his ebony gaze sweeping over her. ‘That figures. You look like a librarian.’
Flora tried not to react to his drawled comment because she knew exactly what it meant. The term was code. A subtext. It implied she conformed perfectly to the stereotype of a buttoned-up woman. The sort who would never say boo to a goose, or worry if her skirt was the wrong length to ever be fashionable. But she didn’t really care because shewasthat woman, and so what? Life was safer if you had a protective shield to hide behind. And what right did he have to judge her past? ‘It was a very fulfilling job,’ she added defensively.
‘I’m sure it was.’ He ran a slow thumb over the curve of his jaw, drawing her attention to the faint shadow which made him look so darkly virile. As if she needed any reminding!
‘I’m just surprised, that’s all,’ he continued. ‘Stamping books and imposing fines doesn’t seem a natural pathway to becoming a personal assistant to the chief executive officer of a large, energy company.’ He paused. ‘What made you leave the library if you liked it so much?’
She shrugged. ‘It was shut down.’
‘Why?’
As Flora met his uncomprehending stare, a sense of exasperation rose within her. What would he know of the plight of ordinary folk—this suited and booted billionaire, who had probably been born with a silver spoon in his mouth? Shouldn’t she enlighten him about the ways of the world before he silkily informed her that her services were no longer required? ‘Cuts,’ she informed him briskly, her voice growing a little unsteady. ‘The government had to reduce their spending—and said they could no longer justify funding the local library because more and more people were using screens.’
‘But you didn’t agree with them?’
‘Of course I didn’t agree with them!’ she declared and all the pent-up emotions she’d been trying so hard to suppress for weeks now came bubbling to the surface. ‘Yes, screens are in the majority these days but nothing ever beats the magic of a book. Yet some children are brought up in households where they never even see one,’ she added, unable to keep the outrage from her voice. ‘And libraries are a lifeline to people who can’t afford to buy them!’
Vito’s eyes narrowed, unexpectedly impressed—and surprised—by her impassioned outburst. It seemed the mousy secretary had fire. And substance. He knew about her background of course—he’d flicked through her CV on the plane over, when he’d been examining the activities of her boss. Apparently she was extremely diligent and hard-working, and her worthy defence of the underprivileged seemed genuine, and commendable. She looked—and sounded—like the kind of person he would instinctively trust.
But Vito had spent much of his life surrounded by people who were not what they seemed. Who pretended to be something other than what they really were. And that, along with the ridiculous amount of wealth he had acquired and which had turned him into a target for so many wannabes, made him naturally suspicious. Especially of women, whom he had always found to be particularly disingenuous. He chose his words carefully, his gaze steady as he delivered them. ‘Were you aware that Julian Wootton was totally incompetent?’
She sat up very straight. ‘It’s not my role to judge my boss.’
‘Perhaps you colluded with him?’ he continued, his silky tone inviting confidence and—possibly—indiscretion. ‘I’ve heard that he was unexpectedly popular with the ladies.’
Her apple-round cheeks were bright with indignation. ‘I find that a very offensive accusation,SignorMonticello.’
He let her heated words bounce off him, with a shrug. ‘It would be remiss of me not to enquire.’
‘I suppose so,’ she agreed reluctantly.
‘So as far as you were concerned, he was an efficient boss, under whose guidance this giant industrial ship sailed without mishap through the choppiest of waters. Ah! I see that you are biting your lip again, Miss Greening—something which I observe you do when feeling a little uncomfortable.’
‘How on earth could you possibly know something like that?’ she questioned, her cheeks becoming even more flushed. ‘When we’ve only been acquainted for a manner of minutes!’
‘Because I am good at reading people,’ he murmured. Especially women. Although possibly not a woman like this, he conceded to himself, as she brushed a damp strand of hair away from a flushed cheek totally devoid of make-up.
Marshalling the unusual direction of his thoughts, he went to stand by the window, staring down at the street below which was just beginning to get busy. Workers were streaming from the nearby Tube station towards the offices and shops which awaited them, and lights were twinkling in the windows. Far more lights than usual, he concluded grimly—for the kaleidoscopic display cutting through the grey of the December morning could mean only one thing.
