Because all she could think about was Vito. Vito touching her, and kissing her. Heat had spiralled deep inside her, arrowing provocatively between her thighs as she imagined his golden-bronze fingers slowly peeling all the delicate garments from her body and…
‘Flora?’
Given the explicit nature of her thoughts, it came as a profound shock to hear her boss’s velvety voice filtering through the air and Flora’s eyelids shot open to find him standing in front of her, regarding her with a look of incredulity which he made no attempt to hide. His disbelieving gaze slowly flickered from the faux-fur collar of Amy’s jaunty green coat, all the way down to the soft leather boots which ended just above the knee.
She saw his features tighten—his obvious astonishment replaced by a narrow-eyed look of something she didn’t recognise. Something which caused his blue eyes to grow dark and smoky and a muscle to begin an insistent beat at his temple.
As Flora stood up too quickly, the ringlety new waves bounced wildly around her shoulders and these too seemed momentarily to transfix him. But then he glared at her, which was somehow reassuring. It was certainly familiar.
‘Good morning, Vito,’ she said brightly.
‘Good morning.’ His nod was perfunctory as he gestured towards the door, and he gave a faint shudder when he noticed her Christmas earrings. ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’ he growled. ‘The plane is ready.’
For once Flora found it hard not to let her irritation show. No ‘sorry I’m late’, or any kind of explanation why she’d been sitting there for nearly an hour, kicking her heels. And no grudging compliment after she’d completely upgraded her wardrobe followinghisbrutal assessment. Was there no pleasing the man? she wondered.
She followed him out onto the airfield where his sleek jet was waiting, wondering why he was an hour later than he’d said he would be, and why there were dark shadows underneath his eyes. He’d probably been with a woman. Up all night pleasuring someone and making her…making her…
Briefly Flora closed her eyes, willing the feelings to go away. She had to stop thinking like this. Because what if hehadspent the night with a woman? Wouldn’t it be for the best if she knew for a fact he was involved with someone—so she could kick these useless yearnings into the long grass, where they belonged? Hadn’t her inconvenient crush on the Italian billionaire been growing by the day, much to her disgust? Didn’t matter how often she told herself he was arrogant and unknowable, it didn’t seem to change a thing. And wasn’t the time to call a halt to it right now?
Obviously, she had never been on a private jet before and although the cream and gold plane was much smaller than she had imagined, it was undeniably sleek. Sliding Amy’s coat from her shoulders, she waited until he had commandeered one of the squashy leather seats before positioning herself opposite him, a polished table between them.
For a moment their eyes met and it felt disturbingly claustrophobic to be sharing such a glamorous space with him. Aware of having to sit rather differently when you were wearing a tartan mini rather than a baggy skirt, Flora primly pressed her knees together.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ he demanded, turning his head to call for the stewardess, as if he’d rather look anywhere than at her.
‘Er, not yet.’
A gorgeous stewardess appeared, nodding her immaculate brunette head as Vito spoke to her in Italian, and minutes later they were being served a veritable feast of pastries, fruit and juice, along with coffee whose delicious smell Flora recognised instantly. As the stewardess poured two cups of the steaming brew before retreating from the salon, Flora thought it felt exactly like being in a movie.
‘Help yourself,’ Vito suggested softly as she regarded the lavish offerings with hungry eyes.
Flora needed no second bidding. Her stomach had been rumbling with nerves about the trip since the previous evening. She was absolutely starving and these smelt sogood. ‘You aren’t having any?’ she questioned, biting deeply into a croissant and sighing with deep pleasure as some almond paste oozed out.
It took a couple of seconds before Vito could focus on the question because his senses were in a state of overdrive, much to his irritation. How long since he had felt such a powerful punch of lust—as if he were emerging from a dreamless sleep into bright and vivid life? Suddenly his fractured night of guilt and regret was forgotten. And even though Flora Greening was the least likely candidate to have initiated such a wild beating of his heart, wasn’t he momentarily grateful that she had taken his mind off the heartbreak of his brother’s death—a few short weeks after his father’s demise—which hit him at times when he was least expecting it?
‘No,’ he answered, his throat thickening. ‘I’m not…hungry.’
He was trying not to stare but where else was he supposed to look?
What the hell hadhappenedto her?
Since when had his rosy-cheeked secretary decided to morph into some sort of siren?
Since he’d foolishly suggested that she might want to rethink her wardrobe choices.
He had expected her to turn up in something smart and sensible, not…
Notthis.
He narrowed his eyes. The length of her skirt wasn’t particularly controversial and was tempered by thick black tights, but the over-the-knee boots had kick-started some primitive male fantasy, as did the distracting view of her thighs. Surprisingly firm and strong thighs. Must be all that cycling, he thought unnecessarily, his mouth growing dry. She was covered from neck to waist in a red sweater which wasn’t actually revealing very much. Except of course that it did, but in the most subtly provocative way imaginable. Her breasts were…
Sensational.
Full and pert and feminine. She was all firm curves and soft lines. His gaze drifted upwards, grateful that her attention was focused solely on her meal, which she was tucking into with enthusiasm, allowing him to study her unobserved.
But suddenly she lifted her head and he became aware of the glossy ringlets which framed her face and the green-gold beauty of her eyes. Fragments of croissant were clinging to her lips and he found himself wanting to brush them away. Did he automatically touch his fingertips to his own lips, causing her to dab at the crumbs, with a self-conscious flourish of her linen napkin?
Furiously, he willed the heat in his blood to subside. It didn’t matter what she wore or didn’t wear. She was his secretary, for god’s sake!
