The Sicilian's Red-Hot Revenge. Kate Walker

the warm female body underneath the soap, the hair that was being washed by the shampoo.

      Coffee. That was what he needed.

      Coffee would at least warm him up—fill his nostrils with another, completely unfeminine scent—distract him. Madre de Dio, he prayed it would distract him.

      It was as the kettle boiled that he remembered he hadn’t put out fresh towels, or found anything for Emily to wear. The way he was feeling, it would be better if she was clothed—at least for a while, he told himself, heading for the bedroom.

      Inferno. All he knew about her was her name—and then only her first name. She hadn’t even given him her surname.

      There was a clean T-shirt in the dresser. A shirt to go over it in the wardrobe. And there were brand-new, unworn boxers still in the packet…

      It was as he had them in his hand that he heard the water switch off.

      And the fantasy in his head froze him to the spot and kept him there.

      Emily, stark naked and dripping wet, stepping out of the shower and onto the grey-tiled floor of the bathroom. She would rub the towel over her face, along her limbs…

      ‘Asciugamano…!’ She’d need another towel.

      Pulling open another drawer, he grabbed two towelling sheets from it, painfully aware of the silence beyond the door. A silence that tugged at his nerves, tangled in his gut. And then there was another sound, one that twisted even harder. He turned slowly—so slowly—and watched the door open a crack—then wider.