The Italian's Virgin Bride. Trish Morey

beautiful woman.’

      She felt the heat rise to her face and stared at the numbers—twenty-eight, twenty-seven—willing them to speed up before her cheeks were as red as the lights flashing their progress. ‘Disarmingly beautiful’—what kind of a backhanded compliment was that? But there was no way she was going to ask.

      Instead she said, ‘I can’t see what that has to do with the sale of Clemengers.’

      He spun back against the wall of the lift, head raised to the ceiling. ‘You’re right. This isn’t your problem.’

      For a moment she was confused. Then realisation sank in. ‘The phone call,’ she said.

      He nodded. ‘The phone call. My father thinks I should be married. My mother makes it her career to interview every finishing-school graduate or European princess she comes across.’

      Opal was reminded of the women photographed with Domenic. Clearly neither finishing-school graduates nor princesses. So what did he expect? His parents were no doubt concerned he’d end up hitched to one of those photo opportunists. In spite of herself, she felt a smile flirt around the corners of her mouth. ‘I can see how that might be a problem—for someone like you.’

      Her words snagged into him, their ragged edges scratching barbs across his consciousness. But if she expected that to put him on the defensive, she was very much mistaken. Notwithstanding his family connections, he hadn’t got to where he was by rolling with the punches. That was something Ms Clemenger was going to have to learn.

      He swung around and took a step closer, cramping her up against the back of the lift before dropping an arm each side of her to the brass handrail. She was trapped.

      He saw the fright flicker in her widening eyes, the spark of alarm that glowed red in their greenish-blue depths, and was glad. ‘Someone like me? That sounds very much like some kind of put-down, Ms Clemenger.’

      But even as he waited for her response, something else happened in her eyes. The momentary flare cooled, a sheen of varnish turning them hard and cold and unreadable.

      ‘Opal,’ she said, only a touch shakily around the edges even though he could see the tightening white-knuckled grip on her folio, held up as a barrier between them. ‘I said you could call me Opal.’

      In spite of himself, he liked the way she said her name. Liked the way her mouth opened and then pouted to form the ‘p’, widening once more until her pink tongue brushed her top teeth over the ‘l’. There was something very sexy about the way her lips made that word. Come to think of it, there was something very sexy about her lips, period.

      If only her eyes gave the same message.

      ‘Opal,’ he said, his lips curling but a few centimetres from hers. ‘You wouldn’t try to put down the man who was thinking about saving your business?’

      This time her eyes met his savagely. ‘And here was I thinking I was offering a solution for yours.’

      He smiled. Those lips were so close he could just about reach over and sample them. ‘That’s not how it sounded to me.’

      Now he had her nervous, her eyes darting from side to side, searching for escape almost as if she could read his mind. Her tongue flicked out, moistened her lips before darting back in.

      ‘So maybe you weren’t listening,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the wall to his left.

      ‘Oh, I’ve been listening,’ he crooned, ‘and watching, and wondering.’

      Without Opal turning her head, her eyes found his before fleeing to fix on the wall once more.

      ‘Wondering what?’

      He dropped his head even closer. ‘Whether that mouth tastes as good as it looks.’

      He dipped his head, banishing the remaining few centimetres between them. His lips brushed hers, catching her sharp intake of air, and tasted warmth, life and just a hint of sweetness, before the lift doors behind him dinged, heralding their arrival at the ground floor and then opening with a whoosh.

      ‘Excuse me,’ she said, sounding a little bit breathless as she ducked her face, pushing past his arm and out to the freedom of the richly decorated marble foyer beyond. ‘I think this is where I get off.’

      He watched her shapely rear view as she fled for the safety of the foyer. She was some surprise package all right. He’d set out to intimidate her, not kiss her, but that didn’t stop him thinking about the possibilities of a second chance.

      ‘Lady,’ he muttered under his breath as he followed her, ‘this ride has only just begun.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      SHE was a fool. Opal poured herself a cup of Earl Grey tea from the silver pot, watching a flurry of tiny leaves swirl and tumble through the amber liquid. She didn’t need to be a fortune-teller to know they were telling her the selfsame thing.

      It was at least two hours since Domenic had pressed her against the back of the lift, had brushed her lips with his own and frozen her to the spot, and still she couldn’t think about anything else.

      He would be back to finish his coffee any moment, after excusing himself to take a private call on his mobile phone, and here she was, still thinking about what might have happened if those lift doors had not opened when they had, when she should be thinking about how to convince him to invest in the business.

      By all accounts he had been impressed with the luxury and sheer class of Clemengers, from the moment Sebastian, the doorman, had greeted their entry with a formal nod to them both, his top hat and tails setting the tone for the tour to follow. He’d appreciated the generous size and furnishings of the suites, the bold antique tones that decorated each room, their sumptuous furnishings spelling wealth, luxury and prestige, with not a bland pastel water-colour print in sight.

      He hadn’t even balked when she’d shown him the figures, just studied them, nodding where he was clear, asking pertinent questions exactly where she’d expect anyone with the analytical ability to know when to drill down for further details.

      Even the meal they’d just shared in The Pearl, Clemengers’ award-winning restaurant, had been beyond reproach. Thai chilli king prawns, followed by the most tender fillet of steak, served on fried sweet-potato wedges and topped with lobster medallions in a white-wine sauce. Domenic had made a point of meeting the chefs before coffee, to compliment them personally and discuss their attitudes, their philosophies and their aspirations.

      He would be doing none of this if he weren’t seriously considering the idea of investing in Clemengers.

      So it would be logical at this stage for her to be thinking about how she should close the deal. That would make sense. Close the deal and ensure Clemengers wasn’t about to be gutted or razed and turned into so many more flats. Close the deal and ensure Clemengers could continue operating into the future. Close the deal…

      Which didn’t help explain one bit why she kept thinking about what had happened in the lift instead. Why was it so hard to forget about the gentle brush of his lips against hers, the heat of his breath next to her cheek, and the way his touch made her senses unfurl and open, like palm fronds given birth, stretching out into the humidity of a warm tropical morning?

      He’d kissed her.

      And she hadn’t even attempted to stop him. From the moment she’d sensed his lips descending, she’d forgotten entirely why she was there. Even more damning, she’d forgotten what he was. He was a playboy. The lowest kind of man.

      Sure he might end up investing in the hotel. For the sake of Clemengers, she’d have to look past the man’s personal life. But she herself must never forget what he was. She should only think of her mother’s sad and empty life to remind her what that would cost.

      Absently she stirred a half-teaspoon of sugar into her tea. It was quiet in the restaurant. People spoke in hushed tones. The waiting staff were efficient and non-invasive,