The Virgin's Shock Baby. Heidi Rice

rippled up her spine and she grasped her sister’s wrists. ‘Stay here, Katie, I’m warning you. This is going to be humiliating enough without you there making me feel even more self-conscious.’

      Katie pulled her hands free, the spark of defiance disappearing for the first time in hours. ‘Why would it be humiliating?’

      ‘Because I’m not his type and he’s only taking me as a favour to Dad.’

      And Dad expects me to seduce him. Somehow. And then commit a crime to save Whittaker’s.

      ‘What do you mean, you’re not his type?’ Katie’s gaze travelled over Megan’s outfit, the appreciation in her wide green eyes making Megan’s heart pound even harder. ‘You look absolutely stunning. Just like Mum. I wish I had at least a few of your curves.’ She flung her arms around Megan’s shoulders, holding her tight for a few precious seconds. ‘You’re going to knock his designer socks off, you silly moo,’ Katie whispered in her ear, before she drew back. Warmth suffused Megan.

      Even when she was being a pain in the backside, Katie was Megan’s greatest cheerleader and her best friend.

      ‘Which is precisely why you need me there to make sure he doesn’t get any ideas,’ Katie added, in case Megan hadn’t figured that out already after the four-hour campaign. ‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to threaten him with my kick-boxing skills?’

      ‘You gave up kick-boxing after two sessions,’ Megan pointed out.

      ‘What if I threaten to macramé him to death instead, then?’ Katie offered—probably only half joking. ‘I did a killer macramé piece for my course.’

      The chuckle that popped out of Megan’s mouth was part gratitude and part hysteria. Whatever happened with De Rossi, her life was likely to be irrevocably changed once tonight was over. Because she’d either be in his bed, or in a prison cell. Her sister’s silly joke helped to ground her, though, and confirm what she already knew: that protecting Katie and her dreams, and protecting Whittaker’s, were worth sacrificing her self-respect and throwing herself at De Rossi tonight.

      All Megan had to do was figure out how to do that without having a nervous breakdown.

      Lydia Brady stepped into the room. ‘Mr De Rossi has arrived, Megan.’ The older woman smiled. ‘You look beautiful, dear.’

      ‘Thank you, Lydia.’ Nerves screamed across her bare shoulders, and the hot brick in her stomach sank lower.

      Letting go of her sister’s hands, she walked towards the dressing-room door, affecting the expression she had practised in the mirror for hours last night. Polite, confident and, she hoped, at least a little alluring.

      Her heels echoed on the marble flooring as she made her way down the corridor, but as she turned into the apartment’s plush lobby area all the air seized in her lungs and her steps faltered.

      Dario De Rossi looked up from adjusting his cuffs, his crystal-blue eyes locking on her face like a tractor beam, and sending a sizzle of electric energy through her body.

      The man looked devastating in a tux. Tall and broad, his powerful body only made more intimidating by the classic black tailoring, which emphasised the magnificent width of his shoulders, the leanness of his waist and the length of his legs.

      How tall was he? At least three inches above her father’s six feet.

      She took a careful breath and forced herself to carry on walking, grateful her wrap covered her cleavage when the assessing gaze roamed down, setting off a series of mini explosions and making her insides grow hot.

      ‘Buonasera, Megan.’

      His English was so perfect, with only the slightest hint of his Italian heritage, it felt strangely intimate to have him greet her in his native language. The way the deep husky rumble of his voice skated across already oversensitive flesh, though, was not as disturbing as the dark flash of hunger in his eyes as she drew level.

      ‘Buonasera,’ she said, answering him in Italian automatically.

      He lifted her fingers to his mouth, startling her, and pressed his lips to the knuckles.

      The gesture should have been polite, gallant even, but for the way his thumb slid across her palm as he lowered her hand, sending arrows of sensation darting up her arm, and into her torso.

      She tugged her hand out of his grasp, shocked by her response, as his gaze roamed up to her hair.

      ‘The colour is natural?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes,’ she replied, disconcerted by the approval shining in his eyes.

      His firm lips lifted in a smile that managed to be both amused and predatory, as if he were a panther, toying with his prey.

      ‘I hope I did not offend you,’ he said, the intimacy of his gaze contradicting his apology. The bright blue gaze then dipped to her toes and back, sending seismic ripples over her skin and igniting every pulse point like a firework.

      ‘Relax, cara mia.’ The rough chuckle scraped across her nerve-endings.

      A fiery blush crept up her neck. Was he mocking her?

      She looked down at her hands, and forced her fingers to release their death grip on the diamond-encrusted purse. Annalise had told her that looking like a lamb being led to slaughter would not entice any man.

      Breathe. Remember to breathe. Breathing is good.

      But when she raised her head, he was doing that laser-beam thing again, as if he could see right through her—to the soon-to-be felon beneath.

      ‘I’m sorry, I’m tired,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ve had a very busy day.’

      Could she actually sound any more inane? Where was all the scintillating conversation about his business acquisitions that she had been working on for hours?

      ‘Doing what?’ he asked.

      ‘Shopping for this dress, mostly. And getting my hair and nails and stuff done,’ she replied honestly. Until today she’d had no idea that trawling the designer boutiques of the Upper East Side and spending four hours getting waxed and plucked and pampered to within an inch of her life was more exhausting than hiking up Kilimanjaro.

      ‘Have you, now?’ he said, the wry tone making her realise the statement made her sound like a spoilt debutante fishing for a compliment.

      Humiliation washed over her.

      She knew from the articles she’d devoured about him in the last twenty-four hours that he had been born into one of Rome’s most notorious slums. He had to know what true exhaustion was. Everything else about his origins was sketchy, something he refused to talk to the press about, but that simple nugget of information had only intimidated her more. She could well imagine how hard De Rossi must have fought to escape his origins—and how hard he would fight now to keep hold of what he had. And what he wanted to acquire.

      Her skin burned, her nipples tightening as his gaze met hers. The cool blue was not as icy as she remembered it from their first brief meeting. His lips quirked.

      ‘It was time and money well spent,’ he said, the casual compliment making the flush flare across her collarbone.

      Then, to her astonishment, he lifted a hand and tucked his forefinger under her chin. The soft brush of the knuckle was like a zap of electricity, firing down to her core as he lifted her face.

      She stiffened, stunned by the enormity of her response to a simple touch. She struggled not to jerk her head away, to submit to the proprietorial caress, despite being brutally aware of the heat now blazing on her cheeks.

      What was going on here? Because the amused quirk on his lips had disappeared. Why was he looking at her so intently?

      He drew his thumb across her bottom lip.

      ‘You are very beautiful in your own unique way,’ he said, his gaze lifting to her chignon. ‘Especially