One Night In…. Оливия Гейтс

was right and harking on about old lovers had nothing to do with what they had here. ‘Just take me to bed and love me, Raffaelle,’ she begged.

      He did not need asking twice. Their clothes fell away like rags for jumble. He pulled her against him, lips almost bruising in their intensity, his hands sliding possessively along her slender curves until he found the indentation of her waist, where he gripped and lifted her off the ground.

      For a few clamouring seconds when her legs wrapped round him she thought he was going to do it standing right there with no preliminaries. Their mouths were straining and he was on fire, pumped up and ready for her. And she was pretty well much the same.

      Then he turned and toppled them on to the duvet. What followed was the kind of fierce, fevered loving that staked absolute possession and claim. He gave her all of him and she took it greedily and gave back the same.

      Afterwards they lay spread across the mattress, Rachel nothing more than a slender, soft, boneless creature lying beneath him, still lost in a wonderful, sensual world.

      ‘In all my life,’ Rafaelle murmured as he gently kissed her back down to earth again, ‘I have never known the power of what you can do to me.’

      So, gravely serious, opening her eyes, Rachel smiled at him. ‘Hit on, trapped, taken over,’ she said approvingly.

      His eyes began to glint. ‘Now you are asking for trouble,’ he warned and climbed over her to land lightly on his feet by the bed.

      ‘I didn’t mean it—!’ she cried out, sitting up jerkily.

      He’d moved to the dressing table; now he was back by the bed. Stretching out beside her, he took hold of her left hand.

      ‘Oh, I forgot,’ she said, staring as the fake ring was removed from her finger.

      The real one glittered and flashed as he slid it on to her finger. They lay there beside each other while he held up her hand. ‘Hit on, trapped and marked as mine for ever,’ he said turning her own words back on her with some very satisfied-sounding additions.

      Then the fake ring spun in the air as he tossed it carelessly away.

      ‘Did I tell you I love you?’ Rachel said softly.

      He rose above her, eyes dark and slumberous in his golden face. ‘Tell me again,’ he commanded.

      ‘Love you,’ she obliged and sealed it this time with a warm clinging kiss.

      ‘And you will be my wife?’

      Warm, dark, golden, gorgeous—she placed a finger on the thoroughly kissed fullness of his lower lip, loving the very possessive sound of my wife.

      ‘Tomorrow.’ She nodded gravely.

      ‘Even though you get Daniella as a stepsister-in-law?’

      ‘You get worse from me,’ Rachel said. ‘You get a fully paid-up member of the paparazzi as your brother-in-law.’

      ‘Stung again—’ he sighed ‘—you are going to have to work very hard to make it worth my while.’

      The kiss she laid on his mouth worked very hard to make it worth his while.

      ‘By the way,’ she murmured a long time later, flickering innocent blue eyes up to look at him, ‘you forgot to use any protection …’

The Italian’s Chosen Wife

      About the Author

      KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon^® romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since.

      She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately, they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.

      She has written plays, short stories, and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and learning to knit.

      After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.

      Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website, www.kate-hewitt.com.

      To Cliff,

      For believing in me and showing

      it in so many ways.

      —K

      PROLOGUE

      ‘I WISH that was on the menu.’

      Alessandro di Agnio’s lips thinned in distaste at his companion’s expression. He leaned back in his chair, his cool gaze flicking over the waitress chatting in Italian at the nearby table. Her hand rested on her hip, and he could hear the warm gurgle of her laughter from where he sat. There was, he noticed, a tomato sauce stain on her blouse. Her hair was falling from its pins, and she ran a careless hand through it.

      His eyes narrowed. ‘I believe we’re here for the food.’

      Next to him, his potential client Richard Harrison chuckled. ‘Relax, di Agnio. It’s just an expression.’

      Alessandro smiled, his expression now calm, urbane, in place. He took a sip of iced water. ‘She’s quite pretty, in her own way. Now, to the business at hand…?’ He raised his eyebrows, still smiling, although his eyes were cold and the expression on his face was at best remote.

      Richard leaned back in his chair, his own expression that of a mouse intent on teasing a cat. His lower lip stuck out in a boyish pout. ‘You know, I didn’t come all the way to Spoleto just to talk to you. I thought we were going to have some fun.’

      ‘Of course. You know what they say about all work and no play.’ Alessandro shrugged lightly, although his eyes were still hard.

      ‘Then how about a little play?’ Richard asked, his tone turning petulant. ‘I’ve heard so much about your playboy reputation. A few years ago there wasn’t a tabloid in this country without your picture splashed across its pages! Coming here, I was expecting a little something more than lunch at a second-rate trattoria.’

      Alessandro smiled again, this time a mere stretching of his lips. He didn’t need to be reminded of tabloids. Yet he also knew how much Di Agnio Enterprises would benefit from Richard Harrison’s business.

      ‘I didn’t realise my reputation stretched so far,’ he said after a pause, his voice flat. ‘Of course you need only choose your pleasure. Dinner? Dancing?’

      ‘Her.’ Richard pointed to the waitress—still chatting, Alessandro noticed, and obviously not an industrious worker. He heard another peal of laughter, warm and inviting. She leaned forward, hair tumbling into her face, one hand swiping it away as she murmured provocatively. Everything about her told him she was relaxed, carefree, available. Easy.

      He’d known women like that. Knew what they wanted, what they expected. Of him.

      The customer she was talking to had to be seventy years old at least. And he was eating it up. Probably wanted to eat her up, as well.

      ‘Her?’ Alessandro repeated. Icy disbelief laced his words. ‘I don’t pick women like sweets in a shop.’ Not any more. He injected a faint, dry note of humour into his voice as he added, ‘I didn’t think my reputation was quite that notorious.’

      ‘I don’t mean like that,’ Richard said impatiently. He was gazing at the waitress with the longing of a child for a toy—or, as Alessandro had said, a sweet. A forbidden one, sticky and delectable. ‘She’s a waitress. Why don’t you hire her to wait on us tonight? A quiet dinner for two, at your villa.’ Richard’s eyes lit up lasciviously.

      Alessandro