The Italian Prince's Proposal. Susan Stephens

face in a hastily contrived search for the door keys in her handbag.

      ‘After supper,’ Alessandro insisted as he held out his hand to her.

      Was she meant to take it? Emily wondered as she stared up at him in surprise.

      ‘Come,’ he repeated patiently.

      It was tempting. Maybe supper would give her a chance to relax, regroup, gather what remained of her scattered wits. She was here for Miranda, wasn’t she? And the job she had come to do wasn’t nearly finished. Eating was harmless…civilised. Lots of deals were cut over power breakfasts and business lunches; she’d done it herself on numerous occasions.

      Romantic suppers?

      Muffling the tiny voice of reason in her head, Emily convinced herself that the meal was nothing more than a brief interlude, a welcome break that would give her the chance to get her professional head screwed on ready for the discussions to come. But when she walked back into the first room she saw that a great deal more than a light snack awaited her.

      ‘When you said supper, I imagined…’ Her voice tailed off as she surveyed the incredible feast that had been laid out for them along the whole length of a highly polished mahogany table.

      ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Alessandro demanded, cruising along the table, grazing as he went. ‘I know I am.’

      She tried not to notice the way he seemed to be making love with his mouth to a chocolate-tipped strawberry.

      ‘You can eat what you want when you want,’ he said, sucking off the last scrap of chocolate with relish. ‘And we can keep on talking while you do,’ he added, his curving half-smile reaching right through her armour-plated reserve to stroke each erotic zone in turn. ‘Would you like me to make a few suggestions?’

      Withdrawing the plundered stalk from between his strong white teeth, he deposited it neatly on a side-plate.

      Emily forced her mouth shut, but kept right on staring at him.

      ‘Food?’ Alessandro offered with an innocent shrug as he cocked his head to one side to look at her.

      ‘That’s fine, I can manage,’ Emily said, almost snatching one of the white porcelain plates from his hands.

      ‘Shrimp, signorina?’

      ‘Don’t you ever take no for an answer?’

      The look he gave her sent a flame of awareness licking through every inch of her body.

      ‘Relax, Emily. I deliver what I promise—just a light snack, in this instance.’

      ‘I’m perfectly relaxed, thank you,’ Emily retorted, concentrating on making her selection from the platters of delicious-looking salads…a selection she was making with unaccustomed clumsiness, thanks to the route her thoughts were taking.

      Was it her fault that those beautifully sculpted lips provided a rather different example of a tasty snack…or that stubble-darkened jaw? Not to mention the expanse of hard chest she supposed must reside beneath his superior-quality jacket and shirt—and, talking of superior quality, what about the muscle-banded stomach concealed beneath that slim black leather belt? Distractedly, she spilled half a bowl of coleslaw on top of the mountain of food she seemed to have absent-mindedly collected on her plate.

      ‘I don’t think the pudding will fit,’ Alessandro pointed out, removing a serving spoon holding a heaped portion of sherry trifle from her hand.

      ‘Of c-course not,’ Emily stammered, while the erotic mind games kept right on playing—ignoring her most strenuous efforts to put all thoughts of whipped cream and tanned torsos out of bounds.

      When later she found herself drawn towards a tower of honey-coloured choux balls drizzled with chocolate, he asked, ‘Do you like chocolate, Emily?’

      ‘I love it. Why?’ she said suspiciously.

      Alessandro shrugged as he piled some profiteroles onto a plate, adding some extra chocolate sauce and pouring cream for her. ‘We have a chocolate festival in Ferara every year; free chocolate is handed out all over the city. We even have a chocolate museum—you should make time to see it.’ As he handed her the plate his amused golden gaze scanned her face. ‘What do you say?’

      ‘Thank you.’ Was she accepting an invitation to consume a plate of delectable pudding, or something rather more?

      ‘Imagine this, Emily—a thousand kilos of delicious chocolate sculpted into a work of art before your very eyes; artists coming from all over Europe to compete for a prize for the best design—’

      He turned to pour them both a steaming cup of strong dark coffee from an elegant silver pot.

      ‘Clean sheets are placed underneath each block so that the onlookers can help themselves to slivers as they watch—’ He stopped, and stared straight into her eyes, his expressive mouth tugging up in a grin. ‘Well?’

      Emily’s pulse-rate doubled. ‘No cream, no sugar,’ she blurted, certain he intended to provoke her—a chocolate festival, for goodness’ sake!’

      Murmuring her thanks as he pressed the coffee cup into her hand, she glanced up, only to encounter a dangerous gaze alive with laughter. She was right to be wary, she realised, looking away fast.

      But thankfully this was his final sally, and he allowed her to finish her meal in peace. When they returned to his luxurious bedroom-turned-office, he kept the lights soothing and low as he slipped a CD into the music centre.

      Emily smiled. Brahms, she realised, surprised he had remembered her mother mentioning Miranda’s competition piece.

      He poured champagne and brought two crystal flutes across before settling himself down on the opposite sofa.

      ‘Better?’ he murmured, watching her drink. ‘Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ he added, loosening a couple more buttons at the neck of his shirt.

      ‘Not at all,’ Emily said, forgetting her pledge to keep champagne celebrations until later as she watched him ease up from the chair to slip off a jacket lined with crimson silk. Freeing a pair of heavy gold cufflinks from his shirt, he dropped them onto the table and rolled up his sleeves to reveal powerful forearms shaded with dark hair. There couldn’t have been a more striking contrast to the type of pasty-faced executive she was accustomed to dealing with.

      ‘So, Emily,’ he challenged, eyes glinting as he caught her staring at him. ‘Do you still think I’m one of those misguided individuals you referred to?’

      For his opinion of cabaret singers, yes; where everything else was concerned—

      ‘I take it from your expression that you do.’

      His smile had vanished.

      ‘Let’s get one thing straight between us before we go any further. I don’t give a damn what people do, as long as they’re not hurting anyone else in the process. But I do care about motives—what makes people tick. What makes you tick, Emily?’

      Racing to put her brain back in gear, the best she could manage was a few mangled sounds.

      ‘Barrister by day,’ he went on smoothly, ‘moonlighting as a cabaret singer by night. There’s no harm in that, if you can cope with the workload. And it’s even more to your credit that you were moonlighting to help your sister out of a fix. What is not to your credit, however, is the fact that you intended to deceive me. Why was that, Emily?’

      ‘I admit things got out of hand—’

      The lame remark was rewarded by a cynical stare.

      ‘You really thought you could pull this off?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘What kind of a fool did you take me for?’

      Emily’s face burned scarlet as she struggled with an apology. ‘I didn’t know you—I’m really sorry. I didn’t think—’

      Alessandro held