Purchased By The Billionaire. HELEN BIANCHIN

bliss to take a leisurely shower and shampoo her hair with the high-end market products lined up in the en suite. To use the hair-drier, wrap her body in the luxurious towelling robe, then slip into that comfortable bed…and sleep.

      The temptation was too great, and with quick, economical movements she discarded her clothes, then stepped into the large marbled-tiled shower stall to luxuriate in an endless supply of steaming hot water.

      The delicately scented body-wash was heaven, so, too, the luxury shampoo…neither of which she’d been able to afford to use for years.

      Had Maria been instructed to stock up the en suite? Or were the products a complimentary gesture to whichever female Duardo took to his bed?

      A man of his calibre had women falling all over him. Attracted to his wealth, his social status…and tantalized by his former bad-boy reputation.

      Kayla tilted her head and let the water’s needle-spray course over her face. Dammit, it felt so good not to have to consider a tiny heating system that permitted three-minute ablutions before the water ran cold.

      It was a while before Kayla turned off the dial, then, towelled dry, she pulled on the robe before tending to her hair.

      Bed had never looked so good, and she turned back the top cover, touched the feather pillow with something akin to reverence…

      She should unpack—but who was she kidding? The contents of her bag were so basic it would take only minutes to stow them.

      As to pulling on clothes…the idea had little appeal. Nor did returning downstairs.

      The weight of the day and its outcome descended on her slim shoulders, and she slid between the fine percale sheets with care.

      She wasn’t going anywhere.

      Duardo could come find her when he was ready.

      Kayla slept, unaware of Duardo’s presence, more than an hour later, or that he stood looking down at her pale features in repose.

      She didn’t register that he left the room and returned close to midnight, nor did she hear the shower or sense him slide into bed.

      It was only when her hand came into contact with a solid, warm ribcage in the early hours of the morning that she freaked out, subconsciously unaware of where she was in those initial few seconds.

      She knew only that it was dark, the bed wasn’t her own…and who in hell was controlling her frantic need to escape.

      She heard her name…then movement, and the room became bathed in soft light.

      Son-of-a-bitch. Duardo bit back the muffled curse as he took in the tumbled hair, the heated cheeks, her heaving body, the stark fear in those brilliant blue eyes…and witnessed the moment comprehension hit.

      ‘You forgot where you were.’

      Oh, dear lord. ‘Yes.’ The simplicity of it seemed ludicrous.

      He was close, much too close. The warmth of his skin covering hard muscle and sinew, the clean masculine scent of soap…the sensual heat that was his alone.

      Physical awareness as strong as it had ever been. Riveting, hypnotic…pagan.

      The need to put some space between them was imperative, and she moved a little, aware of the stillness apparent in the dark depths of his eyes.

      He could easily reach for her, draw her in against him and cover her mouth with his own. Soothe, seduce…and have her go up in flames.

      As he had, many times, during their magical time in Hawaii. An apt and willing pupil, she’d exulted beneath his skilled hands, his mouth, the feel of him deep inside her.

      How many nights had she lain awake, cursing herself for allowing him to walk away? For not having the courage, the perspicacity to stand up against her father.

      Now she was back in Duardo’s bed for all the wrong reasons, and she hated him for it.

      ‘Go to sleep.’

      As if!

      ‘Unless you need some help?’ His drawled query was unmistakable, and she made no attempt to disguise the slight bitterness in her voice.

      ‘Do I have a choice?’

      ‘For now.’

      ‘Thank heaven for small mercies.’

      ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you.’

      ‘Pity.’ She paused as she speared his gaze with her own. ‘I’m not big on warm fuzzies at the moment.’

      His soft chuckle was almost her undoing. ‘I seem to recall you being quite talkative at this hour of the morning.’

      In the afterglow of exceptionally great sex. When she lay curled into him, her cheek nestled against his chest. A time of dreams, love, hope.

      ‘I’m surprised you remember.’ Kayla’s response was deliberately tart. ‘With all the women who followed me.’

      ‘You imagine there were so many?’

      Thinking about just how many was like being stabbed in the heart. ‘They would have stood in line for the privilege.’

      ‘A back-handed compliment, Kayla?’

      ‘A statement of fact.’

      ‘Derived from experience?’

      ‘A trick question, Duardo?’ She was damned if she’d reveal she’d taken no one to her bed…since, or before him.

      A silent laugh bubbled up in her throat, almost choking her. The original virgin…a one-man woman. If it wasn’t so tragic, it would be hysterical.

      ‘Which you’d prefer not to answer.’

      ‘Got it in one.’

      His mouth curved into a slight smile. ‘Are you done?’

      She borrowed his words without compunction. ‘For now.’

      ‘Let’s make the most of the few hours before dawn, hmm?’

      For a brief few seconds her eyes held uncertainty, followed by a degree of wariness.

      ‘To sleep,’ he added with a tinge of amusement before settling onto his back, and he proceeded to do just that within a very short period of time.

      Much to her relief.

      Or, so she told herself as she deliberately banished the slow-curling desire insidiously invading her body.

      CHAPTER THREE

      KAYLA came awake to morning sunshine filtering through the curtains and the knowledge that she was alone in the vast bed.

      A quick glance at the time, and she hit the floor running.

      The hospital…She’d promised Jacob she’d be there before he went in for surgery. Forget breakfast, she decided as she took care of bathroom necessities…she’d grab something later.

      Clothes…jeans, a singlet top, jacket. Hair caught into a practised knot and secured with a large clip, minimal make-up, lipstick…and she emerged into the bedroom to see Duardo in the process of adjusting his tie.

      Well-groomed, attired in impeccable tailoring, he looked every inch the executive entrepreneur. And far too ruggedly attractive for any woman’s peace of mind.

      Especially hers.

      ‘You should have woken me.’ The words were almost an accusation.

      ‘What happened to good morning?’ His New-York-accented drawl held indolent amusement, and she threw him a heated glance.

      ‘Thanks to you, I’m going to be late.’

      ‘Maria has breakfast ready for you.’

      ‘I don’t—’

      ‘I’ve