The Italian's Christmas Secret. Sharon Kendrick

to a bathroom which, like the rest of the house, obviously hadn’t been modernised in decades?

      ‘It’s an English eccentricity. Part of the place’s charm,’ she added lamely.

      ‘Charm I can do without,’ he responded acidly. ‘Good plumbing trumps charm every time.’

      She wondered if he was deliberately ignoring something even more disturbing than the bathroom facilities...or maybe she was just being super-sensitive about it, given her uneasy history. Awkwardly she raked her fingers through her spiky hair, wondering what it was which marked her out from other women. Why was it that on the only two occasions she’d shared a bed with a man, one had been passed out drunk—while the other was looking at her with nothing but irritation in his hard black eyes?

      He was nodding his head, as if she had spoken out loud. ‘I know,’ he said grimly. ‘It’s my idea of a nightmare, too. Sharing a too-small bed with an employee wasn’t top of my Christmas wish list.’

      Don’t react, Keira told herself fiercely. And don’t take it personally. Act with indifference and don’t make out like it’s a big deal.

      ‘I expect we’ll survive,’ she said coolly, then began to rub at her arms through the thin jacket as she started to shiver.

      He ran a speculative gaze over her and an unexpected note of consideration crept into his voice. ‘You’re cold,’ he said, his eyes lingering on her thighs just a fraction too long. ‘And your trousers are soaking.’

      ‘You don’t say?’ she said, her voice rising a little defensively, because she’d never been very good at dealing with unsolicited kindness.

      ‘Don’t you have anything else you can wear?’ he persisted.

      Embarrassment made her even more defensive and Keira glared at him, aware of the heat now staining her cheeks. ‘Yes, of course I do. I always make sure I carry an entire change of clothes with me whenever I embark on a drive from London to Devon,’ she said. ‘It’s what every driver does.’

      ‘Why don’t you skip the sarcasm?’ he suggested. ‘And go and take a hot bath? You can borrow something of mine.’

      Keira looked at him suspiciously, taken aback by the offer and not quite sure if he meant it. Without his cashmere coat he stood resplendent in a dark charcoal suit which, even to her untutored eye, she could tell was made-to-measure. It must have been—because surely your average suit didn’t cater for men with shoulders as broad as his, or legs that long. What on earth could Matteo Valenti have in his suitcase which would fit her? ‘You carry women’s clothes around with you, do you?’

      An unexpected smile lifted the corners of his mouth and the corresponding race of Keira’s heart made her hope he wasn’t going to do a lot of smiling.

      ‘Funnily enough, no,’ he said drily, unzipping the leather case. ‘But I have a sweater you can use. And a soap bag. Here. Go on. Take it.’

      He was removing the items from his case and handing them to her and Keira was overcome by a sudden gratitude. ‘Th-thanks. You’re very kind—’

      ‘Basta! Spare me the stumbling appreciation. I’m not doing it out of any sense of kindness.’ His mouth hardened. ‘This day has already been a disaster—I don’t want to add to the misery by having you catch pneumonia and finding myself with a wrongful death suit on my hands.’

      ‘Well, I’ll do my best not to get sick then,’ she bit back. ‘I’d hate to inconvenience you any more than I already have done!’

      Her fingers digging into his sweater, Keira marched from the room to the bathroom along the corridor, trying to dampen down her rising feelings of anger. He really was the most hateful person she’d ever met and she was going to have to endure a whole night with him.

      Hanging his sweater on the back of the door, she quickly assessed the facilities on offer and for the first time that day, she smiled. Good thing she was used to basics. To her the avocado-coloured sink and bath were nothing out of the ordinary, though she shuddered to think how Mr Cynical was going to cope. When she’d been growing up, she and her mother had lived in places with far worse plumbing than this. In fact, this rather tatty bathroom felt almost nostalgic. A throwback to tougher times, yes, but at least it had been one of those rare times when she’d known emotional security, before Mum had died.

      Clambering into the tiny bath, she directed the leaking shower attachment over her head and sluiced herself with tepid water before lathering on some of Matteo’s amazing soap. And then the strangest thing started happening. Beneath her massaging fingers she could feel her nipples begin to harden into tight little nubs and for a moment she closed her eyes as she imagined her powerful client touching her there, before pulling her hands away in horror. What on earth was wrong with her?

      Leaving the plug in situ and climbing out of the tub, she furiously rubbed herself dry. Wasn’t the situation bad enough without her fantasising about a man who was probably going to make sure she got fired as soon as they reached civilisation?

      She put on her bra, turned her knickers inside out and slithered Matteo’s grey sweater over her head. It was warm and very soft—it was just unfortunate that it only came to mid-thigh, no matter how hard she tugged at the hem. She stared into the mirror. And the problem with that was, what? Was she really naïve enough to think that the Italian tycoon would even notice what she was wearing? Why, judging from his attitude towards her up until now, she could probably waltz back in there completely naked and he wouldn’t even bat those devastatingly dark eyelashes.

      But about that Keira was wrong—just as she’d been wrong in making the detour via Dartmoor—because when she walked back into the bedroom Matteo Valenti turned around from where he had been standing gazing out of the window and, just like the weather outside, his face froze. It was extraordinary to witness, that unmistakable double take when he saw her, something which never normally happened when Keira walked into a room. His eyes narrowed and grew smoky and something in the atmosphere seemed to subtly shift, and change. She wasn’t used to it, but she wasn’t going to deny that it made her skin grow warm with pleasure. Unless, of course, she was totally misreading the situation. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?

      ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked uncertainly.

      Matteo nodded in response, aware that a pulse had begun to hammer at his temple. He’d just finished a telephone conversation with his assistant and as a consequence he’d been miles away, staring out of the window at the desolate countryside and having the peculiar sensation of realising that nobody could get hold of him—a sensation which had brought with it a surprising wave of peace. He had watched his driver scuttle off towards the bathroom in her unflattering navy trouser suit, only now she had returned and...

      He stared and swallowed down the sudden lump which had risen in his throat. It was inexplicable. What the hell had she done to herself?

      Her short, dark hair was still drying and the heat of the shower must have been responsible for the rosy flush of her cheeks, against which her sapphire eyes looked huge and glittery. But it was his sweater which was responsible for inflicting a sudden sexual awakening he would have preferred to avoid. A plain cashmere sweater which looked like a completely different garment when worn by her. She was so small and petite that it pretty much swamped her, but it hinted at the narrow-hipped body beneath and the most perfect pair of legs he had ever seen. She looked...

      He shook his head slightly. She looked sexy, he thought resentfully as lust arrowed straight to his groin, where it hardened and stayed. She looked as if she wanted him to lay her down on the bed and start kissing her. As if she were tantalising him with the question of whether or not she was wearing any panties. He felt he was in a schoolboy’s fantasy, tempted to ask her to bend down to pick up some imaginary object from the carpet so he could see for himself if her bottom was bare. And then he glared because the situation was bad enough without having to endure countless hours of frustration, daydreaming about a woman he couldn’t have—even if he was the kind of man to indulge in a one-night stand, which he most emphatically wasn’t.

      ‘Sì,