Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8. Chantelle Shaw

she chosen to come to him, like a lion to the slaughter? To beg him to back off?

      It was pretty obvious she hadn’t turned up in Madrid looking for round two of their off-the-charts sexual chemistry. His body jerked with disappointment because, no matter what he told himself about that night, there was a reason it had been tormenting his dreams.

      Physically, they made some strange kind of sense.

      Their bodies had moved as though they’d been designed for one another, but that meant nothing. Sex was sex. He walked a pace behind her, hating that he was staring at her as though she was a dessert on a buffet, knowing he could hardly stop himself.

      Instead of the jeans and casual shirt she’d been wearing that night at Bumblebee Cottage, she’d chosen a pair of sleek black pants and a silk blouse that was a dangerous reminder of the robe she’d pulled on after her bath. She wore heels too, thin and spindly, giving her an extra few inches of height.

      She’d dressed up.

      For him?

      At the door to his office she stepped aside, waiting. He pushed the door open then held it for her, noting with what he wished was amusement that she gave him as wide a berth as the doorway allowed.

      * * *

      His office was everything she’d expected. Just like her father’s. And her brother’s. And no doubt all the other dictatorial, selfish corporate tycoons who ruled the finance world. Enormous, with huge windows that framed a stunning view, impressive oak desk, state-of-the-art computer screens, a wall-mounted smart TV for conferences, a boardroom table of shiny timber surrounded by leather chairs, and white leather sofas. Different materials perhaps, but the same essence as the offices she’d been in before.

      There were some indications of his personal taste. A black and white photograph of the Millau Viaduct, a small pottery toro on his desk, a stunning modern sculpture that was gunmetal grey and silver, and utterly striking.

      She ignored these details though, and all the ostentatious signs of wealth, placing her handbag on a chair and turning to face him.

      And she felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut.

      God, he was handsome.

      So handsome, with eyes that were laced with enquiry and hair that she ached to run her fingers through.

      Stupid, stupid traitorous body.

      Pushing any such thoughts from her mind, she tried to summon the words she’d prepared.

      ‘Would you like a drink?’

      Her stomach heaved at the very suggestion. ‘No.’ The word was abrupt, and she winced. ‘No, thank you,’ she corrected softly.

      She paced to the window overlooking Madrid and stared out at the ancient city. In the distance, she could see a slice of Gaudí poking impishly from behind a far more sensible high rise, and she was reminded of a child hiding around the corner, awaiting a scolding. Gaudí’s irreverence was one of her favourite things about Spain.

      ‘Well,’ he said quietly, and the word ran down her spine like warm honey. ‘What can I do for you, Amelia?’

      Her name on his lips tripped her heart up a thousand gears and she took a steadying breath, reminding herself that she was in control of her body, not the other way around.

      When she hadn’t spoken, after a moment, he said, ‘I have an appointment any minute.’

      ‘No, you don’t.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m your appointment.’

      When she turned to face him, she could see he was analysing this, examining her statement for meaning. ‘You pretended to be a journalist, simply to see me again?’

      She nodded crisply.

      ‘Why not just give my assistant your name?’

      ‘Because I took a perverse pleasure in surprising you,’ she said honestly, and was rewarded with the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.

      It was too familiar—too familiar for what they were to one another, and what they’d shared. Theirs had been no love story; it had been two strangers in a thunderstorm. She’d been caught up in the romance—the storm had raged and he’d arrived, offering refuge from a clawing sense of isolation. She’d been a means to an end for him, her virginity unimportant collateral in his quest to draw her under his spell.

      ‘You have surprised me,’ he agreed.

      You haven’t seen anything yet, she thought to herself with a wry shake of her head.

      Was she really going to do this?

      Of course! What was the alternative? Have his baby and never tell him? Just like her mother had done to her father?

      No way would her baby know the pain of that. Amelia had grown up with no idea who her father was—half the time she wasn’t even sure her mother knew. She’d been a secret baby, a shameful love-child, unwanted, an accident, and there was no way her baby would ever grow up feeling like she had.

      And didn’t Antonio deserve to know? Not just for the sake of their baby, but because this was his baby too?

      Amelia might not have liked what had happened with her and Antonio; she certainly didn’t like the fact that he’d come to her cottage and seduced her without telling her they were part of an ancient blood feud, then expected her to hand over thirty per cent of a family business to him, but he was still a person. A person with inalienable rights. A man who would soon become a father and of course he deserved to know that.

      Heaven help her if he decided he wanted to be a part of the child’s life on a regular basis, because that would mean she would also have to see him too, she supposed.

      But Amelia doubted he’d want much to do with their child. It would be, after all, a diSalvo.

      The thought had her tilting her chin, her eyes sparking defiantly with his. ‘This won’t take long,’ she assured him, thinking gratefully of the return flight she’d booked for later that same day.

      ‘Go on,’ he encouraged, perching his bottom on the edge of the desk, stretching his long legs in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

      She ignored the throb low in her abdomen, the instant recognition of power and strength, the memory of how those legs had held her to the wall, pinning her with total ease, or straddled her body as he moved inside her. She looked away, her mouth dry. ‘Perhaps I will have some water,’ she said, stalking across the room to where the drinks were set up. She poured a small glass with hands that weren’t quite steady and sipped from it, then shut her eyes as her stomach instantly rejected the offering.

      Damn it. She pressed her fingertips to the bench, blinking, willing her insides to calm down, not to be ill. Not here! Not now!

      ‘At the risk of appearing rude, I don’t have all day.’

      It was exactly what she needed to bring herself back to the moment. She spun around, then wished she hadn’t when the room swayed a little. ‘You’re so far past appearing rude,’ she promised firmly. ‘And I won’t take much of your time.’

      His eyes were studying her and she hated that. She hated that he could probably read every emotion that crossed her face, every feeling that was shredding her insides.

      ‘Go on,’ he prompted.

      ‘Don’t rush me.’

      His laugh was sardonic. ‘You just told me this won’t take long.’

      ‘Yes, well, it doesn’t help when you’re staring at me as though you’d like to...’

      * * *

      She didn’t finish the sentence but that didn’t stop the immediate flash of desire in response to her suggestion. His expression softened as he allowed himself to do exactly what she’d said—to stare at her openly, to run his gaze over her body, remembering it precisely,