His For Christmas. Amy Andrews

glances at her work. Governed by a need to possess her, he had ignored all reason and common sense and done something he’d sworn never to do.

       He had taken a gamble on her.

      He felt the icy finger of fear whispering over his spine.

       He had taken a gamble on her and he never gambled.

      He ordered his driver to take him to the towering block which rose up over Hyde Park. But for once he didn’t take pride in the futuristic building which had been his brainchild, and which had won all kinds of awards since its inception. All he could think about was the slow build of hunger which was burning away inside him and which was now refusing to be silenced.

      His heart was thudding as he took the elevator up to the penthouse, his key-card quietly clicking the door open. Silently, he walked through the bare apartment, which smelt strongly of paint, and into the main reception room where he found Alannah perched on a stepladder, a tape measure in her hand.

      His heart skipped a beat. She wore a loose, checked shirt and her hair was caught back in a ponytail. He didn’t know what he’d been planning to say but before he had a chance to say anything she turned round and saw him. The stepladder swayed and he walked across the room to steady it and some insane part of him wished it would topple properly, so that he could catch her in his arms and feel the soft crush of her breasts against him.

      ‘N-Niccolò,’ she said, her fingers curling around one of the ladder’s rungs.

      ‘Me,’ he agreed.

      She licked her lips. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

      ‘Should I have rung to make an appointment?’

      ‘Of…of course not,’ she said stiffly. ‘What can I do for you?’

      His eyes narrowed. She was acting as if they were strangers—like two people who’d met briefly at a party. Had she forgotten the last time he’d seen her, when their mouths had been hot and hungry and they’d been itching to get inside each other’s clothes? Judging from the look on her face, it might as well have been a figment of his imagination. He forced himself to look around the room—as if he were remotely interested in what she was doing with it. ‘I thought I’d better see how work is progressing.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ She began to clamber down the ladder, stuffing the tape measure into the pocket of her jeans. ‘I know it doesn’t look like very much at the moment, but it will all come together when everything’s in place. That…’ Her finger was shaking a little as she pointed. ‘That charcoal shade is a perfect backdrop for some of the paintings which Alekto is having shipped over from Greece.’

      ‘Good. What else?’ He began to walk through the apartment and she followed him, her canvas shoes squeaking a little on the polished wooden floors.

      ‘Here, in the study, I’ve used Aegean Almond as a colour base,’ she said. ‘I thought it was kind of appropriate.’

      ‘Aegean Almond?’ he echoed. ‘What kind of lunatic comes up with a name like that?’

      ‘You’d better not go into the bathroom, then,’ she warned, her lips twitching. ‘Because you’ll find Cigarette Smoke everywhere.’

      ‘There’s really a paint called Cigarette Smoke?’

      ‘I’m afraid there is.’

      He started to laugh and Alannah found herself joining in, before hurriedly clamping her mouth shut. Because humour was dangerous and just because he’d been amused by something she’d said it didn’t mean he’d suddenly undergone a personality transplant. He had an agenda. A selfish agenda, which didn’t take any of her wishes into account and that was because he was a selfish man. Niccolò got what Niccolò wanted and it was vital she didn’t allow herself to be added to his long list of acquisitions.

      She realised he was still looking at her.

      ‘So everything’s running according to schedule?’ he said.

      She nodded. ‘I’ve ordered velvet sofas and sourced lamps and smaller pieces of furniture.’

      ‘Good.’

      Was that enough? she wondered. How much detail did he need to know to be convinced she was doing a good job? Because no matter what he thought about her past, he needed to know she wasn’t going to let him down. She cleared her throat. ‘And I’ve picked up some gorgeous stuff on the King’s Road.’

      ‘You’ve obviously got everything under control.’

      ‘I hope so. That is what you’re paying me for.’

      Niccolò walked over to the window and stared out at the uninterrupted view of Hyde Park. The wintry trees were bare and the pewter sky seemed heavy with the threat of snow. It seemed as if his hunch about her ability had been right. It seemed she was talented, as well as beautiful.

      And suddenly he realised he couldn’t keep taking his anger out on her. Who cared what kind of life she’d led? Who cared about anything except possessing her? Composing his face into the kind of expression which was usually guaranteed to get him exactly what he wanted, Niccolò smiled.

      ‘It looks perfect,’ he said. ‘You must let me buy you dinner.’

      She shook her head. ‘Honestly, you don’t have to do that.’

      ‘No?’ He raised his eyebrows in mocking question. ‘The other night you seemed to imply you felt short-changed because I’d made a pass at you without jumping through the necessary social hoops first.’

      ‘That was different.’

      ‘How?’

      She lifted her hand to fiddle unnecessarily with her ponytail. ‘I made the comment in response to a situation.’

      ‘A situation which won’t seem to go away.’ His black eyes lanced into her. ‘Unless something has changed and you’re going to deny that you want me?’

      She sighed. ‘I don’t think I’m a good enough actress to do that, Niccolò. But wanting you doesn’t automatically mean that I’m going to do anything about it. You must have women wanting you every day of the week.’

      ‘But we’re not talking about other women. What if I just wanted the opportunity to redeem myself? To show you that I am really just a…what is it you say?’ He lifted his shoulders and his hands in an exaggerated gesture of incomprehension. ‘Ah, yes. A regular guy.’

      ‘Of course you are.’ She laughed, in spite of herself. ‘Describing you as a regular guy would be like calling a thirty-carat diamond a trinket.’

      ‘Oh, come on, Alannah,’ he urged softly. ‘One dinner between a boss and his employee. What’s the harm in that?’

      Alannah could think of at least ten answers, but the trouble was that when he asked her like that, with those black eyes blazing into her, all her reservations slipped right out of her mind. Which was how she found herself in the back of a big black limousine later that evening, heading for central London. She was sitting as far away from Niccolò as possible but even so—her palms were still clammy with nerves and her heart racing with excitement.

      ‘So where are we going?’ she questioned, looking at the burly set of the driver’s shoulders through the tinted glass screen which divided them.

      ‘The Vinoly,’ Niccolò said. ‘Do you know it?’

      She shook her head. She’d heard about it, of course. Currently London’s most fashionable venue, it was famous for being impossible to get a table though Niccolò was greeted with the kind of delight which suggested that he might be a regular.

      The affluence of the place was undeniable. The women wore designer and diamonds while the men seemed to have at least three mobile phones lined up neatly beside their bread plates and their gazes kept straying to them.

      Alannah