His For Christmas. Amy Andrews

brooch in the shape of a fluttering moth was her only jewellery. Her most magnificent assets—the breasts which had once so captured the imagination of the British public—were only hinted at and certainly not on show. All he could see was the occasional glimpse of a soft curve as the material brushed against them. He swallowed. Was she aware that it was just as provocative to conceal something, as to reveal it?

      Of course she was.

      Trading on her own sexuality had been her stock-in-trade, hadn’t it? She knew everything there was to know about how to pull in the punters and leave them slavering for more.

      Shaking out his napkin, he placed it in his lap and scowled, recalling the first time he’d seen her at his godson’s birthday party.

      He remembered looking in amazement at the silver dress, which had clung to her curvy body like melted butter, and thinking that he’d never seen anyone looking quite so alluring. Had he been frustrated? Too long without a woman? Unlikely. All he knew was that he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from her.

      The look which had passed between them had been timeless. The lust which had overwhelmed him had been almost tangible. He had never experienced anything like it in his life—not before, nor since. The hardness at his groin had been almost unbearable as he had danced with her. Something elemental had caught him in its grip and he’d felt almost…lost. The dance had been simply a formality—paving the way for their first kiss. He had kissed her for a long time, tempted by a need to pull her into a dark and anonymous corner and just take her. And even though he detested being out of control…even though his own history had warned him this was not the way to go—it hadn’t been enough to deter him from acting on it.

      He had been just about to drive her back to his hotel, when there had been some sort of commotion by the door. He remembered turning to see Michela giggling as she’d entered the room, accompanied by a group of boys. His sister. Large flakes of snow had been melting on her raven hair and her look of guilt when she had seen him had told its own story.

      And that was when Niccolò had discovered that Alannah Collins wasn’t some twenty-something party guest, but the teenage best friend of his only sister. A wild-child who had been threatening to ruin Michela’s reputation and bring shame on the da Conti name, after he’d spent years meticulously dragging it from the mud.

      Was it any wonder that he despised her?

      Was it any wonder that he despised himself, knowing what he had nearly done to her?

       What he still wanted to do to her.

      He leaned back in his chair, paying little attention to the plates of smoked salmon which were being placed in front of them. ‘Did you ever tell Michela what happened between us?’ he questioned suddenly.

      She stiffened a little before turning to look at him, her eyes narrowing warily. ‘But nothing did happen.’

      ‘Oh, come on.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘It might as well have done. It would have done, if my sister hadn’t arrived. I’ve never had a dance quite so erotic as the one I had with you. It was a dance which was headed straight for the bedroom.’

      ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake—’

      ‘Does Michela realise that you would have spent the night with me if she hadn’t turned up when she did?’

      ‘You can’t know that.’

      ‘Yes, I can. And so can you. Why don’t you try being honest with yourself for once, Alannah?’ He leaned forward and his voice roughened. ‘I know enough about women to realise when they want a man to make love to them—and you were screaming out to have me do it to you that night.’

      ‘Really?’ She took a nervous sip of her drink.

      ‘And you’ve avoided answering my question,’ he persisted. ‘What exactly did you tell Michela?’

      There was a pause. ‘I didn’t tell her anything.’

      ‘Why not?’

      Alannah shrugged, reluctant to admit the truth—that she’d been too ashamed of her own reaction to want to acknowledge it to anyone and certainly not to her best friend. That she’d felt dirty and cheap. Michela had warned her that her big brother was a ‘player’. That he changed his women nearly as often as he changed his shirts. She remembered the two of them agreeing that any woman who went out with a man like him was sad. But she’d nearly been one of those women, hadn’t she? Because he was right. If Michela hadn’t walked in right then, she would have…

      Briefly, she let her eyes close. She’d been so in thrall to him that he probably could have taken her outside and taken her virginity pressed up against a cold and snowy tree. She had certainly been up for going back to his hotel with him.

      She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Why not? Because even though Michela has always thought you a total control freak, she absolutely idolised you—and I knew you were the only family she had. It wasn’t for me to disillusion her by telling her that you’d been hitting on her best friend.’

      ‘Hitting on her best friend?’ He gave a cynical smile. ‘Oh, please. Unfortunately, I didn’t realise I was dealing with jailbait at the time. You kept that one crucial fact to yourself.’

      ‘Is that why you got me expelled?’ she said, without missing a beat.

      He shook his head. ‘I didn’t mention your name when I withdrew Michela from the school.’

      Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you serious?’

      He shrugged. ‘There was no need. I thought I was removing Michela from your bad example—what I didn’t realise was that you were going to continue the friendship behind my back.’

      Alannah ran her fingertip down over her champagne glass, leaving behind a transparent stripe in the condensation. ‘But all that happened a long time ago,’ she said slowly.

      ‘I guess it did.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘And since your role seems to be non-negotiable, I guess I’m just going to have to be nice to you.’

      ‘Is that possible?’

      ‘Me being nice?’ He watched the golden flicker of candlelight playing on her pale skin. ‘You don’t think so?’

      ‘Not really. I think it would be like someone hand-rearing a baby tiger and then expecting it to lap contentedly from a saucer of milk when it reaches adulthood. Naïve and unrealistic.’

      ‘And nobody could ever accuse you of that.’

      ‘Certainly not someone with as cutting a tongue as you, Niccolò.’

      He laughed, his gaze drifting over fingers which he noticed were bare of rings. ‘So what has been happening to you in the last ten years? Bring me up to speed.’

      Alannah didn’t answer for a moment. He didn’t want to know that her life had imploded like a dark star when her mother had died and that for a long time she had felt completely empty. Men like Niccolò weren’t interested in other people’s sadness or ambition. They asked polite questions at dinner parties because that was what they had been taught to do—and all they required was something fairly meaningless in response.

      She shook her head at the waitress who was offering her a basket heaped with different breads. ‘I’m an interior designer these days.’

      ‘Oh?’ He waited while the pretty waitress stood close to him for slightly longer than was necessary, before reluctantly moving away. ‘How did that happen? Did you wake up one morning and decide you were an expert on soft furnishings?’

      ‘That’s a very patronising comment.’

      ‘I have experience of interior designers,’ he said wryly. ‘And of rich, bored women who decide to set themselves up as experts.’

      ‘Well, I’m neither rich, nor bored. And I think you’ll find there’s more to the job