The Italian's Christmas Proposition / Christmas Baby For The Greek. Cathy Williams

Things in attractive jars always held so much promise but often it was the easiest way she ended up taking.

      He was still scowling when she looked at him quizzically. ‘Well?’ she snapped. ‘You don’t want to talk to me about anything of any importance, so we can talk about food options instead. I know you’ll think it’s safer. What do you want? I can make you something.’

      Matteo wasn’t into women cooking for him. In fact, he actively discouraged it, just as he always made sure that a night of pleasure never turned into breakfast together the following morning.

      ‘I usually just eat stuff that comes out of boxes or cans but I don’t suppose you do.’

      ‘I don’t,’ Matteo said flatly. He paused. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

      ‘So do you.’ Her azure eyes were innocent and her voice was sincere because she meant it.

      ‘Show me the rest of your house.’

      Rosie shook herself back to earth, hesitating and on the cusp of barrelling past his Keep Out sign but reluctantly accepting that, if he wasn’t into sharing, then he wasn’t into sharing. They meant nothing to one another and she would have to put her curiosity to bed because it wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

      She gave a perfunctory tour: open-plan living area with a huge, modern fireplace and lots of comfy chairs, perfect for settling in for the long haul—just her, a book and the fall of silent snow outside. The kitchen, which was the hub of the house, and a study in which her father occasionally worked, although now that he had retired those instances were few and far between. He had forgone offers of consultancy jobs and opted for quality time with his family instead.

      Wooden stairs led to the floor above: six bedrooms all leading onto a broad landing that overlooked the space below. Next to her, Matteo’s silence was oppressive, and she wondered what was going through his head.

      She found out soon enough.

      ‘So where is our bedroom?’

      About to head back downstairs, head still buzzing with unanswered questions, Rosie spun around on her heels and stared at him with consternation.

      ‘You can choose which bedroom you’d like,’ she told him politely. ‘Mine…’ she nodded in the direction of the bedroom at the end of the long, broad landing ‘…is down there.’

      ‘Well, I suppose that’s where I’ll be dumping my bags.’

      He headed down at pace towards her bedroom and, as he flung open the door, she was right behind him.

      She’d waved an arm to indicate the bedroom floor, only opening the first door and standing back while he’d looked inside like a prospective buyer doing a tour of a house. Now, with him standing in her bedroom, her personal space, she felt invaded. She was on show here, with all the little pieces of her childhood for him to see. A framed photo of her on her first horse, with her dad proudly standing next to her. The ridiculous chair in the shape of a big, pink heart which had been her favourite when she’d been about eight, and which her parents had stashed away in their attic, shipping it over when they’d bought the chalet years before. Pictures of her family over the years.

      ‘You’re not staying in my bedroom,’ She folded her arms and watched, tight-lipped, as he strolled through the bedroom, peering at this and that and ignoring her. He had dumped his bag on the ground like a declaration of intent that sent a chill of forbidden excitement racing up and down her spine.

      He commanded the space around him. He was so tall…so muscular…so there.

      ‘Oh.’ He spun round and stared right back at her. ‘This is exactly where I’ll be staying.’ As if to confirm what he’d said, he picked up the designer bag and flung it on the mattress of her four-poster bed.

      It landed with a soft thud and then sat there, challenging her to remove it.

      ‘But…’

      ‘No buts. You got me into this mess and, now I’m in it, for better or for worse you’re just going to have to suffer the consequences. We’re supposed to be an item. Hot off the press, so to speak. Your sister is going to be extremely suspicious if she thinks that we’re not sharing a bedroom. Particularly given the fact that she probably assumes that you’ve been sharing my suite at the hotel while we’ve been conducting our torrid affair.’ He glanced at his watch then back to her, where she had remained hovering at the doorway to her own bedroom, almost as though, having asserted his authority, she was now the guest in her own space.

      ‘I can tell her that we’re in separate rooms here out of respect for Mum and Dad.’

      ‘That’s ridiculous.’

      ‘You don’t know my parents!’

      ‘Are you telling me that you would be exiled to the Arctic wastes if they discovered that we were sleeping together?’ He pinned his eyes to her reddening face. ‘Right. Enough said on the subject.’

      Rosie’s face was a picture of dawning dismay. Their love-at-first-sight scenario invited enough questions without those questions reaching fever pitch because they were in separate bedrooms, like a Victorian couple.

      ‘Now,’ Matteo declared, jettisoning the subject as if suddenly bored with the whole thing, ‘I would come down and have something out of a box or a can with you, but right now I want a shower, and I have a stack of emails to get through, so I’ll have to forfeit the feast.’

      He reached for the button on his trousers and Rosie stared open-mouthed for a few seconds before gathering her wits.

      ‘I hadn’t banked on this,’ she said tightly and he stared at her with disbelieving eyes.

      ‘And I hadn’t banked on it either,’ he informed her coolly. ‘Right about now, I should have been getting in touch with my housekeeper and readying her for my arrival. Instead…’

      Instead, she mentally filled in, here you are, sharing a room with a woman you don’t know, who keeps getting on your nerves with her constant questions, caught up in a crazy game of make-believe.

      ‘If you’re sure you’re not hungry…’ she muttered, inching a couple of steps back, eyes still fixed on him. She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help feverishly wondering what he looked like underneath the expensive clothes. Bronzed and sinewy, she imagined, every cord and muscle defined. She felt faint thinking about it and, when she contemplated the prospect of sharing her bedroom with him, she went into a positive mental tailspin. She eyed the chaise longue by the window.

      ‘You can make that up.’ She nodded in the direction of the chaise longue. ‘It’s very comfortable.’

      Matteo didn’t say anything. He glanced at it, his hooded silver eyes revealing nothing. ‘Like I said,’ he drawled, ‘I’ll do without the food. Now, unless you have no objection to seeing me strip off in front of you…?’

      Colour high in her cheeks, Rosie fled, shutting the door behind her.

      In the quiet of the kitchen, she hastily prepared some pasta for herself, making good use of a number of tins. Comfort eating. Her head was full of the ramifications of her very small, practically invisible little white lie. Everything had snowballed and now here she was, with the sexiest man on the planet upstairs in her bedroom. Her nerves were shredded. When she thought of Matteo, everything inside her went into meltdown. Physically, she felt faint when she closed her eyes and pictured him in all his over-the-top sexiness. He was just so breathtakingly beautiful.

      But it wasn’t just confined to the way he looked. If that had been the sum total of it, then she could have steeled herself against the impact, because a good-looking guy without personality was just a cardboard cut-out to be admired without any threat of him getting under your skin.

      No. Matteo’s extraordinary effect on her was all wrapped up in the power of his personality, his air of command, and now that she had eked