One Night In…. Оливия Гейтс

I am the CEO.’

      Well. She sat back again, realising sickly the kind of life he must lead—so different from hers. It would be nice, to have that kind of wealth, power, control. Safety.

      She took a deep breath, let it out. ‘All right, then. Let’s have dinner.’

      Alessandro grinned, and the effect was quite devastating. Meghan drew in a shaky uneven breath at the sight of him, the harsh lines of his face relaxed into laughter, the whiteness of his smile contrasting with his tanned skin and navy eyes, now glinting with humour.

      When Alessandro di Agnio frowned he was forbidding. In repose he was handsome, even beautiful. But when he smiled Meghan wanted to walk straight into his arms.

      And that was a place she could not go.

      ‘Then you take me home,’ she added, and he nodded.

      ‘Of course. If you wish.’

      ‘I will wish it,’ Meghan snapped, and he merely chuckled.

      Damn him. Damn his arrogance, and damn him for being right. Already she felt herself wondering, weakening.

      Wanting.

      A smile played about his mouth as he held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’

      She still had things to prove. She would still walk away with her dignity, her pride, her heart.

      Her heart? The last thought, slipping treacherously through her numb brain, made Meghan almost gasp in surprise.

      There was no way her heart was involved with this man.

      ‘All right,’ she agreed tonelessly.

      She walked past him, towards the kitchen, but Alessandro pulled her back gently, his hand warm and firm on her elbow.

      ‘Wrong way, gattina.’

      Meghan jerked. ‘What did you just call me?’

      His lips quirked in a smile. ‘Gattina. It means kitten.’

      ‘I don’t like nicknames.’

      ‘It was meant to be an endearment.’

      ‘As in sex kitten?’ she said contemptuously, and Alessandro shook his head.

      ‘I was thinking more of an actual kitten, baring her tiny, tender claws.’ He trailed his fingers from her elbow to her hand, stroking the tender palm, electrifying her skin with the lightest of touches. He raised her palm to his lips, gave it the barest brush of a kiss. A promise. Mesmerised, Meghan could only watch. And feel.

      This was a bad, bad idea.

      ‘This way,’ Alessandro said, sounding faintly amused, and gestured to the other set of double doors leading into the foyer.

      Numbly she followed Alessandro through the foyer and into a mahogany panelled dining room. Candles were lit, casting flickering shadows on the dark walls and tiled floor.

      The green salad she’d seen earlier in the kitchen was now placed on an imposing table, one corner set intimately for two.

      Meghan swallowed, and the gulping noise was loud in the room, where the only sound was the guttering of flame.

      Alessandro laughed softly. ‘Come here. I don’t bite.’

      Reluctantly Meghan moved towards him on wooden legs. ‘Are you trying to seduce me?’ she whispered. Because it just might be working.

      ‘No. When I seduce you, you’ll know.’

      The languorous promise in these words sent both panic and anticipation fizzing through her in dangerous bubbles. ‘I don’t want to be seduced,’ Meghan said, and knew how feeble her voice sounded.

      ‘You don’t want to be hurt,’ Alessandro corrected. ‘There’s a difference.’

      She lifted her chin. ‘Is there?’

      ‘I believe with me there is.’ His voice, though gentle, allowed no argument. ‘Now enough about seduction. Let us turn our attention to eating, which in Italy is just as sensual an art.’

      Meghan sat at the table, watched as Alessandro poured wine from the bottle chilling in a bucket and served her a generous portion of salad bursting with tomatoes, basil and mozzarella.

      ‘This looks delicious—thank you,’ she murmured, and Alessandro smiled, a wicked, teasing glint in his eye.

      ‘Is there anything else I may get for you? Ana will bring the antipasti later.’

      With a start, Meghan realised Alessandro was the one serving her. Everything was mixed up tonight. She moved as if to get up, although she wasn’t sure what she intended to do. Pour the water? Run to the kitchen? Curtsey?

      He shook his head. ‘The only thing I want you to do now, Meghan, is to enjoy.’

      She opened her mouth to issue a sharp retort, the stinging reply that had become her habit, her defence. Alessandro watched her with an expectant little half-smile on his face, and Meghan hesitated.

      She’d spent the last six months holding herself apart—apart from men, from pleasure, from life. Sometimes it felt as if it was the only way to get through each day—and, more importantly, to get back the dignity and self-respect she’d lost in Stanton Springs, Iowa.

      Yet now, for one evening, even just one moment, she wanted to let go. Not completely, not out of control, because she knew she wasn’t ready for that.

      She just wanted to enjoy … something.

      Food.

      She sat back in her chair, managing a rather stiff-lipped smile. ‘All right.’ She took a bite of salad, felt the burst of tomato on her tongue. It felt different. Sweeter. The room seemed different. More vivid. And she felt different. More alive.

      Alessandro watched her with an indulgent, affectionate smile, and Meghan took a sip of wine, the taste sharp and tangy.

      Her senses were heightened to the feel of the cool, smooth wine glass in her fingers, the cotton shirt against her arms, her breasts. She saw Alessandro’s languorous gaze, the way he watched her move, sleepily, yet with a flared awareness in his eyes that thrilled her.

      This was so dangerous.

      She knew Alessandro would not abuse her. He wouldn’t spread malicious lies or treat her with cruel contempt.

      But he would hurt her. Meghan put her wine glass down with an unsteady clatter. Yes, he would hurt her if she let him … if she gave him her heart.

      Alessandro watched Meghan eat with a pleasure he normally reserved for more physical activities. He enjoyed seeing the way her eyes widened, the slow smile that spread over her features at the simplest of pleasures.

      He’d no doubt that she was unaware of how sensual, how desirable she looked simply eating a tomato. She was, he was beginning to realise, quite unaware of her effect on him.

      If only he was as unaware. The desire—the need—for her pulsed through him, an ache, a hunger that made him want. Yearn. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to want anything—certainly not a woman from nowhere who looked at him with her heart in her eyes, shadowed by both fear and desire.

      She was the last thing he needed.

      Yet he wanted her.

      And she wanted him. She was denying it with nearly every fibre of her being, but he saw the way she looked at him, the way her eyes flared and her lips parted.

      She was afraid. The realisation humbled him. He would have to tread carefully.

      Still, it was only a matter of time.

      The thought pleased him, yet as he cradled his wine glass between his palms he felt a ripple of unease. Guilt.

      He wasn’t in the habit of buying women. And certainly not of