Modern Romance February Books 1-4. Maisey Yates

think you’re like me,” she said, her words small, soft. “You say that you’re logical. That you like business transactions. You play with people. You toy with them. You were doing it to Samantha back in the drawing room. You had no intention of ever taking her up on her offer, did you?”

      “No. I didn’t.”

      She shifted slightly beneath his touch and a surge of warmth shot from their point of contact straight down to his gut.

      “But you let her think you might,” Gabriella continued, her voice soft. “Right now, you’re touching me and we both know that you’ll never—”

      She didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence. Whether it was the challenge in her voice, the bold statement that he would never, or the softness of her hand beneath his, he didn’t know.

      Whatever the reason, he halted her words with his mouth against hers, kissing her hard, hard enough that he hoped it would make the wallflower bloom. That it would show she wasn’t that wrong.

      It was everything else.

      But she was so warm, so soft, he forgot his goal almost immediately as it entered his mind.

      She froze beneath his lips, her body stiff, rigid. She didn’t return the kiss, rather she simply sat, motionless, shocked. She was soft. Indescribably so.

      He moved away from her, his heart pounding heavily, his shaft as hard as iron. How long had it been since the simple meeting of mouths had had such a strong effect on his body? Since he was fifteen, sixteen? Perhaps never.

      She hadn’t even parted her lips for him. Hadn’t softened beneath him. Hadn’t succumbed in any way, and yet he felt as though he had just conquered the world.

      “I should have taken her up on her offer,” he said, his voice rough, gasping. “I should have wanted her. I should be upstairs in my room, or in her room, having sex with her now. But I’m not. I didn’t want her. I wasn’t even tempted. No matter how much we might like it to be, desire isn’t logical. Which means, at the moment, neither am I.”

      He stood up from the bench, needing to put as much distance between them as possible. He turned away from her, and even knowing he shouldn’t, he spoke again. “All I know is that tonight I just wanted to cross the room to be with the wallflower.”

CHAPTER NINE

      HE’D KISSED HER. It was all she’d been able to think about last night, lying in bed with her lips—her body—burning.

      It was all she could think about the next day, too. Which was ridiculous because they were on a tour of the stables. Which were fascinating from a great many angles—historical and equine.

      But she was prickly and distracted. From exhaustion. From the heat of Alex’s body next to her, from the night spent not sleeping.

      Her jacket was itchy, too. Which didn’t help. It was a pleasant day, warm and dry, the air blowing in off the sea. And she was wearing a jacket because Alex had said it was secretarial and that it was important she appear so because of reasons she had now forgotten since she had a bead of sweat running down the center of her shoulder blades.

      Also she was still thinking about the kiss.

      Ahead of them, one of the prime minister’s employees was extolling the virtues of the groundskeepers, and the brave servants who had saved the facilities and all the horses during a fire that happened a hundred years ago.

      “This is boring,” Alex said, his lips brushing her ear as he leaned in to whisper to her. It sent a shiver down her neck, down her arm, caused heat to pool in her stomach.

      She took a breath, realizing when she inhaled a healthy dose of his masculine scent that it had been a mistake. “Excellent,” she said, taking great pains to keep her voice crisp. “A chance to see The Alessandro in his natural habitat.”

      “Are you observing me for a nature guide you are working on?”

      “Rampantis masculinitis,” she said, smiling slightly.

      “Characterized by?” he asked.

      She looked up at him, at the wicked glint in his eye, and she quickly looked away again.

      The tour group had gone on ahead of them, and she had only just noticed that their pace has slowed dramatically. He’d acted like this was done with last night. Like he’d realized what a bad idea it was to encourage all of this...this stuff between them. But he was back in fighting form this morning.

      He was deliberately keeping her back from the group. Keeping them both separate.

      This really was like watching a nature show. The predator had separated the weaker gazelle from the herd. And after last night, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was the weaker gazelle.

      “What are we doing?”

      “I told you,” he said, his smile turning wicked. “I’m bored. Anyway, it wouldn’t do to have you acting skittish around me, or to have me avoid you. You are my assistant, Gabby, not a bookish princess who all but forced herself into a treasure hunt with a stranger.”

      She looked ahead of the group, then looked up at him, at his dark, glittering eyes. There was an air of good humor about him, but there was something else, too. A base note that ran beneath it that spoke of danger, excitement.

      She should turn away from it. She should have learned from last night. From letting him get too close.

      She didn’t. She hadn’t.

      “The painting,” she said, her voice hoarse.

      “Is not out here in the stables,” he said. “I had hoped that we would tour the house today so we might get an idea of its location.”

      “Well, we can do a little bit of exploring on our own.”

      “I would like to do it during the day. I’m not sure where our host gets to during the daylight hours. He certainly isn’t parading us about. But once the sun goes down, and the brandy comes out, he does seem to reappear.”

      “So, you think we should look for it at night?”

      He lifted his shoulder. “It lowers the risk of running into him in the halls if we know he’s socializing. It’s either that or we tell him what we’re after. But I have a feeling the cloak and dagger might be necessary. I told you, I’m willing to pay for the painting, but my fear is that he won’t want to part with it when he understands what it is. That isn’t an option. Money might be no object, but failure is unacceptable.”

      She nodded slowly. “Why do you want the painting so badly?”

      “Because my grandfather wishes to have it. And I owe him a debt, I told you that already. He wants it—I will see he gets it.”

      She studied his expression. She could see that he had no attachment to the painting. He must love his grandfather. That she was certain of. Because Alex was not the kind of man who did anything that he didn’t want to do. Only a few days in his presence and she was certain of that.

      “What does it mean to him?” she asked.

      “I’m not entirely sure. But there is a story...” He looked away from her, stared off toward the horizon line. “He has always told us this story, from the time we were children. About coming to America with nothing. He had eight objects that were dear to his heart. Objects that he had to sell slowly over the years to save himself from ruin. They were...they were very special to him. He often referred to them as his mistresses. Items that held sway over his heart. I don’t know why. I don’t know if it was because of their value, because of their beauty or because of their connection to another person. Regardless, these eight objects were the most important thing that Giovanni Di Sione possessed.”

      “The painting is one of them,” she said.

      “Yes. I was