The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress. Sharon Kendrick

she said, putting her spoon down.

      ‘And where’s that?’

      ‘It’s on the Piccadilly Line—towards Heathrow.’

      ‘But that’s miles out.’

      ‘That’s right, Riccardo. It is.’

      ‘And how are you getting there?’

      How did he think? ‘By broomstick,’ she giggled.

      He frowned. Angie giggling? Was she drunk? ‘I’m serious, Angie,’ he growled.

      ‘Oh, all right, then. By Tube.’ She tipped her head to one side, aware of the unaccustomed silky fall of hair over her shoulders. ‘Same way I always get home.’

      He thought of the late-night underground network, chock-a-block with Christmas revelers, and the kind of reception she might expect to get. And his eyes flicked over her surprisingly slim waist, accentuated by a flimsy silk gown which he must have been insane to give her. At the way her breasts seemed to be defying gravity by failing to spill out of the damned dress altogether. No wonder the waiters had been circling her like a pack of wolves for most of the evening, until his icy glance had made it very clear that they were jeopardising their tip by doing so. Was he prepared to sit back and let her go alone into the night? Why, it would be like throwing a lamb before lions!

      ‘Come on—get your coat on,’ he ordered abruptly. ‘I’m taking you home.’