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ed along with him. "I'll get you a glass of wine. Just stay out of—"
But it was too late. She let out a frustrated groan as he strode over the threshold and stopped dead.
Looking at the scene now, she could hardly believe it herself. Clothes were in a stream from closet to bed, sequins piled on denim, cashmere heaped on cotton. Jewelry was spread in a sparkling lake on the rug. It looked, she realized, like some bad-tempered child had thrown a tantrum. But Josh's observation was closer to the mark.
"It looks like Armani and Cartier went to war."
One of those tricky bubbles of laughter tickled her throat. She nearly managed to clear it away, but her voice stuttered dangerously. "I was just… sort of… organizing."
The look he sent her was so dry and bland, she lost her slippery hold on control. Holding her stomach, she stumbled to the chest and collapsed onto it in a wild explosion of laughter. Casually, Josh reached down to pick up a slate-bluejacket, fingered the material.
"The man is a god," he said, before tossing the Armani onto the bed.
That sent her off into fresh peals. "Joshua." She managed to hitch in enough breath to speak. "You have to be the only living soul I know who could look at this and not run for the butterfly net." Because she loved him for it, she held out a hand to invite him to sit beside her. "It was a temporary episode," she said and let her head tilt against his shoulder. "I think I'm over it."
With an arm draped around her, he surveyed the chaos. "This is all your stuff?"
"Oh, no." She chuckled. "I have a closet in the second bedroom, too. It's packed."
"Of course it is." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, frowned at the scattered gems. "Duchess, how many earrings do you figure you own?"
"I haven't the foggiest. I didn't get into the costume stuff yet." Feeling better, she sighed. "Earrings are like orgasms. You can never have too many."
"I never thought about it quite that way."
"Well, you're a man." She gave his knee a friendly pat. "Why don't I get that wine?"
She was wearing nothing under the robe, and his fingertips were beginning to tingle against the thin silk. "Why don't I get it?" Distance, he told himself, was the key. The last thing she needed him to do just then was to lose his mind and start to slobber.
"The kitchen—"
"I know where the kitchen is." He flashed a grin at her narrow-eyed stare. "I was hoping to come in here and intimidate your lover."
"I don't have a lover at the moment."
"That's handy, isn't it?" He strolled out, certain that he'd given her something to mull over. When he came back, pleased to have found an excellent Barola in her wine rack, she was kneeling on the floor, carefully putting jewelry back in boxes.
The robe was flirting off her shoulder again. Josh was tempted to tug the sash tight himself, double-knot it so the fabric wouldn't continue to slip and slide so devastatingly.
When she saw him and rose, he couldn't avoid seeing the flash of long, slim leg. Every muscle in his body groaned.
The worst of it was she wasn't trying to drive him to his knees. If she had been, he could have, without qualm, tossed her onto the bed and finally fulfilled his fantasies.
But that careless sexuality was pure Margo.
She took the glass he held out, smiled at him. "I suppose I have to thank you for interrupting the insanity."
"Want to tell me what started the insanity?"
"Just a stupid idea." She walked to the doors of the bedroom terrace, threw them open. Night poured in, full of sound and scent. She drew it in as she drew in the wine. "I really love Milan. Almost as much as…"
"As?"
Annoyed with herself, she shook her head. "Doesn't matter. I'm working on ways to stay here, with some level of comfort. Going home to Templeton House isn't an option."
"You're going to let Peter lock you out?"
She bristled at that, turning. The fairy lights on the terrace twinkled around her and dazzled through the thin silk of her robe. "I don't give a gold-plated shit about Peter Ridgeway, but I'm not going to complicate things for Laura."
