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Now she knew the reality of Riccardo as a lover and it was the memories of that which dominated her thoughts. For how could you possibly keep your mind on his latest financial acquisition when you kept being reminded of the way his lips had whispered with a featherlight touch across your bare belly?
Remember how callous he was the morning after you slept with him, she told herself. Remember how your stupid heart was welling up with love for him and he took those feelings and crushed them beneath the heel of his arrogant Italian shoe.
‘I’m just going to make some coffee,’ she said.
‘I don’t want a cup of coffee.’
‘Well, I do.’ Tearing her eyes away from his piercing black gaze, she clattered around with the sophisticated coffee machine he’d insisted on installing when he’d first arrived—which produced coffee to rival the stuff served in the shop next door. But it wasn’t until she’d compl
eted the task and put the cup on her desk that she realised he was still looking at her. And that there was no way she was going to be able to munch her way through the skinny blueberry muffin she’d brought in for breakfast. But neither could she ignore the accusatory stare which was lancing through her.
‘Is something wrong, Riccardo?’
‘I just wondered why you’d come to work looking as if you were going straight out to a party.’
Angie feigned outrage at the acid remark, though secretly she was pleased; more than pleased. So he’d noticed her clothes, had he? Good. And he disapproved of them, did he? Even better.
‘I don’t think that’s an accurate assessment of a simple woollen dress you’ve seen many times before, do you?’ she asked coolly.
Riccardo gave what sounded uncomfortably like a growl—though the sound wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as the sudden heavy aching at his groin. He was overreacting and it was time to stop it. He should be grateful that she’d had the sense not to play up—or want to talk about what had happened after the Christmas party. His mouth hardened. Even though her reasons for sharpening up her wardrobe were quite clear. Women could be so transparent. She thought he’d go right over there and rip it off, didn’t she? Thought he’d be laying her over the desk, and pulling down her…
‘Is something wrong, Riccardo?’
Uncomfortably, he snapped out of his erotic daydream. ‘Why?’
‘You’d just gone a rather peculiar colour, that’s all.’
His black eyes seared through her. Was she daring to taunt him? ‘Make me a coffee!’ he ordered.
‘But you just said—’
‘I don’t care what I said, Angie—just make me a coffee, will you—since that’s one of the things I pay you to do!’
Not for much longer, she thought furiously as she got up and walked over to the coffee machine.
She could feel his eyes burning into her as she clattered around and tried to stop her fingers from shaking. But when she placed the cup carefully in front of him, his hand snaked out to capture her wrist.
‘So are you enjoying a flirtation with that man?’ he demanded.
Pulse rocketing in instant response to his touch, she stared at him incredulously. As if she could even look at another man! ‘Which man?’
‘The one who owns the sandwich shop next door.’
For a moment she almost laughed until she realised that he was deadly serious. ‘Don’t be so absurd, Riccardo.’
His fingers tightened around her wrist. ‘But I saw you on my way into the office. Fluttering your eyelashes at him. Wiggling your hips in the way a woman does when she is aware of her own sexual power.’
And despite the ludicrous nature of his accusation, Angie could feel the urgent escalation of her heart and the now thready flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers. Could he feel it, too? she wondered. Was he as affected by her touch as she was by his? Quickly, she snatched her hand away—terrified at how quickly that brief, almost contemptuous contact could still make her melt with longing. ‘You’re being ridiculous!’
‘You think so? Yet I recognise all too well the signs of desire in a man.’ His gaze was steady, but inside he was angry. With himself, more than anyone—because she seemed to be showing a remarkable sangfroid he was far from feeling. He wanted to storm round to the other side of his desk and kiss her until she begged him to take her. He wanted to lose himself in her sweet softness one more time…Instead, he glared at her. ‘Who knows? Perhaps I am not the only recipient of your undeniably sweet favours.’
Angie stared at him in disbelief. And yet—could she blame him for making such an accusation? Hadn’t she just fallen into bed with him, with nothing in the way of real wooing? He wasn’t to know that there had only ever been one lover in her life, and that had been a bit of a disaster. ‘You…really…really think that, Riccardo?’
He didn’t know what to think; the rule-book seemed to have been torn up and flung out of the window during that inexplicably erotic night with her. And he was behaving in a way which was completely out of character. As if he cared what she did!
He shrugged. ‘It is none of my business what you do or who you associate with. You must have all the boyfriends you wish. You are a free agent.’ There was a pause. ‘As am I.’
And this hurt almost as much as anything else he had said—his precise words making it patently clear that their one night really had been one night. Well, she would not react. He would never know how much she cared for him. How much she had cared for him, she corrected herself silently.
