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He shook his head, his eyes gleaming.
‘Long before that. The I.B.A. told me months ago that they were worried about Radio Wyechester. They take a keen interest in new stations—after all, they’ve got their reputation to consider and a bad station reflects badly on them. They asked me if I’d be interested in taking over because they knew that I was looking for something new. At first I refused. I remembered Winters from the B.B.C. I hadn’t liked him then, and I didn’t want to get involved with him again. Just out of idle curiosity I went through all the personal files the I.B.A. sent me. Yours was the first. The moment I opened it and saw your photograph, I knew that I was going to take over the station no matter what I had to do to get it. I was plotting your downfall long before you even knew it.
‘Ian will be here soon with your clothes,’ he added, ‘and while I’m pretty sure he’s in no doubt about the way I feel about you, I don’t think he should find us like this, I got quite a shock when he introduced himself as your brother. When I saw you at the Country Club last night I could willingly have murdered you! What’s the matter?’ he asked as Storm placed her fingers against his lips.
‘If Ian’s going
to come and interrupt us, I don’t think we should waste time talking,’ she said huskily, drawing him down against her, her mouth parting in mute invitation.
‘Storm!’ Jago groaned protestingly, but his hands were already sliding beneath the towel, sending explosive waves of delight coursing through her, his heart thudding betrayingly against her as he told her throatily of his love.
* * * * *
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PENNY JORDAN,
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Recommended Reads for February 2017
And now, read on for a tantalizing excerpt of The Italian’s Pregnant Virgin by New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates…
CHAPTER ONE
“THE THING IS, Mr. Valenti, I’m pregnant.”
Renzo Valenti, heir to the Valenti family real estate fortune, known womanizer and chronic overindulger, stared down at the stranger standing in his entryway.
He had never seen the woman before in his life. Of that he was nearly one hundred percent certain.
He did not associate with women like this. Women who looked like they had spent a hot, sweaty afternoon traipsing through the streets of Rome, rather than a hot, sweaty afternoon tangled in silk sheets.
She was red-cheeked and disheveled, her face void of makeup, long dark hair half falling out of a bun that looked like an afterthought.
She was dressed the same as many American college students who flooded the city in the summer. She was wearing a form-fitting black tank top and a long, ankle-length skirt that nearly covered her dusty feet and flat, unremarkable sandals that appeared to be falling apart.
Had she been walking by him outside, he would never have paid her any notice. Except she was in his home. And she had just said words to him no woman had said to him since he was sixteen years old.
But they meant nothing, as she meant nothing.
“Congratulations. Or condolences,” he said. “Depending.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No,” he said, his voice cutting through the relative silence of the grand antechamber. “I don’t. You practically burst into my home telling my housekeeper you had to see me, and now here you are, having pushed your way in.”
“I didn’t push my way in. Luciana was more than happy to let me in.”
He would never fire his housekeeper. And the unfortunate thing was, the older woman knew it. So when she had let a hysterical girl into his home, he had a feeling she considered it punishment for his notorious behavior with the opposite sex.
