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Her eyes opened and her gaze settled on the door at the back of his sumptuous private jet.
She'd spent twelve painful months trying to put it all behind her. Trying to free herself of the agonizing wanting and needing that tore into her at unexpected moments. Was walking through that door going to undo the little progress she'd made?
Oh, hell. It was just a bedroom, she reasoned, rising to her feet in a determined movement and pacing to the back of the plane, feeling the thick cream carpet give under her feet. And anyway, she didn't have to go near the bedroom. She'd just wash off the paint and make herself decent enough to face his disapproving, dependent family.
Rico was talking on the phone again and her hand stilled on the handle of the bedroom suite as she listened.
When she'd first met him she'd loved to hear him speaking Italian.
It didn't matter what he was saying. He could have been reading the financial pages of a newspaper and still the sound of his voice would have made her stomach turn over and her body tremble. He'd teased her about it but she hadn't cared.
Rico speaking Italian was verbal seduction.
Not wanting to relive those early days of their relationship, days that had been dominated by the most unbelievable sexual excitement, she opened the door to the bedroom suite and locked herself in the stylish bathroom.
She didn't want to think about the beginning of their relationship.
The only way she was going to survive the next few days was to remember the reasons why it had ended.
She stared in the mirror, noticed the splodge of paint above her right eyebrow and gave a wry smile.
She looked nothing like the wife of one of the world's most successful businessmen.
Which was probably why they were currently in the throes of a divorce, she thought numbly, turning on the taps and splashing her face with cool water in an attempt to remove the paint and tone down the colour in her flushed cheeks.
She was completely wrong for him.
But wasn't that what had first attracted Rico to her?
The fact that she was different from his usual diet of models and actresses?
He'd been attracted to her because she was different, but ultimately it had been those very differences that had driven them apart.
Reaching for a towel, she dried her face and studied her reflection. What had Rico seen in her, that day in Rome? What was it about her that had driven him to approach her? Despite her resolve not to think about it, her mind wandered.
She'd been balanced on scaffolding, working on the mural she'd been commissioned to paint on one wall of the foyer. As usual when she drew or painted, she'd been totally absorbed in her art and it was only after she'd completed the intricate task she'd set herself that she'd suddenly been aware that she was under scrutiny.
She glanced down and almost lost her balance.
In a country that appeared to be populated by gorgeous men, he was the most staggeringly sexy man she'd ever seen. Unmistakably Italian, breathtakingly good-looking and staring at her, those scorching dark eyes raking every inch of her with blatant male appreciation.
'Is everything OK?' Her Italian was embarrassingly bad so she used English, hoping that he would understand her.
Since she'd started painting the mural on one wall of the foyer of the international headquarters of the Crisanti Corporation, a steady stream of people had stopped and watched her but she'd never felt remotely uncomfortable. In fact she'd hardly noticed them.
But no woman could fail to notice this man. He was unreasonably handsome and she had to stop herself from drooling as her artist's eye roved over his perfect bone structure and the strong, symmetrical planes of his face. Her fingers twitched and if she'd had a pencil handy she would have sketched him instantly. Which would have been a frustrating exercise, she acknowledged dreamily. No two-dimensional drawing would ever be able to reflect the strength and power of the man in front of her.
He stood like a god, confident and all-powe
rful, and there was something about his cool, steady gaze that made her uncharacteristically nervous.
Noticing that the foyer seemed unusually full of people for the time of day, she glanced at his companions, noted their build and the respectful distance they kept, and finally realized just exactly who was scrutinizing her so closely.
She hastily descended the ladder and wiped the palm of her hand down her jeans before extending it. 'I'm Anastasia Silver. I'm a commercial artist. I was awarded the contract for painting your mural.'
Your mural—
She cringed as she heard herself speak. As if someone in Rico Crisanti's position was going to know or care who was decorating his office building. He undoubtedly left decisions like that to lesser mortals and concentrated his legendary brain power on amassing further millions to add to his already staggering fortune.
