Page 11 of Public Wife, Private Mistress

His hand closed over hers and she almost gasped at the strength and power of that grip. Aware that his gaze had shifted to the wall that she'd been painting, she followed his gaze, suddenly seeing it through his eyes and feeling a lurch of horror. Ideally she liked to work on a project in private until it was completed, but in this case it hadn't been possible.

'You're probably thinking that it looks terrible but it always does at this stage. It's hard to imagine what it will look like when it's finished. In many ways the prep­aration is as important as the final painting. I—your architect approved my drawings and colour sketches,' she tailed off lamely, aware that his attention was now fixed firmly on her face.

'Are you always this tense? If so then I'm amazed you can wield a brush,' he murmured, bestowing her with an unexpected smile. 'Relax, Miss Silver. I like what you're doing to my wall.'

His wall.

He made it sound intimate. Personal. As if the wall was part of him.

Flayed by the seductive charm of that smile, Stasia felt her knees wobble and the colour rise in her cheeks.

Utterly self-conscious and not liking the feeling one little bit, she bit her lip and took a few steps backwards, suddenly realizing what a mess she must look.

'I'm covered in paint.' She lifted a hand to her burn­ing cheeks, just hating herself for being so gauche when she should have been cool. 'I must look a total mess.'

His smile was the smile of a male well aware that if a woman was worrying about her appearance then he was home and dry.

'Not a mess. And I love your hair,' he assured her smoothly, registering her extreme discomfort with no small degree of amusement. 'So many shades of gold and copper blended together. It reminds me of England in the autumn.' His dark eyes scanned her hair in minute detail as if he were determined to memorize every strand. 'Apart from the white spotted bits.'

Feeling a deadly warmth spread through her body, Stasia fingered her wild curls. 'It will wash out.'

One dark eyebrow swooped upwards. 'The autumn gold? I hope not.'

'The white spots,' she muttered, glancing around her and wondering what the rest of his entourage was mak­ing of this ridiculous conversation. 'The first thing I do in the evening is get rid of the paint.'

He nodded, his gaze suddenly thoughtful. 'I should very much like to see you without the paint, Miss Silver. You will have dinner with me tonight.'

His arrogant assurance that she'd say yes outraged her intellect but her body was already trembling with anticipation. 'I might be busy.'

He smiled. The smile of a man totally confident in his own appeal. 'Eight o'clock. And you won't be busy.'

Still unable to believe that Rico Crisanti had asked her out, Stasia had to remind herself to breathe. 'Sure of yourself, aren't you?' She lifted an eyebrow in mock­ery. 'Is that a legacy from your Roman ancestors? Do you have the same fundamental need to conquer, pillage and plunder, I wonder?'

'That depends on the prize.' Dark eyes rested on her mouth with masculine fascination. 'And I'm not Roman, Miss Silver. I'm Sicilian. And we have a very different way of doing things.'

Without waiting for her to reply, he finally lifted his gaze from her mouth and strolled across the foyer to­wards the lift, followed at a respectful distance by his minions.

Stasia stared after him, stunned into a silence driven by disbelief. Not Roman. Sicilian.

Rico Crisanti, one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, wanted to have dinner with her.

For a wild, impulsive moment her heart leaped and her imagination followed.

And then reality interceded.

What would a man like Rico Crisanti want with her?

Compared to his usual diet of sleek, rich women she was a mongrel.

Her slim shoulders tensed and her mouth fell open at his arrogance. He'd just assumed that she'd want to spend an evening with him.

But then what woman would ever say no to him?

Confronted by temptation in its purest form, Stasia reminded herself that he hadn't even asked where she was staying so it was highly unlikely that he'd turn up at eight. And if he did—

She climbed back up the scaffolding and tried to con­tinue with the design on the wall, ignoring the fact that her concentration was broken and her hand wasn't quite steady.

If he did, then she 'd just have to tell him that she didn 't have dinner with strangers.

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