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“THIS ISN’T WHAT I HAD in mind.”
If only the ground could open up and swallow Bronte Hill whole. She couldn’t even look at her boss – she didn’t dare. What must he been thinking? How the hell did I get into this, that’s what. He must be wondering what had possessed him to go along with this terrible idea.
Luca Montebello wasn’t your average man – he wasn’t your average anything. Luca Montebello was a stick of dynamite – a gorgeous, sultry, Italian billionaire who somehow always managed to appear as though he’d stepped out of the pages of a men’s fashion magazine while simultaneously looking as though he was far too busy being rugged and masculine to spend any time whatsoever on his appearance.
And he was here.
With Bronte.
When he spoke, his voice was thick with a European accent, tinged with American vowels, husky and deep, so that despite the fact she had precisely zero interest in dating – and never would again – she couldn’t help but feel a flutter of something zip through her abdomen, a heat of desire rather than mortification simmering in her blood.
“It’s a bedroom.”
She gulped. “Yeah, but –,” She lifted her eyes to his then, her dark hair a curtain she was grateful she could partially hide behind as she gestured towards the miniscule room. “I mean – come on.”
“There’s a bed. I presume through that door we will find a bathroom. What’s the problem?”
“I –,” she gaped. “Seriously?”
His grin was like warm candle wax on her skin, all delightful and reassuring. She balked at the thought.
“What did you expect?”
“Something – more spacious.”
He lifted a brow. “These English country house hotels are always poky. Charming, but small.”
“I came here with my sister when she was looking at wedding venues. We stayed in a suite. It was – I should have confirmed –,”
Amusement she hadn’t expected tugged at his lips. “Yes, I’m surprised you didn’t. You usually never let a detail escape you.”
It was true. Professionally, Bronte prided herself on being across every item of concern, but when it came to her personal life, it was a big, old mess. As evidenced by this latest turn of events. “I’m so sorry.”
His sigh was unexpected. “Bronte, please don’t keep apologising or I really will regret offering to do this.”
Enormous green eyes fixed on his face and for a moment a semblance of sanity returned. “I’ll never understand why you did.”
He lifted his shoulders, a study in unconcern. “Because my good deed quota has been a little low lately. Now, after you.”
Bronte had been expecting a room with a sofa she could sleep on, a little space for them to spread out, somewhere that Luca could work. Instead, they’d ended up with a double bed – not even a Queen, heaven help her – a small, ancient bedside table each, and a door that must surely, as he’d guessed, lead to a private bathroom. He moved towards it and without intending to, her eyes followed, glued to his tapered hips and curved butt, perfectly shown in the tailored suit he wore. Everything about him was tailored, in fact. Shoes, suit, shirts – she knew for a fact he was furnished with items of clothing from a premier couture fashion label, but each of them crafted specifically for him. And it showed.
“Well, the good news is, the bath is enormous,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. “Apparently no space was spared in here.”
Bronte moved towards him, stepping into the bathroom with a sinking sense of despair. The bathroom was, while not exactly spacious, much more palatial. Marbled tiles, gold fittings, and a window that offered a sweeping view of the countryside, all rolling hills and oak trees. A bath was beneath the window, easily large enough to accommodate the two of them. Where the hell had that thought come from? She squeezed her eyes shut as though that might erase the mental image.
“I could always sleep in the bath –,” she said quietly, trying to imagine the logistics of that, and the subsequent neck pain.
“Yeah, right, that’s what I’ll make you do. Sleep in the bath.” He flicked his eyes heavenward in a delightfully boyish gesture that momentarily robbed her of breath. In the four years since working at the Montebello offices in London, Bronte had got to know all of the Montebello men, except Gabe, who preferred to take a back seat to the family business, working remotely as much as possible. She respected each of them but wouldn’t have said she knew any well enough to ‘like’ them, except perhaps Nico who always took the time to stop and chat, and lately to show off copious photos of his wife and baby Estelle. But Luca she knew almost as little as she did Gabe. He spent a lot of time at the New York office, and Rome, and she’d always been inexplicably intimidated by him. Seeing him like this – relaxed and incredibly disarming – was making it hard to hold a though
t in her head.
“This is your sister’s wedding. Obviously you need to be well-rested. We’ll share the bed; it’s no big deal.”
“Right.” Her tongue darted out, licking her lower lip as she nodded slowly. “No big deal.”
