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Furious with Dale, but mostly with herself, Zoe locked her front door and buttoned up her pyjama top. What was she thinking kissing Dale Cavallo like that, letting him touch her the way he had?
Muttering and cursing, she switched off the lights and stormed to her bedroom. She wasn’t thinking, of course. Around him, thinking became difficult, impossible, really.
Pacing up and down in her bedroom, she replayed every minute of the time he’d been in her flat. He’d probably had one glass of wine too many. That was perhaps his excuse. But she’d had none. Absolutely none. She’d been stone-cold sober. She should have ordered him to leave, not given in wantonly to his first caress.
She closed her eyes, her body vividly remembering every stroke of his hands. Oh, hell, this was not helping. He had taken her panties, put them in his pocket, and left with them. And desire was back, stirring her blood, heating her body until she found it difficult to breathe. She should be outraged, indignant, not turned-on, damn it!
She jumped up. He was a Cavallo, one of the richest men around. She should remember that. To him, she was just another woman in a long line of conquests. There was no way he could be seriously interested in her. Why on earth he’d come here tonight was beyond her. He was from such a different world, why would he waste time on someone like her? Keeping the help happy?
Finish this job as soon as possible—that was what she should keep reminding herself. And that meant she had work to do. There was no way she was going to sleep anyway, and some ideas for the interior for the Cavallos’ hotel had been swirling around in her head. That was of course for the few milliseconds she hadn’t been thinking about Dale.
Maybe if she could come up with something that could wow him, she wouldn’t have to go to the Seychelles with him.
Because she knew—going to an exotic island with Dale Cavallo would be a very bad idea.
