Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress

Zoe jabbed him in the chest with one forefinger; even with just the tip of her finger she could feel the hard definition of sculpted muscle underneath his shirt. ‘You don’t know me, signor. So don’t go telling me what kind of girl I am.’ She sounded ridiculous, Zoe realised distantly. She also realised her finger was still jabbed in his chest. And yet she didn’t move it. If she wasn’t so tired, if her brain didn’t feel so fuzzy and light and disconnected, she wouldn’t have mentioned anything. She certainly wouldn’t have touched him.

Instead, her brain registered in that same disconnected way that he’d wrapped his own hand—warm, strong, dry—around her finger and raised it to his lips. His eyes were dark, and Zoe detected a spark of anger in their depths. She wondered who he was angry with. Himself or her.

She watched, fascinated, as her finger barely brushed the softness of his parted mouth. His eyes darkened even more, to almost black, and his mouth thinned into a contemptuous, knowing smile as he dropped her hand and it fell limply to her side.

‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you anything,’ Leandro replied curtly. ‘I don’t need to. You say it plainly enough.’

With that he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the house, and Zoe realised it was the third time that day he’d walked away and left her standing alone.

He was playing with fire. Touching her. Needing to touch her. And enjoying it.

Leandro flung himself into his desk chair and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t banish the image of Zoe Clark at dinner, wearing that silky top, her hair dark and soft around her face. He pictured the way her eyes had danced with amusement, the way those silly little straps had slipped off her tanned shoulders. The way he’d wanted to push them off.

And she would have let him.

He could still feel the barest brush of her finger against his lips—what had he been thinking, teasing her like that? Teasing himself?

He certainly wasn’t going to act upon the latent desire that hummed inside him—between them. If he were a different man he might have. He might have said to hell with good intentions and higher principles, and taken what was so blatantly on offer. He’d enjoy it, for a time, and then he’d walk away—tabloids, colleagues, family be damned … All for the sake of desire.

But he wasn’t a different man.

He wasn’t his father, and he wouldn’t cheapen and enslave himself to desire. Not for a woman like Zoe Clark—a woman like all the others who took and took and didn’t care who she stepped on to get what she wanted.

Who she hurt.

It’s obviously made you rich.

His mouth thinned in distaste at the memory of her words. Another woman on the prowl. Well, she wouldn’t get anything from him. He wouldn’t give her the chance.

Stifling a curse, he pulled his papers towards him, one hand fumbling for the spectacles he’d discarded on his desk. He switched on the desk lamp, and with a grim, determined focus bent his head to his work.

CHAPTER THREE

ZOE awoke to bright lemony sunshine pouring through the windows, a fresh breeze from the mountains ruffling the rather tattered curtains.

She lay still for a moment, enjoying the feel of the sun and the breeze, before memories of last night filtered through her consciousness and started to spoil her mood.

A girl like you.

You say it plainly enough.

Leandro Filametti had made it clear how little he thought of her. She shouldn’t be surprised, Zoe knew. She’d faced far worse in her years as a chambermaid or short-order cook, in the endless parade of dead-end jobs she’d determinedly revelled in. Zoe Clark—the girl without a plan.

Tomorrow will take care of itself, sweetie. Hasn’t it always?

And with the dead-end jobs had come the leering looks, the men who assumed a girl like her was always on offer.

And when she’d finally chosen to be involved with someone, to give her body and yet keep her heart safe, she’d still had her ego stamped on. She pictured Steve’s sneering face before resolutely pushing the image away.

She wouldn’t let Steve hurt her any more—she’d let him hurt her enough already—and she wouldn’t let Leandro hurt her either.

Except last night Leandro’s carelessly delivered condemnation had hurt. It had pierced her armour of indifference, and she didn’t even understand why.

Why was Leandro Filametti different? Why did he make her feel different?

‘He doesn’t,’ Zoe said aloud, her voice sounding strange, echoing in the empty room. She shrugged off her covers and jumped out of bed, determined to enjoy the beautiful day, so fresh and bright, and not to think about Leandro.

Not to care.

She was good at that; she always had been. And now would be no different.

The villa was silent as Zoe made her way downstairs, stepping through pools of sunshine. She skidded to a halt when she saw Leandro sitting at the huge kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee.

‘Sleeping Beauty finally awakes,’ he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and acerbity.

‘What—?’ Zoe glanced inadvertently at the clock, and gasped when she saw what time it was. ‘Eleven a.m.!’

‘It must be the jet lag,’ Leandro said laconically. ‘In future I hope you intend to have a little less beauty sleep.’ He rose from the table, taking his mug to the sink. ‘If you’re dressed, we might as well head to town. I can’t spend all day fetching and carrying, and it’s already near lunchtime.’

‘Fine.’ Zoe pushed her hair away from her face, and her stomach rumbled audibly.

A smile flickered across Leandro’s features, then disappeared. ‘And we’ll get some breakfast as well.’

Zoe followed Leandro outside, through the gardens and down to the jetty, to where a weathered speedboat was moored. It was a small craft, clearly meant for functional use, yet despite its age Zoe could tell it was well made and expensive.

Like Leandro, she thought with a trace of humour. Nothing showy or ostentatious, nothing obvious, yet he still emanated the sort of arrogant assurance that could only come from a lifetime of money and power.

She repeated that mantra to herself as she climbed into the boat, sinking into one of the comfortable leather seats as Leandro slid into the driver’s seat and the boat thrummed to life.

Zoe knew she should stay angry with Leandro, remind herself of all the assumptions he’d made, but with the sun sparkling on the water as if the lake were strewn with diamonds, and the day stretched out in front of them filled with enticing possibility and adventure, she found her indignation trickling away … at least for the moment. She slipped on her sunglasses as they pulled away from the jetty. The breeze was fresh, and just a little bit sharp.