The Italian's Passionate Proposal. Sarah Morgan
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at him, her heart missing a beat as the warmth in his eyes and the full implication of his words hit her.
‘You still want to?’
‘What do you think?’ Carlo moved towards her and cupped her face in his hands. ‘I’m sorry if I moved too fast. It never occurred to me that—’
‘I didn’t want to tell you. I thought it might put you off,’ she muttered, and he laughed.
‘In that case, you have a great deal to learn about Italian men, cara mia.’ He looked into her face, smug male satisfaction reflected in his dark eyes. ‘We are a hideously jealous, possessive race. We are not good at sharing. We like a woman to be ours and ours alone.’
His alone.
The thought sent heat flaring through Zan and she pulled away from him. ‘I’ll see if your trousers are dry.’
He followed her to the kitchen, leaning broad shoulders against the doorway as he watched her.
‘I cannot believe that you’re still a virgin,’ he observed, lush dark lashes shielding his gorgeous eyes. ‘Your brothers obviously did a good job at protecting you.’
She reached into the tumble-drier and dragged out his trousers. ‘Every time a boy became remotely interested in me they worked really hard to scare him off. Amazing teamwork and family unity. They succeeded every time.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘And the men in question were willing to be scared off?’
She handed him the trousers and their fingers brushed together. ‘I suppose they were boys, really, and my brothers must have been pretty daunting.’
‘And what about now you’re grown-up?’
‘Now they just rely on my natural wariness to keep me out of mischief.’ She looked at him anxiously, suddenly aware that she’d only known him for a few hours. How had she ever let him so close to her so quickly?
‘It’s OK, Zan.’ His voice was incredibly gentle. ‘I don’t go off with women I’ve just met either. We’ll take this slowly and see where it ends up.’
The thought of where it might end up sent her stomach dropping to the floor.
‘Do you want some coffee?’
Maybe caffeine would clear her mind.
‘What sort of coffee?’ His gorgeous eyes narrowed and he looked at her suspiciously. ‘At home we clean floors with what you English call coffee.’
She stuck her chin in the air and gave him a superior look. ‘I’ll have you know I make the best cappuccino in London—’
‘Well, that isn’t saying much— Ouch!’ He winced as she thumped him and his eyes creased with humour. ‘In that case, I’ll put my jeans on while you make it.’
She made two steaming mugs of cappuccino, tipped some home-made shortbread onto a plate and walked back into the living room.
Carlo sprawled on the cushions by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at the Thames.
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