The Italian's Passionate Proposal. Sarah Morgan
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Even people who never remember to do it!’
He was looking at her curiously, arms folded across his broad chest. ‘So what would you buy?’
‘I don’t know, the usual things…’ She shrugged. ‘A house in a better area, a car so that I don’t have to walk around at night.’
‘Would you give up your job?’
‘Oh, no!’ Her expression was horrified. ‘I love my job. And just think, if I won money I’d be able to rehouse Kelly and Mike without having to bow and scrape to Social Services all the time.’
Carlo turned back to the window. ‘You’d have a job to beat this view.’
‘Nice, isn’t it? They’ve converted so much of the Docklands area into housing and it’s a pretty good place to live.’ She glanced round her with satisfaction. She liked her flat. It was small, but it was cosy and homely and all hers. ‘Make the most of it. It’s pretty small now, but after tomorrow it’s going to get even smaller.’
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ He moved away from the window and strolled towards her.
‘I’m buying my Christmas tree,’ she said proudly, ‘and it’s going to be big.’
‘Ah.’ He folded his arms across his chest and his sexy dark eyes twinkled at her. ‘So size matters to you?’
‘In Christmas trees, definitely.’ Zan was laughing at the innuendo and trying to control the frantic fluttering in her stomach. ‘I love everything about Christmas. I used to buy my tree on the first day of December, but the needles always fell off by Christmas Day and I got fed up with staring at decorated twigs so now I make myself wait. It’s an exercise in self-discipline. What about you? Do you like Christmas?’
He hesitated and then nodded. ‘I suppose so.’
‘But you’re sad because you won’t be at home this year?’ She tilted her head on one side and looked at him. ‘I know the feeling. I’m working this Christmas so I won’t be able to get home until New Year. But I’ve written my letter to Santa and he knows I’m here so all my presents should still arrive.’
He leaned broad shoulders against the wall and watched her, and she was breathlessly aware of how big he seemed in her tiny flat.
Big and male.
‘You’ve written to Santa?’
‘Of course! I’ve sent him my list. How else will he know what I want?’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Diamond earrings, cashmere jumper, silky underwear—you know the sort of thing.’
‘Diamond earrings?’ His gaze slid down to her torn jeans. ‘You don’t strike me as a diamond earrings sort of girl.’
‘Don’t judge by appearances. I’ve never been given the chance,’ she told him gloomily. ‘With four brothers my childhood was all rugby boots and Action Man. Every single Christmas I’d get the same stuff as them. Don’t get me wrong. My parents are great and I love them. But somewhere along the line they forgot I was a girl. I would have given anything for something pink and girly.’
He blinked. ‘Pink and girly?’
‘You know, something feminine. What about you? What do you want for Christmas?’
There was a long silence, and when he finally spoke his gaze was disturbingly direct. ‘You.’ He spoke the word softly and then paused, his dark eyes holding hers. ‘I want you, Zan.’
There was a hot, pulsing silence and she stared at him, her heart in her mouth and her palms damp.
His words shocked and excited her and for a moment she had no idea how to respond. The truth was she wanted him too, but the feeling scared her.
She’d only known him for one evening.
‘I don’t do one-night stands.’
‘Good.’ His dark eyes didn’t shift from hers. ‘I’m not interested in just one night.’
She looked into those stunning dark eyes and felt her insides tumble. Suddenly overwhelmed by his directness and the intensity of her own feelings, she jumped to her feet and looked at him nervously.
He was so different from the men she normally mixed with. They seemed younger somehow. More boyish. But there was nothing boyish about Carlo. He was all man. A man who knew exactly what he wanted and went straight for it.
And she couldn’t forget the way he kissed.
‘Where did you come from?’ She wrapped her arms around her middle defensively. ‘I mean, one minute my life is thoroughly predictable and full of men who bore me to tears and then the next…’
He lifted a dark eyebrow and prompted her gently, his Italian accent suddenly pronounced, ‘The next?’
Her heart was hammering in her chest. She didn’t know which was sexier, the tone of his voice or the look in his eyes. ‘The next I find myself lying on the pavement, kissing a total stranger.’
‘Is that a complaint?’ His dark eyes teased her and her breath came in little pants.
‘Not exactly. I’m just not used to kissing in the street in front of an audience.’
‘But now we have no audience.’ He gave a smile that sent her pulse racing and she lost her nerve and took a step backwards.
‘Do you want coffee?’
‘No.’ He moved towards her, standing so close she could feel the warmth from his body against hers.
Zan’s heart was pounding frantically. Just remembering what his kiss had felt like was enough to make her knees start to tremble. He was breathtakingly attractive.
But she shouldn’t be kissing men she didn’t know.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth and her lips parted in breathless anticipation.
Or maybe she should.
Still unsure, she gave him a nervous smile. ‘I still haven’t put ice on your eye.’
‘Right now it isn’t my eye that needs the ice.’ He pulled her against him and lowered his head, their breath mingling as his mouth hovered above hers.
She shivered with expectation, waiting for him to kiss her, the excitement and anticipation stealing every breath from her body. His lips brushed hers, teasing her lightly, and he gave her a wicked smile, fully aware of the tension he was creating between them.
And then finally he kissed her properly.
And this time the kiss was different.
What they’d shared on the pavement had been exploratory and fun, but this—this was a purposeful seduction, and Zan realised immediately that if this was how kissing could feel then she’d never been kissed before.
Carlo kissed as though he’d invented excitement. The touch of his mouth was a wholly sexual experience that swamped her inexperienced body with unfamiliar sensations of such intensity that she squirmed against him in a purely female plea for satisfaction.
His mouth still on hers, he lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck and then pulled her hard against him, his tongue delving into her mouth with devastating thoroughness, encouraging her more hesitant response.
It was the most intimate experience of her life. The skilled sweep of his tongue, the hard ridge of his erection pressed against her and the pounding of her heart against her breastbone.
She breathed in his scent, felt the roughness of his jaw against her, tasted his maleness and felt overwhelmed by a fevered desperation that defied logic.
His touch was totally addictive and when he finally dragged his mouth away from hers she sucked in some air, so shaken by her own reaction that she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye.
She’d