The Italian's Christmas Secret. Sharon Kendrick
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of Mary to have gone to the trouble of making us some, especially when she’s trying to cook a big turkey dinner for eight people,’ she admonished quietly. ‘The least we can do is be grateful.’
‘I suppose so.’
Keira tried to maintain her polite smile as she handed him a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich, telling herself that nothing would be gained by being rude herself. In fact, it would only make matters worse if they started sparring. She was the one in the wrong and the one whose job was on the line. If she kept answering him back, who was to say he wouldn’t ring up her boss and subject him to a blistering tirade about her incompetence? If she kept him sweet, mightn’t he be persuaded not to make a big deal out of the situation, maybe even to forget it had ever happened and put it down to experience? She needed this job because she loved it and things to love in Keira’s life happened too rarely for her to want to give them up without a fight.
She noticed that he said nothing as he ate, his expression suggesting he was merely fuelling his impressive body rather than enjoying what was on offer—but Keira’s hunger had completely deserted her and that was a first. She normally had a healthy appetite, which often surprised people who commented on her tiny frame. But not today. Today food was the last thing on her mind. She broke off the rim of one of the mince pies and forced herself to chew on it and the sugar gave her a sudden rush, but all she could think about was how on earth they were going to get through the hours ahead, when there wasn’t even a radio in the room—let alone a TV. She watched the way the lamplight fell on her client’s face—the hardness of his features contrasting with the sensual curve of his lips—and found herself wondering what it might be like to be kissed by a man like him.
Stop it, she urged herself furiously. Just stop it. You couldn’t even maintain the interest of that trainee mechanic you dated in the workshop—do you really fancy your chances with the Italian billionaire?
A note of desperation tinged her voice as she struggled to think of something they could do which might distract her from all that brooding masculinity. ‘Shall I go downstairs and see if Mary has any board games we could play?’
He put his empty cup down and his eyes narrowed. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You know.’ She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. ‘Cards, or Scrabble or Monopoly. Something,’ she added. ‘Because we can’t just spend the whole evening staring at each other and dreading the night ahead, can we?’
He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘You’re dreading the night ahead, are you, Keira?’
A shimmer of amusement had deepened his voice and Keira realised that, not only was it the first time he’d actually used her name, but that he’d said it as no one had ever said it before. She could feel colour flushing over her cheekbones and knew she had to stop coming over as some kind of unworldly idiot. ‘Well, aren’t you?’ she challenged. ‘Don’t tell me your heart didn’t sink when you realised we’d have to spend the night here.’
Matteo considered her question. Up until a few moments ago he might have agreed with her, but there was something about the girl with the spiky black hair which was making him reconsider his original assessment. It was, he thought, a novel situation and he was a man whose appetites had been jaded enough over the years to be entertained by the novel. And Keira whatever-her-name-was certainly wasn’t your average woman. She wasn’t behaving as most women would have done in the circumstances. She had suggested playing a game as if she actually meant it, without any purring emphasis on the word playing, leaving him in no doubt how she intended the ‘game’ to progress—with him thrusting into her eager body. People called him arrogant, but he preferred to think of himself as a realist. He’d never been guilty of under-assessing his own attributes—and one of those was his ability to make the opposite sex melt, without even trying.
He focussed his gaze on her, mildly amused by the competitive look in her eyes which suggested that her question had been genuine. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Let’s play games.’
Picking up the tray, she went downstairs, reappearing after a little while with a stack of board games, along with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
‘There’s no need to be snobby about the vintage,’ she said, noticing his expression as he frowningly assessed the label on the bottle. ‘It was very sweet of Mary to offer us a festive drink and I’m having a glass even if you aren’t. I’m not driving anywhere tonight and I don’t want to offend her, not when she’s been so kind.’
Feeling surprisingly chastened, Matteo took the bottle and opened it, pouring them each a glass and forcing himself to drink most of his in a single draught as he lowered himself into the most uncomfortable chair he’d ever sat in.
‘Ready?’ she questioned as she sat cross-legged on the bed, with a blanket placed discreetly over her thighs as she faced him.
‘I guess,’ he growled.
They played Monopoly, which naturally he won—but then, he’d spent all his adult life trading property and had learnt early that there was no commodity more precious than land. But he was surprised when she suggested a quick game of poker and even more surprised by her skill with the cards.
Matteo wondered afterwards if he’d been distracted by knowing her legs were bare beneath the blanket. Or if he’d just spent too long gazing at her curling black lashes, which remarkably didn’t carry a trace of mascara. Because wasn’t the truth that he was finding his pocket-sized driver more fascinating with every moment which passed? She was certainly managing to keep her face poker-straight as she gazed at her cards and inexplicably he found himself longing to kiss those unsmiling lips.
He swallowed. Was she aware that her coolness towards him was fanning a sexual awareness which was growing fiercer by the second? He didn’t know—all he did know was that by the time they’d drunk most of the bottle of wine, she had beaten him hands-down and it was an unfamiliar experience.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Who taught you to play like that?’
She shrugged. ‘Before I became a driver, I worked as a car mechanic—mostly with men,’ she added airily. ‘And they liked to play cards when the workshop was quiet.’
‘You worked as a car mechanic?’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘I am surprised. You don’t look strong enough to take a car to pieces.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
‘They certainly can.’ He picked up the bottle and emptied out the last of the wine, noticing her fingers tremble as he handed her the glass. She must be feeling it too, he thought grimly—that almost tangible buzz of electricity when his hand brushed against hers. He crossed one leg over the other to hide the hard throb of his erection as he tried—and failed—to think of something which didn’t involve his lips and her body.
‘Mr Valenti,’ she said suddenly.
‘Matteo,’ he instructed silkily. ‘I thought we agreed we should be on first-name terms, given the somewhat unusual circumstances.’
‘Yes, we did, but I...
Keira’s words tailed away as he fixed her with a questioning look, not quite sure how to express her thoughts. The alcohol had made her feel more daring than usual—something which she’d fully exploited during that game of cards. She’d known it probably wasn’t the most sensible thing to defeat Matteo Valenti and yet something had made her want to show him she wasn’t as useless as he seemed to think she was. But she was now aware of her bravado slipping away. Just as she was aware of the tension which had been building in the cramped bedroom ever since she’d emerged from the bathroom.
Her breasts were aching and her inside-out panties were wet. Did he realise that? Perhaps he was used to women reacting that way around him but she wasn’t one of those women. She’d been called frigid by men before, when really she’d been scared—scared of doing what her mother had always warned her against. But it had never been a problem before, because close contact with the