Innocent In The Billionaire's Bed. Clare Connelly
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out details of the island, suggested positions that might be suitable for a hotel, but he had made it clear that he felt obliged to provide her with business information and that was the end of it.
So why did it bother her?
She’d come to the island expecting to meet with a dull estate agent. She’d brought books and bathing costumes, anticipating a delicious week on her own, soaking in the sunshine and relaxing.
But now her nerves were stretched on tenterhooks.
She flicked the page of her book, even though she had no concept of what she’d read, and briefly lifted her eyes to where he sat. There was only one living space in the house and he’d taken up position on the small table. It held his laptop, and thick files spread in each direction. His head was bent, he had a pen in his hand, and as he read one of the files he occasionally scratched a note angrily in the margin.
Unexpectedly he flashed his eyes in her direction and she looked away, stumbling her focus back to reading. His eyes continued to burn her skin, though.
He stood abruptly, scraping his chair noisily against the tiles. She kept her head bent as he moved into the kitchen and she heard the fridge open and shut.
She turned the page—again with no concept of where she was in the story.
The sound of butter simmering in a frying pan finally captured her interest, and she risked a glance towards him.
Her heart stuttered. Rio Mastrangelo was a seriously gorgeous man at any time. But with his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows, his head bent as he chopped tomato and fennel...he was the poster boy for sexiest man alive.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, wishing she hadn’t when his eyes lanced her and she felt her stomach swoop.
‘Stringing a fishing line,’ he replied, with a sarcasm that he softened by smiling.
He had a dimple in one cheek. Deep enough to dip her finger into. She looked back at her book.
‘I presume you eat normal food?’ he asked, with a challenge she didn’t understand in his question.
‘It depends what you call “normal.”’ She gave up on the book, folding down the corner at the top of a page and placing it on the sofa.
She stood and padded towards the kitchen, curious as he added basil leaves to the chopping board. He reached for the fridge once more and returned with fish, adding each fillet one by one to the sizzling frying pan. He sliced a lemon down the middle and squeezed it over the top, then ground salt.
‘That smells delicious,’ she said seriously. ‘You like to cook?’
He shrugged. ‘I like to eat, so...’
Her smile was involuntary, and her attention was momentarily distracted by the sizzling fish, so she didn’t realise that his eyes had dropped to her mouth and were staring at it with an intensity that would have boiled her blood.
‘I would have thought you’d have a chef. No—a team of chefs. All ready to obey your every whim.’ She lifted her brows as she turned her attention back to his face.
‘No.’
More of the stonewalling she’d faced that afternoon.
‘No? Why not?’
‘Because, Principessa, not everyone grew up in the hyper-indulged, rarefied way you did. I learned to cook almost as soon as I could walk. Just because I can afford to employ chefs it doesn’t mean it’s necessary.’
The hostility of his statement hurt far more than it should have. He was judging her—no, he was judging Cressida, she reminded herself forcibly—and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Her throat ached. With mortification, Tilly realised his harsh rebuke had brought her to the brink of tears. She took a steadying breath and looked away.
He expelled an angry breath and reached for the fish, flicking it deftly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a moment. ‘That was rude of me.’
If his judgemental bitterness had surprised her, the apology had even more so.
She lifted her eyes to him slowly. ‘You think I’m spoiled.’
His smile was brief. A flicker across his face that she thought she must have imagined. He reached for two plates and scooped the tomato and fennel mixture into the middle, then added several fish fillets and half a lemon. It had the kind of presentation a five-year-old would have been proud of, but it smelled incredible. Her stomach groaned in agreement with that thought and she cleared her throat in an attempt to cover it.
‘I believe you drink champagne?’
Tilly frowned, and was on the brink of pointing out that she really didn’t drink much at all before remembering that Cressida was practically fuelled by the stuff. She found it perfectly acceptable to start her day with a glass of bubbles. And, despite the fact she could knock off a bottle on her own in no time, she never seemed affected by it. Which showed she had an incredible tolerance for the stuff. Unlike Tilly.
Yet she nodded, knowing it would lead to questions if she disavowed something so intrinsic about the heiress.
He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle—Bollinger, she saw as he unfurled the top.
‘The cabin is not exactly well appointed,’ he explained, pulling out a single tumbler and half filling it with champagne. He handed her the glass, then scooped up their plates and cutlery.
‘You’re not joining me?’
‘No.’
He moved down the corridor, pushing the door to the balcony open with his shoulder and holding it for her to move past. It surprised her; she’d assumed they’d sit inside at the table.
But when she looked up she let out a sound of astonishment.
Somewhere between their walk on the beach and the pages she hadn’t read, the sky had caught fire. Red, orange, pink and purple exploded in every direction, backlit by warmth and turning the ocean a vibrant hue of purple.
‘Wow!’
He set the plates on the small table, his eyes following hers.
‘Remember when we swam as the sun dipped down and the sky was orange? And you told me I was a mermaid who’d come from the sea?’
His mother’s voice had been crackly and faint. The last of her cancer treatments had left her disorientated and confused.
‘Prim’amore—my love, my first love. For ever.’
When death had been at her doorstep, she’d thought only of him. Piero. A man who hadn’t even come to the funeral—who hadn’t so much as acknowledged her passing.
Rio compressed his lips, his appetite diminished.
Not so Tilly’s.
She sat opposite him and attacked her fish with impressive gusto, pausing occasionally to turn back to the view, before remembering that she was starving, apparently, and pushing another piece of her dinner into her mouth.
A beautiful mouth. Full and naturally pouting, with a perfect cupid’s bow that out of nowhere he imagined tracing with his tongue.
His body stirred at the idea. The sooner he got off this island the better. Any number of women would make more suitable, less complicated lovers than Cressida Wyndham.
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming her face. ‘Yes.’ His nod was concise. ‘I think you’re spoiled.’ His eyes dropped to her lips once more—lips that were parted now with indignation. ‘But it is not your fault.’
‘Oh, geez. Thanks.’ She reached for her champagne and sipped it, pulling a face when the water she wanted to taste turned out to be bubbly and astringent. Still, it slid down