Hot Summer Flings: A Spanish Awakening / The Italian Next Door... / Interview with the Daredevil

‘Manipulate is a strong word,’ she retorted with manufactured optimism in face of his bewildering level of disapproval.

Not strong enough in Emilio’s view for a father who had no interest in his daughter’s potential being fulfilled, just her usefulness to him. Did she realise that he had no intention of ever letting go of the golden carrot he dangled?

‘If he will not sack you, why worry?’ More to the point, why carry on working for the guy?

‘There are worse things than being sacked,’ she retorted.

‘Such as?’ he asked, reminding himself that what went on between Armstrong and his daughter was none of his business.

‘What is this—twenty questions?’ she asked crankily. ‘If you must know he’ll make an example of me.’ She could hear him now: Just because you’re my daughter, Megan. ‘Something suitably humiliating, a public dressing-down, a demotion, at least on paper.’

Her job description and salary might change, but Megan, who knew despite her father’s complaints that she was good at what she did, doubted her workload would alter.

‘But as I’m going to be a good girl and refuse your very tempting offer of breakfast,’ she said, masking the disturbing truth with sarcasm, ‘it’s kind of academic. And don’t pretend to be disappointed. Admit it—you can think of better ways to spend your days than showing me around the tourist sights.’

‘I can think of better ways to spend my day,’ he admitted, looking at her lips and thinking about several of them; all involved a bed and none featured clothes.

She had never imagined any different, so the anticlimax she felt at his admission was totally irrational.

The lights changed and, while Megan was considering the subtle but important difference between brutal honesty and plain bad manners, Emilio drew away.

At least he had finally dropped the subject. Megan was gazing out through the passenger window, beginning to loosen up slightly when he said something that tipped her over into heart-racing panic … as she found it preferable to designate the erratic thud of her heart as it climbed its way into her throat.

‘And are you always a good girl, Megan?’

It could have been an innocent question, but not when it was delivered in a throaty drawl that came direct from an erotic fantasy. Not hers—she didn’t do fantasies, erotic or otherwise. She was a girl very founded in reality—a girl who right now was shaking.

Did he like his girls bad?

It was bad she had thought the question; at least she had not said it.

She stared at him feeling as though she had slipped into some sort of trance. This conversation, the entire morning, it was all so surreal. She inhaled deeply, getting an unsettling dose of the male fragrance he used along with the sustaining oxygen. God, Megan, get a grip, girl, or failing that get out of this car!

‘Always,’ she confirmed in a cold little voice—shame about the tremor.

A disturbing smile tugged the corners of his mobile mouth as his glance dropped to the hands clenched in her lap. ‘Good girls don’t bite their fingernails.’

Unable to stop herself, she slid her hands under her thighs to hide the shameful condition of her fingernails. ‘I don’t …’ She bit off the futile denial and lifted her chin, turning her defiant golden stare on the hands curved lightly around the steering wheel.

Strong hands, hands that were good to look at, much like the rest of him, she suspected. Her amber eyes were glazing as she stared fixedly at his long, tapering brown fingers and nails that were, of course, not bitten, but neatly trimmed. In her head she saw those long brown fingers, dark as they slid over pale flesh.

She clenched her jaw and pushed the image away.

‘I bite my nails—so what? I suppose you think that it’s an external manifestation of some sort of unresolved conflict. Well, think again—it’s just a habit.’ And one that Megan now intended to cure herself of for good. She had intended to before, but this time she really would.

‘I just thought you might be hungry,’ he returned mildly.

‘I’m always hungry,’ she admitted without thinking.

The wistful note in her voice drew a smile from Emilio. ‘Then that settles it.’

His response drew Megan’s attention to his face. ‘Settles what?’

‘I don’t recall you being this belligerent. Low sugar levels?’

The confident assertion drew a snort from Megan. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my sugar levels.’ It was a great pity the same could not be said of her hormone levels, which had been running riotously out of control since Emilio had appeared.

Since he’d kissed her.

The memory she had tried so hard to suppress rushed over her. It was like walking headlong into a solid wall of heat. It stole her breath, her skin prickled hotly, low in her pelvis things tightened. Megan shuddered, her eyes darkening as she remembered the moment his tongue had stabbed deep into her mouth, the abrasive contact making her melt.

Eyes glazed and misty, she half lifted a hand to her lips, then, catching his dark stare, let it fall away.

She took some comfort from the realisation that she was not likely to be the only female whom he had this effect on.

Don’t start thinking you’re anything special, Megan. You’re creased, cranky and the last person in the world he wants to be lumbered with.

So why didn’t he dump you in an airport hotel?

She was too warm in her linen jacket, air conditioning or not. Her covetous gaze moved resentfully up from his gleaming shoes. She had not got very far before her resentment fell away, and the emotion that replaced it tightened like a fist in her chest—she might not be special, but Emilio was!

There was a ribbon of colour across his cheekbones accenting the sharp, sybaritic curve as their stares briefly connected.

The challenge in his made her heart beat faster as she let her lashes fall in a protective mesh over her eyes.

‘All right, you can buy me breakfast, but nowhere too posh. I look scruffy.’ What could be the harm eating in a public place? And it might be nice to see a part of Madrid that was not her hotel room.

‘I had thought we’d go Dutch, but …’

Despite herself, Megan found herself laughing.

CHAPTER SIX

MEGAN lagged a little behind as she followed Emilio into the building. They had crossed the foyer and entered a lift before her preoccupied brain made a fairly obvious leap.

‘This is not a restaurant.’

As she spoke the glass doors closed with a silent swish and the elevator rose silently. Megan, who was not fond of heights, did not take the opportunity to look down into the greenery-filled atrium below.

‘Smart and beautiful.’

Very beautiful, but not obvious, he mused, studying her face. She had classic English-rose beauty, her face a perfect heart shape, her pale complexion flawless. It was the sort of face that might not leap out of a crowd, but great, actually fantastic, bones and once you started looking you found you couldn’t stop.

Or is that just me?

She was about as far removed from the plastic production-line beauty that most of the females he encountered boasted, but then she had what cosmetic enhancement and beauticians could not give. Megan had class; quiet, understated class.

Unaware of his scrutiny, Megan slung him a dark look, smoothed her hair and tried to slow her rapid, shallow, audible inhalations as the elevator came to a smooth halt. She was uneasily aware that vertigo only explained part of her breathing difficulties.

‘Annoying and sarcastic,’ she countered, directing what she hoped was a cool, calm look up at him. ‘What is this place, Emilio?’ And why wasn’t the damned door opening? she wondered, sliding a stressed look at the button on the wall behind him.

She wasn’t claustrophobic and the space was far from cramped, but if the door didn’t open soon she wasn’t sure how long she could resist the strong impulse that was telling her to push him out of the way and punch in the instruction necessary herself or, failing that, bang on the door for help.

Emilio continued to stare as he gave a shrug of disinterest. The building, situated in one of Madrid’s most exclusive residential areas, had been an investment, one that he had actually forgotten he had made until his ever-efficient PA had pointed out that the penthouse apartment being empty could be an obvious solution to his temporary housing situation.

‘I live here.’

Megan’s stomach went into a lurching dive as she digested this information in silence. ‘Live?’ She was able to keep the panic from her voice, but not her tawny eyes, as she stared at a point midway up his broad chest. ‘Live as in …?’

He looked amused by the question. ‘Live, as in I go home to at the end of the day.’

Her eyes dropped as the sarcasm in his voice brought a flush to her cheeks. Agreeing to eat with him in a public place with people around was one thing, but this was not what she’d signed up for!

For God’s sake, Megan, she counselled herself crossly, act your age. How long could it take to swallow a cup of coffee and gulp down a pastry?

What was the alternative, run away like a frightened kid?

Emilio Rios, she reminded herself, could literally have any woman he wanted. He’s not lured you to his apartment to make a pass at you!

The recognition should have made her feel happier.

It didn’t. It wasn’t that she wanted to be someone else, she was happy being herself, but it would have been nice to know what it felt like to exude that indefinable something that made men notice you that way.

Men?

Or was it one specific man she wanted to notice her?

Megan closed down the line of thought, drawing a firm line under the ludicrous flow of speculation. She was a practical person, not given to wishing for things she could not have, and no amount of wishful thinking or Chanel suits were going to give her what women like Rosanna were born with.

As for wanting to be noticed by Emilio Rios. She pressed a hand to her stomach where a fluttering had joined the hollow feeling; even the thought of such a thing made her feel queasy.

Or something!

‘We could go to a restaurant if you prefer?’

Megan found herself responding to the challenge, imagined or otherwise, in his voice.

‘No, this is fine.’ She glanced down at her watch, silently trying to calculate how soon she could make an escape without looking rude.

Five minutes tops to gulp down coffee and a pastry, Megan reckoned, though actually what was so bad about appearing rude? It wasn’t as if he would recognise polite conversation if it bit him on his bottom.

‘You’re not on the clock. Relax.’

‘I am relaxed,’ she gritted, plastering on a determined smile.

Emilio, who had seen nervous bridegrooms who looked more relaxed, did not comment. ‘You seemed surprised that I have an apartment. What did you think—I sleep at my desk?’ he asked, sounding amused.

Her golden eyes swept upwards. ‘Wherever you sleep, I’m sure it’s not alone.’

‘And that bothers you?’ He framed the question slowly, his perceptive gaze trained on her face.

Megan found his expression unreadable, but she couldn’t shake the crazy conviction he could read her mind.

‘Bother?’ Her slender shoulders lifted in an uninterested shrug. ‘It’s none of my business what you do or with whom.’

‘But I’m guessing that doesn’t stop you having strong views on the subject,’ he drawled ironically.

‘I have none whatsoever,’ she retorted without a blush.

She was just glad that there was no Josh to challenge her lie.

She hadn’t even realised that she zeroed in on every reference to Emilio she came across until her flatmate Josh had pointed it out after she had had delivered a few juicy quotes from an offending article, and then, despite his clear lack of interest in the subject matter, had thrust it under his nose.

‘How does her dress stay up? That’s what I’d like to know.’

It was clear from the red-carpet shot of the couple that Emilio knew how it came off. The woman was plastered up against him like glue.

‘Mioaw!’ Josh laid the paper aside without looking at it and carried on drinking his coffee. ‘Why the interest in this guy, Megan?’

‘I’m not interested.’

He arched a brow. ‘And judgemental, which isn’t like you.’

‘I’m not—’ Innately honest, Megan was unable to complete the sentence. ‘Well, Emilio can be pretty judgemental himself.’ And with an awful lot less cause! She recalled his lecture on the last occasion they had met, despite the fact that she had been the victim of an unwanted pass and he had treated her like some sort of tart.

‘Really? That sounds interesting.’

‘Well, it wasn’t,’ she said discouragingly. She had no intention of dredging up the humiliating subject for Josh or, for that matter, anyone else.

She had put it very firmly behind her.

‘He is just a friend of Philip’s.’

‘For someone who’s not interested you seem awfully concerned about who he’s sleeping with.’ Josh, his blue eyes gleaming, angled a speculative look at her flushed face. ‘Were you two ever …?’

‘No, we were not!’

Chuckling, Josh held up his hands. ‘I just thought maybe he was the man.’

‘What man?’

‘The one responsible for your nun-like existence.’

‘I have a healthy social life—’

Josh cut across her protest. ‘And zero sex life, and don’t try and deny it, sweetheart, the walls are extremely thin. You could no more have a secret affair than I could.’

Knowing a defensive comment would prolong the teasing, she had maintained a dignified silence, but it had started her thinking.

Perhaps she did think a little too much about Emilio Rios?

He was not even part of her life any longer. He had been a friend of Philip’s, not hers, so there was no reason for him to contact her. They lived in very different worlds.

Pushing away the memory of that embarrassing conversation, she looked Emilio in the eyes and added, ‘But I’d sooner not read about it while I’m eating my breakfast.’ She pursed her lips primly. Tales of a person’s sexual stamina were not, in her opinion, suitable reading for any time of day.

Emilio arched a brow as he wedged his broad shoulders up against the glass wall of the elevator as he studied the top of her glossy head.

The urge to run his fingers across the smooth conker-brown surface and allow the glossy strands to slide through his fingers was almost impossible to resist.

Megan had renewed her study of the carpeting.

She mightn’t have strong views on whom he slept with, but he was certainly bothered by whom she spent her nights with, he conceded wryly. If Philip was right about the boyfriend moving out—and Emilio did not think that was an unreasonable conclusion to draw from his comment that Megan was thinking of moving as her present place was too expensive now Josh had moved out—it seemed hopeful that this Josh was no longer one of that number.

Having managed to remain blasé while convincing him she cared not at all about whom he slept with or where, Megan felt the colour rush to her face the moment their eyes connected.

‘Do you live alone?’ You just carry on digging that hole, Megan! And why not jump in for good measure?

‘I do. How about you?’ he asked casually.

‘Yes, I do.’ Megan cleared her throat and added, ‘I was wondering, is there a problem with the lift?’

It was actually pretty hard to sound casual when you were trying not to inhale his scent—not scent in a perfume sense. Although soap and shampoo were definitely involved, mingled in there with the more disturbing fragrance was a scent of warm male and Emilio.

She forced a breath into her oxygen-deprived lungs and shuddered with the effort.

‘Are you all right?’

The mocking light had faded from Emilio’s eyes as, concern etched in the furrows on his broad brow, he took a step towards her. Her skin was as pale as paper, the only trace of colour remaining in her face the rich tawny gold of her wide-spaced eyes.

Megan shadowed the action, her own hasty step backwards bringing her shoulder blades up against the wall of the elevator.

Her reaction sent Emilio’s dark brows in the direction of his ebony hairline as he raised both hands to his chest, palm flat out to her. ‘Relax. What on earth did you think I was going to do?’ he asked, his lean face taut with impatience.

Relax—wasn’t bad advice to take if she didn’t want to give the impression she was a raving lunatic.

Embarrassed, she peeled herself away from the wall. ‘You startled me,’ she retorted, a defensive note of complaint in her voice.

‘Clearly. I have seen rabbits less jumpy than you.’ His eyes narrowed to speculative slits as he slowly scanned her face. ‘Anyone would think you are scared of me.’

The velvety rasp in his deep voice had a tactile quality like raw silk. She had no control over the shudder that slid the length of her spine like the stroke of a finger. In her mind the phantom finger was long and tanned and— Stop it, Megan!

Ashamed and exasperated by her escalating physical reaction to every aspect of him, Megan studiously avoided making eye contact as she gritted her teeth.

‘Scared?’ She lifted her chin and laughed at the suggestion. ‘I’m sure you make grown men cry, but not me,’ she conceded. ‘But—’ She stopped. He had made her cry, but only the once.

Refusing to allow her thoughts to slip back to an occasion that rated pretty high in her ‘the worst moment in my life’ league, she sketched a tight smile and added, ‘Not today anyway.’

And never again. She would never again allow him to make her feel sordid and grubby.

Emilio looked at her mouth and felt the desire in his veins burn hotter as he thought to himself today would not be soon enough for him.

He had always prided himself on his ability to keep his libido on a leash. There had only ever been one woman who had breached his defences and she was standing here now, standing here wanting him as much as he did her, so he was damned if he was going to deprive himself of the unspoken invitation that glowed in her incredible golden eyes when she looked at him.

A nerve clenched in his cheek as his mask of composure threatened to slip. The scorching sexual tension between them was stronger than anything Emilio had ever experienced in his life—she had to be feeling it!

Or was he projecting his fantasies onto her?

The question surfaced and was immediately quashed. He exhaled. He knew when a woman wanted him; she was feeling it.

Megan wanted him.

The question he ought to be asking, he told himself, was why, given the overwhelming, almost primal attraction between them, was she putting on this ludicrous act?

Did she think she could pretend that it wasn’t happening and it would go away? Why would she want it to?

He dug his fingers into his close-cropped hair and tried to think past the sexual frustration pounding in his skull and other parts of his anatomy.

The Megan he knew had an engaging candour and here she was acting like some shy virgin, which he knew she wasn’t.

A girl who looked like Megan did not go through college without drawing a lot of male attention. In retrospect he could see that it should not have been a surprise to him when her flat door was opened by a half-naked man with a quiz-show-host smile—he turned out to be a doctor—and eyes that were too close together.

And yet it had been a surprise. It had been a total bombshell! Emilio had felt as though someone had just gut-punched him, but of course someone hadn’t, the humiliation had been totally self-inflicted.

A child could have predicted this, but he hadn’t. He had spent a year anticipating this moment, covering, or so he’d thought, every angle, but not once during that time had he thought she would be with someone else.

The guy, clearly very much at home, had invited him in, explaining Megan was in the shower.

Emilio had declined the offer.

Could this be simply out-of-control hormones? Megan lifted a hand to her buzzing head. Maybe he was right—maybe her sugar levels were low. It was better than the alternative—better than admitting that she had zero defences against the sizzling sexual charge he exuded.

‘It … it h-hasn’t opened,’ she stuttered, staring at the closed door.

She heard him curse, the low savage imprecation loud in the confined space as he banged the heel of his hand on the control panel. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say that you suffer from claustrophobia?’ he demanded, scanning her pale classic profile.

‘I don’t,’ she protested, too slow-witted to accept this perfect excuse to explain her odd behaviour.

‘So what’s wrong with you?’ he asked, scepticism mingled with irritation.

Again Megan’s tongue bypassed her brain. ‘You—’ She stopped, then was inspired. ‘I was just surprised you live somewhere like this. I always pictured you living in some sort of ancient mausoleum filled with antiques, a town version of your little place in the country.’

He tipped his dark head in a concessionary nod to the suggestion, and straightened up to his full impressive height as the glass doors of the private elevator silently opened into a very white space. Not that she was actually noticing; she was too busy asking herself why she was here.

Like you don’t know?

Ignoring the sarcastic contribution of the snide voice in her head and the hard knot of illicit excitement low in her belly, Megan fought her way through the mind-fogging confusion in her head.

Sexual attraction, Megan told herself, was a kind of insanity, and should be treated as such. Knowing her weakness, she reasoned, gave her a degree of control.

Her tawny eyes were drawn in the direction of the tall, silent figure watching her. The silence stretched.

The invitation had been for breakfast, she reminded herself, and that was why she was here. She wouldn’t let anything happen again; she would eat and leave. Sure, he had kissed her in the airport and had appeared not to want to stop, but that had been an act. For Emilio kissing her had not been a big deal.

Only it was to her. It was a very big deal to be kissed by Emilio Rios, but she would have died before she’d confess as much to him.

‘You did not look surprised, you looked …’ He paused, considering the question and, much to her dismay, her mouth.

Unhappy, not just about the way he was staring, but also the idea of him relentlessly pursuing the question to its conclusion, she rushed to fill the developing silence.

‘Oh, all right!’ She sighed, lifting her hair off her neck with her hand as she pursed her lips and evinced a show of reluctance before admitting, ‘You might have been right. I do need feeding.’

For a split second she thought he was going to push, then to her relief Emilio grinned. His smugness, she decided, struggling to drag her stare from the curve of his sensually full lower lip, was infinitely preferable to him guessing the lustful direction of her thoughts.

‘I am always right, and I do possess the sort of home you speak of,’ he admitted, stepping through the door into the white apartment.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MEGAN moved to follow Emilio and hesitated, unable to shake the irrational conviction that by stepping over the threshold she would be committing herself to more than breakfast, which she wasn’t, but what if he thought …?

What if he had more planned than breakfast? She had no doubt that he took sex as casually as he did kisses.

How was he to know she didn’t?

She knew she was here for breakfast, but who was to say he did? He might assume that she knew breakfast was some sort of code for sex.