Visconti's Forgotten Heir. Elizabeth Power
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Her cell phone was ringing just as she was stepping out of the shower, and Magenta raced over and snatched it off the windowsill.
‘Hello, darling.’ Emotion welled up inside her until she thought her heart would burst just from hearing her little son’s voice.
‘Aunt Josie asked me to ask you if you got the job.’
Of course. She’d talked of nothing else for weeks, she reflected, shrugging into her robe and thinking of the better life she had told Theo she’d be able to give him if she was lucky enough to get through the interview—of the new football boots and the Thomas the Tank Engine duvet cover she had promised him.
She shuddered as she thought of how—almost—she had had no job at all, and wondered how she would have coped if Andreas had blocked her chances of working for his company altogether. If he hadn’t gone on to offer her the temporary position she had finally agreed to take.
‘Tell Aunt Josie I didn’t take that one because I got an even better one.’ She tried to sound excited, although she didn’t know what could be better about securing a job that put her immediately under a man who had no reservations about showing how much he despised her. Except the money...
Selling herself to the highest bidder.
She shivered, wondering if by agreeing to work for him she wouldn’t be playing right into Andreas’s hands.
She had to take this job—she didn’t have any choice. Even if she was still dangerously and unbelievably attracted to him, and even though he was displaying a ruthless desire to get even with her.
But was he going to use her vulnerability and her attraction to him to do it? she wondered, with a contrary mix of apprehension and excitement. Everything about him had suggested he intended to when she had been in his office today. If he was, she thought, she only hoped she would be strong enough emotionally to resist him. At least taking this job might help to restore her memory—even if she had a deep-rooted anxiety inside about what remembering might reveal....
* * *
Andreas had arranged to pick Magenta up the following Monday morning, and he noticed the curtains twitch in an upstairs window as he pulled up outside a characterless nineteen-seventies semi-detached house which, from the two doorbells beside the rather jaded-looking front door, had obviously been converted into two flats.
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