Innate good manners and the fear of causing a scene that had been drummed into her since babyhood made her bite out with reluctance, ‘Fine. One coffee.’
Andreas stood up, and this time Siena had no choice but to put her hand in his and let him help her out of the low-slung vehicle. To her chagrin he kept a tight hold of her hand as he tossed his keys to the boy and led her into the building, where a concierge held the door open in readiness.
Once in the hushed confines of the lift Siena tried to pull her hand back, but Andreas was lifting it to inspect it. He opened out her palm and his touch made some kind of dangerous lethargy roll through her, but she winced when she followed his gaze. Her palm sported red chafed skin, calluses. Proof of her very new working life.
He turned it over and Siena winced even more to see him inspecting her bitten nails—the resurgence of a bad habit she’d had for a short time in her teens, which had been quickly overcome when her father had meted out a suitable punishment on Serena, her sister.
Her hands were a far cry from the soft lily-white manicured specimens they’d used to be. Exerting more effort this time, and knowing that she’d just been cured of her nail-biting habit once again, she finally pulled free of Andreas’s grip and said mulishly, ‘Don’t touch me.’
With a rough quality to his voice that resonated inside her, Andreas asked, ‘How did they get like this from waitresssing?’
Siena fought against the pull of something that felt very vulnerable. ‘I’m not just waitressing. I’m working as a cleaner in a hotel by day too.’
Andreas tipped up her chin and inspected her face, touched under her eyes where she knew she sported dark shadows. That vulnerability was blooming inside her, and for a second Siena thought she might burst into tears. To counteract it—and the ease with which this man seemed to be able to push her buttons—she said waspishly, ‘Feeling sorry for the poor little rich girl, Andreas?’
At that moment the lift bell pinged and the doors opened silently. Siena and Andreas were locked in some kind of silent combat. Andreas’s eyes went dark, their blue depths becoming distinctly icy as he took his fingers away from her face and smiled.
‘Not for a second, Siena DePiero. You forget that I’ve seen you in action. A piranha would be more vulnerable than you.’
Siena couldn’t believe the dart of hurt that lanced her at his words, and was almost glad when he turned. With his hand on her elbow, he led her out of the lift and into a luxuriously carpeted corridor decked out in smoky grey colours with soft lamps burning on a couple of tables.
The one door indicated that Andreas had no neighbours to disturb him, and Siena guessed this must be the penthouse apartment in the building. The lift doors closed behind them and then Andreas was opening the door and standing aside to allow Siena to precede him into his apartment. Only his assurance to the car park valet that he would be taking her home shortly gave Siena the confidence to go forward.
She rounded on him as he closed the door and blurted out belatedly, ‘Don’t call me DePiero. My name is Mancini now.’
After a long second Andreas inclined his head and drawled, with a hint of dark humour, ‘I’ll call you whatever you like…’
Stifling a sound of irritation, Siena backed away and turned around again, facing into the main drawing room. Her eyes widened. She’d grown up in the lap of luxury, but the sheer understated level of elegance in Andreas’s apartment took her breath away. She’d been used to seeing nothing but palazzos laden down with antiques and heavy paintings, everything gold-plated, carpets so old and musty that dust motes danced in the air when you moved…but this was clean and sleek.
Siena only became aware that she had advanced into the drawing room and was looking around with unabashed curiosity when she saw Andreas standing watching her with his hands in his pockets. The sheer magnificence of the man in his tuxedo shocked her anew and she flushed, wrapping her arms around herself in an unconscious gesture of defence.
Andreas shook his head and smiled wryly before walking towards a sideboard which held several bottles of drink and glasses. He said now, with his back to Siena, ‘You really know how to turn it on, don’t you?’
Siena tensed. ‘Turn what on?’
He turned around, a bottle of something in his hand, eyes gleaming in the soft light. ‘It must be automatic after years of acting the part of innocent virginal heiress…’
When Siena was stubbornly silent, because he had no idea how close to the truth he skated, Andreas gestured half impatiently and clarified, ‘That air of vulnerability, and looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.’
Hating herself for being so transparent, and hating him for misjudging her so comprehensively while knowing she couldn’t very well blame him for his judgement, Siena schooled her expression. She carefully uncrossed her arms and shrugged one shoulder negligently. ‘What can I say? You have me all figured out, Mr Xenakis.’
He poured a dark liquid into two glasses and came over, holding one out. ‘I know I offered you a coffee, but try this. It’s a very fine port. And you didn’t have a problem using my name when we first met. Mr Xenakis is so…formal. Please, call me Andreas.’
Siena took the glass he offered, suddenly glad of something to hold onto—anything to will down the memory of how she had used his name before, ‘Andreas, please kiss me…’
He gestured to the comfortable-looking couch and chairs arranged around a low coffee table which held huge books of photographs that looked well thumbed. ‘Please, take a seat, Siena. Make yourself comfortable.’
Siena was torn for a moment between wanting to demand he take her home and curling up in the nearest chair so she could sleep for a week.
A little perturbed by how weak she suddenly felt, she went and sat down in the nearest chair. Andreas sat on the couch to her left, his long legs stretched out and disturbingly close to her feet, which she pulled primly close to her chair.
He smiled and it was dangerous.
‘Still afraid you might catch some social disease from me, Siena?’
CHAPTER TWO
‘DON’T BE SILLY,’ Siena replied quickly, humiliated when she thought of what had happened, of the vile untruths she’d uttered and all to protect her sister.
When she thought of how innocently she’d wanted him that night in Paris and how it had all gone so horribly wrong she felt nauseous. This man hated her. It vibrated on the air between them and Siena had the very futile sense that even if she tried to defend herself and tell him what her reasons had been for acting so cruelly he’d laugh until he cried. He looked so impervious now. Remote.
Andreas sat forward, the small glass cradled between long fingers. ‘Tell me, why did you leave Italy?’
Siena welcomed this diversion away from dangerous feelings and looked at him incredulously, wondering how he could even ask that question. She hated the familiar burn of humiliation that rose up inside her when she thought of the odious charges that had been levelled at her father after his business had imploded in on itself, revealing that he’d been juggling massive debts for years and that everything they possessed, including his precious family palazzo in Florence, was owned by the banks.
Her
