a size ten by accident?’
‘I wondered if you had been ill,’ he admitted.
Megan’s jaw dropped as her head turned back towards him. Her amber eyes sparkled with incredulous wrath as she got to her feet.
‘I look ill?’ It was always ego-enhancing to be told you looked wrecked by a man who, in her head, had been the standard of physical perfection she measured his entire sex by since she was a teenager.
Emilio grinned. He was not oblivious to the danger in her voice, but he was not a man who thought it a virtue to play it safe.
In his opinion a rush of adrenaline made life more interesting and reminded a man he was alive. His eyes followed the swish of her free hair as it settled in a glossy frame to her heart-shaped face. Actually, now that he thought about it, there had been precious few adrenaline rushes in his life of late.
When was the last time he’d clashed with anyone? When was the last time anyone had openly disagreed with him?
And it wasn’t just professionally. Even the women in his life censored out any of the contents he might not like before they spoke, never even considering that he might appreciate the challenge of an opinion other than his own.
‘You look a little… faded.’ His eyes slid to her pink lips and he swallowed. ‘Like a crushed rose.’
The odd note in his deep voice brought Megan’s frowning regard to his face. ‘Rose?’ she echoed, fighting off the crazy rush of pleasure.
He nodded. ‘One who needed a long cool drink or, in this case, breakfast.’
‘You’re obsessed by food!’ she complained, thinking it was better than what she was obsessed by!
It wasn’t even as if she were not a very sexual person; the contrary was true. It was as if that airport kiss had pressed some off switch to the on position!
‘No, that is you,’ he countered, watching the play of expressions as they moved across her expressive face. It wasn’t just her hair that had slipped, it was her composed mask too.
‘I’m not obsessed with food.’
Just your mouth and, for that matter, the rest of you!
Switching off the inner commentary, but not before the guilty colour had rushed to her cheeks, Megan dropped her gaze to her hands clasped in her lap.
What was going on? She didn’t have thoughts like this.
‘A person,’ he came back confidently, ‘is only obsessed by what they are deprived of.’
Megan’s head came up. ‘What do you mean by that? I’m not deprived of anything!’ she yelled, her defensive voice bouncing off the high ceiling.
He held up his hands in mock surrender, the sardonic gleam in his dark eyes making her shift uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I’m delighted to hear it, though some people might think the lady protests too much? ‘
Lips pursed, Megan shrugged and did not respond to the gentle taunt. ‘I simply show a bit of self-control where food is concerned.’
Self-control. Emilio’s sloe-dark eyes drifted towards her mouth. Her lips were bare; he remembered the hint of strawberry in the gloss that he had kissed away. Without adornment they were naturally rose- tinted, and amazingly lush, their softness so inviting he struggled to think past the loud buzz in his head and the stab of desire that sliced through him like a knife.
He lifted his gaze, meeting her eyes through the mesh of his eyelashes. ‘Self-control has its place.’ Like in an airport.
The ripple of sensation Emilio’s sinfully seductive throaty purr set in motion passed through her entire body from her scalp to her curling toes.
Megan, her eyes melded to his smouldering stare, endured the moment breathing through the nerve-shredding sensation. It passed, but the aching lump lodged like a chunk of broken glass in her throat remained.
‘I …’ Megan was unable to tear her eyes free of his mesmeric stare, and her voice faded. Her lips continued to move, but nothing emerged but a whispery sigh.
When the sexual tension had been in the background she had been able to pretend it wasn’t there. That was no longer possible. In the space of a heartbeat it had become an almost visible presence, humming like a high-voltage charge in the air between them, swallowing up the oxygen so that she struggled to breathe.
‘Though sometimes it is good to let go.’
Megan, hand pressed to her throat, struggled to catch her breath. She compressed her lips, angry with him for playing games and herself for being such a sucker for his not very subtle tactics, and there was no way in the world it was accidental. Was this some sort of game for him?
‘I really wouldn’t know. I don’t …’
‘What? You never let that lovely hair down and throw caution to the wind? Some men could view a statement like that as a challenge.’
‘Certainly I let my hair down, but only with people I trust.’
‘You think I would take advantage?’ Emilio sighed inwardly. She was right.
The predatory gleam in his dark eyes sent a secret shiver down her spine. ‘I’m really not interested in finding out.’
Her declaration of indifference drew a low chuckle from him. The scarily attractive sound made Megan bite the inside of her cheek.
‘You are probably …’ he mused, studying her with an intent expression that made Megan want to cover her face with her hands.
‘Probably what?’ she snapped when the dramatic pause stretched beyond bearable limits.
‘The worst liar of any woman I have ever met.’
Her eyes flew wide. ‘I am a very good liar!’ she cried, bouncing to her feet.
Megan gave him the evil eye when her unthinking indignant rebuttal drew another throaty chuckle, of the incredibly sexy variety, from him.
‘What’s that on your mouth?’ Emilio asked, no longer looking amused as he got to his feet and reached out towards her face.
Megan reacted to his hand like a striking snake, her heart beating a furious tattoo as she ducked away from his touch.
He raised an eloquent brow in response to her instinctive action as, feeling foolish, Megan slid her eyes from his.
‘What’s what?’ she said, lifting a hand to the corner of her mouth. Her finger came away smeared red. ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said dismissively as she fished a tissue from her pocket.
His dark brows twitched into a disapproving straight line above his hawkish nose. ‘It looks more like blood to me.’
Megan rolled her eyes. Talk about overreaction. ‘Why are the Spanish so dramatic?’ she asked, clicking her tongue in irritation as she added, ‘It’s a microscopic speck of blood. If you must know, I bit myself,’ she admitted, wishing
