always knew when he was there, could always feel his presence, knew he was coming even before she heard his voice. It was like some sort of sixth sense—a sense she could gladly have done without because it was playing hell with her work life and even creeping into her dreams.
And last night the dreams had been definitely X-rated...
She laughed when the others did, took another gulp of prosecco and nearly choked on the bubbles. What was wrong with her tonight? It was all just because of that stupid dream, and she could still feel the touch of his hands on her body—
Ridiculous. Sheer fantasy. There was no way anything was going to happen between them, even if he did flirt constantly with her.
That was just Marco, and it didn’t mean anything. He flirted with every female with a pulse, from the babies up to the great-grandmothers visiting their tiny relatives, and he had them all eating out of the palm of his hand.
He probably didn’t even realise he was doing it, it was as natural as breathing—and to be fair it wasn’t so much flirting as just breaking the ice and gentle teasing. Unless it was her.
Then there was an undercurrent of sensuality that, try as she might, she couldn’t ignore.
Because she didn’t want to ignore it? Wanted to call him out on it, see if he really meant what he said? But she wouldn’t, of course, for all sorts of reasons, not least cowardice. What if she was reading much more into it than was actually there? Although it had certainly been there in her dream.
She sighed crossly, stopped pretending to listen to the conversation she should have been part of and excused herself.
She needed some air. Preferably cold and bracing and strong enough to blow some common sense into her before she did something stupid.
She was his boss, for goodness’ sake! She couldn’t let herself give in to it—which was why she’d ripped his head off earlier when he’d been pushing her buttons, and he’d drawn himself up and gone all Italian male on her and made it even worse, but it had been her fault. She’d started it by overreacting and she ought to apologise—
‘Alice.’
Even her name was a caress on his lips. She closed her eyes briefly, annoyed that her radar had failed to warn her that he was coming. Marco Ricci, her unbelievably sexy, unbelievably annoying and insubordinate subordinate. Except that had sexual connotations, and there was no room for any of that in their relationship and she was keeping it that way if it killed her.
Which it might.
She sucked in a breath, plastered a noncommittal smile on her lips and turned to face him.
‘Marco. Did you want me?’
Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Something flitted through his eyes and was gone, but his lips had twitched and she braced herself for the smart retort.
‘Nothing that won’t keep. You look beautiful tonight, Alice,’ he murmured, his voice like rough silk teasing her nerve endings.
She felt a wash of colour sweep up her throat and she looked away, shocked by the hitch in her heart rate and her body’s reaction to that deep, rich, slightly accented voice and the slow caress of his eyes that had left fire in its wake.
She was used to him flirting with her, but he wasn’t flirting now. The look in his eyes and the tone of his voice went far beyond that and called to something deep inside her, long repressed, cold and lonely and desperate for attention.
‘Thank you,’ she muttered, and swallowed hard. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’
Understatement of the century. He was sexy enough in scrubs. In a beautifully cut tux that showed off broad, solid shoulders to perfection, with the sharp contrast of the blinding white dress shirt against olive skin darkened by the shadow of stubble, those dark-lashed eyes simmering with latent heat, he was jaw-droppingly, unsettlingly gorgeous and she felt the impact of it in every yearning cell of her body.
‘So—Evie’s done a brilliant job organising this,’ she added hurriedly, hauling her eyes off him and groping for something uncontroversial. ‘I wouldn’t have believed the conference hall could be turned into such an amazing ballroom.’
‘No,’ he said, not taking his eyes from her face. Not that she was looking at him, but she could still feel the steady, searching gaze of those magnetic eyes and her pulse was rocketing.
She was trying to find something to say to fill the yawning void when the music started, and to her surprise he held out his hand to her.
‘Come. Dance with me. We’ve been fighting all day about nothing and it’s time to stop.’
‘Is that an apology?’
She made herself meet his eyes again, and for a fleeting instant she thought she saw regret. No. Marco never regretted anything, he wasn’t made like that. She’d imagined it. Of course it wasn’t an apology.
‘Yes, it’s an apology,’ he said softly, his Italian accent suddenly stronger. ‘Dance with me, Alice. Life’s serious enough. It’s time to have some fun.’
Fun? She hadn’t let herself have fun in years. At least, not the sort of fun she thought he was talking about.
Eyes steady, he took the glass out of her hand, handed it to one of the circulating bar staff and led her to the dance floor, turning her into his arms. She felt the heat of his hand on her bare back, the other still holding hers, curled loosely between them by her shoulder. Normally her head was level with his chest, but she was wearing heels tonight and her eyes were right by his immaculately knotted bow tie. Above it she could see the throb of a pulse beating in his throat, and he tilted his head so his cheek was against her forehead as he drew her closer.
She could smell cologne, just a faint touch of something exotic, something dangerously enticing that seemed to enter her bloodstream and invade every part of her as she swayed to the music. The hand on her back slid down, down to the base of her spine, his fingers splayed against her skin as he eased her closer still.
Too close for her sanity. Close enough to bring back the dream—
She took a step back out of his arms.
‘I need some air,’ she said breathlessly, and, turning, she made her way quickly off the crowded dance floor and out of the conference hall, her body on fire with a need she’d never felt before, hadn’t even known existed.
The lift? She couldn’t run downstairs in her heels, so there was no choice, and the lift was standing there waiting...
* * *
He watched her retreat for a nanosecond, then followed her, carving his way through the crowd, the white-blonde of her hair easy to pick out when he could find it, but even in those heels she wasn’t tall and the room was full and he kept losing her.
The doors. She was heading for the doors, and then the lift. He cut off the corner, went through another set of doors and reached the hallway just as the lift doors started to close.
Good job he was fit. He sprinted across the landing from a standing start,
