flying. Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed a towel. He felt refreshed—reinvigorated. Food followed by a few hours of vigorous sex would suit him perfectly, but it would take more than an untried girl to tempt his jaded palate. Pausing by the window, he stared out. His eyes narrowed with interest. Maybe he’d written her off too soon. She was sheathing a knife like a female Indiana Jones, and her capable, no-nonsense manner fired his senses.
* * *
She beat the living daylight out of the eggs. She had to do something to calm herself down before Genghis Khan arrived. It didn’t help that all sorts of wicked thoughts were parading through her head—some including a spatula and a pair of iron-hard buttocks.
What was wrong with her?
She cleaned off the egg spatter from the wall, only for her thoughts to wander off in a new direction—to the day when she had made her first omelette. She’d been six years old and hungry. She knew now that the eggs needed watching or they’d catch and become bitter and inedible. Her first omelette had been black but she’d eaten it. She’d been hungry enough to eat the pan as well. She’d seen enough domestic disruption to last her a lifetime, and had her godmother to thank for knowing her way around a kitchen now. Anyone as sensible and good-humoured as Cass could learn to cook, her godmother had insisted when Cass had expressed doubts.
Cass had lost confidence when her parents’ lives had descended into drug-fuelled chaos, but her godmother had rebuilt her brick by brick; cooking and gardening, nurturing and caring, providing the cure. These activities that were at the root of everything good, her godmother had explained, and the rewards were not only plentiful but you could eat them as well.
That had been the start of Cass finding pleasure in watching things grow. And that was why she knew she could deal with Marco di Fivizzano. Nothing he could throw at her could compare with Cass’s life before she’d lived with her godmother. There were no whirlwinds in her life now, only well-ordered certainty, and that was how it was going to stay.
Tipping out a perfectly cooked omelette, she put the plate on a tray with a bowl of freshly picked salad, timing her delivery to perfection as he walked through the door.
IN SPITE OF his determination to treat her like any other member of staff, the sight of Cassandra Rich leaning over the kitchen sink as she scrubbed a pan thrust his basest of needs into overdrive. The swell of her hips was so perfectly displayed, though, disappointingly, she had changed her clothes—the ripped and mud-smeared singlet having been replaced by a neatly pressed T-shirt. Though a streak of mud on the side of her neck was just begging to be licked off.
‘I hope you enjoy the omelette,’ she said with apparent sincerity.
He dragged his attention away from one potential feast to glance at the surprisingly appetising meal she had laid out on the table. ‘It looks good,’ he said approvingly, ‘but, where’s the bread?’
He noted the flash of fire in her eyes, more typical of the way she had behaved in the garden, but then she said meekly, ‘I’ll get it for you, sir.’
For some reason her unusually compliant manner annoyed him too.
‘For goodness’ sake, call me Marco.’
He couldn’t be sure if she was mocking him or not, he realised, though his best guess was yes, and blood pounded through his veins as he accepted the challenge.
‘It’s only a simple meal,’ she explained as he grunted his thanks and sat down.
Her attempt to take out her frustration on the eggs had failed completely, Cass concluded. On second viewing, Marco di Fivizzano was even more improbably attractive than the first time she had seen him. Glancing down to make sure her top wasn’t clinging to her breasts, she found her nipples were practically saluting him. In a tailor-made suit, garnished with a crisp white shirt and grey silk tie, her boss had been staggeringly attractive, but in snug-fitting jeans—she had unavoidably scanned his outline beneath them—together with a tight-fitting black top that revealed his banded muscle in more than enough detail he was an incredible sight—
‘Bread?’ he reminded her sharply.
He was also the rudest man she’d ever met.
She hacked at the bread with a vicious stab. The large, country kitchen seemed to be closing around her—no wonder with his arrogant animal magnetism taking up all the space.
‘Have you eaten yet, Cassandra?’
She was surprised by the question but had no intention of sitting down to eat with him.
‘I’m not hungry.’ She was always hungry after working in the open air. ‘I’ll have something later.’
‘See that you do,’ he said, laying down his cutlery. ‘You’re far too thin.’
Apart from the fact that she had never once been called thin—she loved her food, and wasn’t prepared to sacrifice a tasty meal for the sake of wearing jeans a size smaller—he was completely out of order, making personal comments like that.
You love this job—remember?
Heaving a calming breath, she held her tongue.
The girl kept his attention, and though she wasn’t pristine, as he expected his women in Rome to be—even after cleaning herself up she had mud on her neck and more smears on her arms—at least she wasn’t a simpering fool. Neither could she be grouped with the career women with whom he sometimes had a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Cassandra was unique—and not everything on his Tuscan estate was pristine, he reminded himself. He had always thought his estate better for its quirkiness.
‘You’re enjoying the omelette?’ she guessed as he forked up the last mouthful.
‘Very much,’ he admitted.
He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he’d sat down to eat—or how different this kitchen was from his sleek, steel and black granite, largely untouched kitchen in Rome.
And he wouldn’t change a thing, he mused as he stared around. His critical stare returned to Cassandra. ‘How did you get this job?’
‘A friend of my godmother’s recommended me—she’s another keen gardener.’
‘Who employed you?’ he asked, frowning.
‘You did— I mean your...’ Cass was stumped. Her knowledge of office hierarchy was non-existent.
‘My PA?’ he offered. ‘She’s the only one with the authority to hire my personal staff.’
‘Must have been,’ Cass agreed. She didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. One piercing stare from those compelling eyes and her mind had been wiped clean.
‘I haven’t seen your CV yet,’ he pressed, holding her pinned in his stare. ‘What are your qualifications for this job?’
She had none, other than her passion for the plants she nurtured and the earth she turned. ‘I’m self-taught,’ she admitted. Her knowledge came largely from gardening books and, of course, her favourite book, The Secret Garden.
‘And
