was to be at a height disadvantage from the outset. Strength was imperative, even when it was simply a fraud.
Sure enough, a moment later he was in the doorway, only he wasn’t alone. A young boy was in his arms—only four or five, she guessed, but with the unmistakable facial features of a child born with Down’s Syndrome. And the young boy was smiling at Antonio as though he were the second coming.
‘You give your mother a high five from me, okay?’
And the little boy, on cue, lifted his hand and whacked it against Antonio’s. ‘Again!’
Antonio laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and obliged, and Amelia had to dig her fingernails into her palms to stop from reacting.
Hormones! Tears were stinging her eyes suddenly at the sight of this man she hated, who happened to be the father of her baby, looking so perfectly at home with children. She blinked the tears away, assuming a look of passive impatience that was at odds with the lurching in her gut. And she felt it, the moment his eyes began to move to hers.
She glared at him, her expression icy.
‘Amelia?’ He looked genuinely surprised, and she was glad.
His friend followed Antonio’s gaze and then reached for the little boy.
‘We’ll get out of your hair, man. Just don’t leave it long before you get out to Venice Beach, yeah?’
Antonio didn’t respond. He was staring at Amelia, not speaking, simply looking. Did he think he could intimidate her? That he could make her feel anything at all any more?
She squared her shoulders and straightened her spine, staring at him with all the disdain she felt.
He’d used her.
He’d come to her house and charmed her into bed and she’d fallen in with his plans like the naïve, innocent fool she was, and hadn’t she learned her lesson? The reason she’d kept men like this at bay her whole life had unravelled before her.
The blond man and child left, the latter waving enthusiastically at Antonio as he went. But Antonio didn’t notice. His gaze was fixed squarely on Amelia.
After several moments, he crossed the foyer, his stride long, and in that time he pulled himself together.
‘I didn’t realise you were in Madrid,’ he said conversationally, as though they communicated regularly and she had simply omitted to mention the detail.
‘I came to see you,’ she said, glad when he didn’t hold a hand out to shake hers, nor attempt to kiss her cheek. There was ice between them now.
‘Really?’ He arched a brow and she wanted to slap him then, and his smug assumption that she’d come for personal reasons. For sexual reasons.
Her glare, she hoped, would put paid to any such ideas.
‘I presume you have an office in which we might speak privately?’
‘Of course,’ he murmured throatily, putting a hand in the small of her back.
And trumpets flared in her mind, bleating ‘hallelujah’ at the simple touch and she ground her teeth together in utter rejection of that. ‘I’m quite capable of walking, thank you very much,’ she said flatly and stepped to the side, away from him.
She only just caught the look of bemusement on his secretary’s face before she spun on her heel and stalked towards his office.
* * *
So she was still furious with him, obviously. But she was here, in his office, and he had to think it had something to do with Prim’Aqua. No doubt the moves he was making against Carlo were starting to worry her family—and so they should. So had she chosen to come to him, like a lion to the slaughter? To beg him to back off?
It was pretty obvious she hadn’t turned up in Madrid looking for round two of their off-the-charts sexual chemistry. His body jerked with disappointment because, no matter what he told himself about that night, there was a reason it had been tormenting his dreams.
Physically, they made some strange kind of sense.
Their bodies had moved as though they’d been designed for one another, but that meant nothing. Sex was sex. He walked a pace behind her, hating that he was staring at her as though she was a dessert on a buffet, knowing he could hardly stop himself.
Instead of the jeans and casual shirt she’d been wearing that night at Bumblebee Cottage, she’d chosen a pair of sleek black pants and a silk blouse that was a dangerous reminder of the robe she’d pulled on after her bath. She wore heels too, thin and spindly, giving her an extra few inches of height.
She’d dressed up.
For him?
At the door to his office she stepped aside, waiting. He pushed the door open then held it for her, noting with what he wished was amusement that she gave him as wide a berth as the doorway allowed.
* * *
His office was everything she’d expected. Just like her father’s. And her brother’s. And no doubt all the other dictatorial, selfish corporate tycoons who ruled the finance world. Enormous, with huge windows that framed a stunning view, impressive oak desk, state-of-the-art computer screens, a wall-mounted smart TV for conferences, a boardroom table of shiny timber surrounded by leather chairs, and white leather sofas. Different materials perhaps, but the same essence as the offices she’d been in before.
There were some indications of his personal taste. A black and white photograph of the Millau Viaduct, a small pottery toro on his desk, a stunning modern sculpture that was gunmetal grey and silver, and utterly striking.
She ignored these details though, and all the ostentatious signs of wealth, placing her handbag on a chair and turning to face him.
And she felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut.
God, he was handsome.
So handsome, with eyes that were laced with enquiry and hair that she ached to run her fingers through.
Stupid, stupid traitorous body.
Pushing any such thoughts from her mind, she tried to summon the words she’d prepared.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Her stomach heaved at the very suggestion. ‘No.’ The word was abrupt, and she winced. ‘No, thank you,’ she corrected softly.
She paced to the window overlooking Madrid and stared out at the ancient city. In the distance, she could see a slice of Gaudí poking impishly from behind a far more sensible high rise, and she was reminded of a child hiding around the corner, awaiting a scolding. Gaudí’s irreverence was one of her favourite things about Spain.
‘Well,’ he said quietly, and the word ran down her spine like warm honey. ‘What can I do for you, Amelia?’
Her name on his lips tripped her heart up a thousand gears and she took a steadying breath, reminding herself that she was in control of her body, not the other way
