Page 12 of The Housekeeper and the Brooding Billionaire

Towel slung around his shoulders. Lustrous, damp hair tousled from being rubbed. Faded, low-slung jeans, undone at the top. Bare feet. Bare torso. Acres of taut olive-gold skin.

Charlotte took in the image in a second of awed admiration, because, despite the now-familiar scowl, he was, quite simply, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

Except beauty implied softness, and there was nothing soft about all the lean strength in that imposing V-shaped torso. Nothing soft except perhaps the dusting of dark hair that shadowed and accentuated the shape of his chest and narrowed to a tantalising hint of darkness arrowing down into snug denim.

Charlotte snapped her attention back to his face and kept it there. But it didn’t help. Something about his particular style of masculinity was emblazoned on her brain. Even the low curve of abdominal muscle and hip bone seemed branded on her retinas.

She swallowed, her throat sandpaper-dry.

‘Next time, don’t come in unless you’re asked.’

‘Of course.’ She almost added that it wasgood to have him spell out some of his expectations but knew he wouldn’t appreciate the reminder of their overdue talk. ‘Shall I take the food away?’

Alessio looked into that butter-wouldn’t-melt expression and had to force his jaw to unlock. He didn’t want to scare her, precisely, but her refusal to react as expected was unsettling. Why was she here when he’d told her to keep away?

Even more unsettling was that today, for the first time in ages, he was so aware of himself physically. Of sensations and hungers he’d long forgotten.

The food smelled wonderful, and his stomach was empty. ‘Leave it, now you’ve brought it.’

He was being churlish. Anna would have stuck her hands on her hips and scolded him for bad manners. Yet this woman merely stood, unblinking in the face of his bad temper, calm and collected.

When he was anything but. He’d managed an hour’s work after she left his study, because he didn’t want to go to the kitchen for food in case she was there. He’d needed solitude.

Finally he’d stretched out on a sofa and shut his eyes, knowing if he did manage a fitful sleep, he’d be haunted by Antonia’s sorrowful brown eyes and fragile beauty. Instead he’d slept the day away! And woken to the recollection of sparkling blue eyes and an unfamiliar, husky female voice.

Woken aroused too, for the first time in years. Hence the bone-jarringly icy shower he’d just endured.

Because of this woman?

Impossible.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, yet she didn’t move. ‘Shall we make a time to meet tomorrow for our discussion?’

So that was it. She wanted to know where she stood. She was as pushy as Anna. No wonder the older woman had hired her. She’d seen the similarities between them. Though Anna knew when pushing too far was counterproductive.

‘We’ll do it now.’ He sighed. ‘Give me a minute.’ Then there’d be no more need to interact with this disquieting stranger.

When Alessio emerged from the bedroom, he was fully dressed. A place had been laid with fine bone china, polished silver and a linen napkin. A crystal goblet caught the light.

He wanted to say she was trying too hard. He was happy with simple meals. But to be fair, no one had told her his preferences.

Whose fault is that?

He took his place at the table and gestured for her to join him. A sensational aroma hit his nostrils from the steaming soup.

‘Mario, the baker, brought a basket of fresh mushrooms. I assumed you like them.’

Alessio nodded, his mouth watering. But instead of sitting, she lifted a bottle for approval. ‘May I?’ He recognised it as a vintage sherry. ‘It was the first sherry I found. I hope that’s okay.’

Alessio shrugged. It would take several lifetimes to empty the fine wines in the cellar. ‘Sherry with mushroom soup?’ It wasn’t a wine he usually drank.

‘Trust me,’ she murmured as she poured a measure.

The wine glowed like autumn sunshine. He swirled it, admiring the colour, then the nose, then finally the taste. A complex flavour of nuts and dark honey exploded on his palate, warmth trickling down his throat and into his veins.

How long since he’d noticed what he ate and drank? He eyed the old bottle, telling himself it was because this was an exceptional wine, but knowing that was only part of the explanation.

Ignoring the conundrum he dipped his spoon and tasted the soup.

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