Page 30 of The Billionaire's Seduction Revenge

How could she resist when he made such a promise?

There was safety in every part of his suggestion, right down to going out for dinner. If he’d suggested dining here, she knew it wouldn’t have taken long before they’d wound up naked again. A whole day away from Vasilios had driven her to a fever pitch of longing, so even now, with their bodies cleaved together, she knew it would take the smallest degree of encouragement and she’d beg him to make love to her.

As if only just comprehending that, she pulled away from him quickly, cleared her throat, but not before catching the knowing grin that twisted his lips.

“Fine,” she agreed unevenly. “Dinner. I’ll—just go and get ready.”

His response was an approving nod, and then he moved away, across the room to the bar in the corner. “I’ll be waiting.”

He didn’t have to wait long. Emma had never been into elaborate dressing up rituals and despite getting delivered short videos on social media of people doing impressive things with their hairstyles and eyeliner and half-way wishing she could achieve either with any degree of success, Emma always kept things pretty simple.

Her long blonde hair she brushed until it shone then pulled into a low pony tail, swishing it around her finger a few times so it hung in a loose curl. Her make up was minimalistic—just a fresh coat of lipstick and a hint of mascara; she pinched her cheeks for good measure then went to change into an outfit that was a little more appropriate for dinner in a restaurant.

Only here Emma hit a snag, because she had no idea where Vasilios intended to take her. Their lunch venue the day before had been charmingly rustic and relaxed—she could have worn jeans and a singlet if they were going back there, or to somewhere like it. But what if he chose somewhere more exclusive?

Emma didn’t really have any clothes that would fit that bill. After all, she hadn’t come to Italy with the intention of dating.

Dating? Was that what this was? Stricken, she paused midway through skimming her clothes, closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

In some ways, yes. This was a date. They were interested in each other, if not romantically, sexually, and they were going to share a meal. Their second meal. But this would be different to yesterday. This time, their attraction was out in the open, acknowledged between them, and all the more dangerous because Emma could no longer deny the strength of her feelings, nor pretend Vasilios didn’t share them.

She settled on a pair of coated black skinny jeans and a loose blouse in an emerald green colour. She tucked it into the pants and left the top two buttons undone, revealing the slightest hint of cleavage but nothing more than she’d ordinarily wear. She didn’t have heels but hadn’t been able to resist buying a pair of leather ballet flats when she’d walked past a boutique about a week after arriving in Puglia. She pressed her feet into them then took a moment to check her appearance, her heart lifting at the sight, because she looked liked she’d gone to enough effort to make the most of his invitation but definitely not as if she cared too much—which was exactly the impression she needed to give.

Swapping her items into a small clutch bag, she moved to the door of the poolroom, latched it shut behind her then moved quickly to the main house, anticipation hastening her steps.

In the end, he’d chosen another restaurant similar to Gianni’s. It was slightly fancier, by virtue of the spectacular view over the water, the restaurant being placed on the very edge of a clifftop, in one of the stone buildings that appeared to almost be carved out of a continuation of the cliffs themselves.

Emma’s heart raced as the waitress led them to a table right by the open windows, the balmy evening air permitting a delightful hint of the ocean and citrus flowers, the setting sun casting rays of purple and gold across the sky in glorious, confident streaks. Emma sighed as she took her seat, the chair pulled out for her by Vasilios, whose hands lingered a moment at her back, then brushed her shoulders as he moved away to his own seat.

Her pulse quickened and heat burst between her legs.

Suddenly she wished for what she hadn’t earlier—that they’d stayed home. True, they’d have found their way to bed almost immediately, but that would have been better than being in a restaurant like this with no way of indulging the feelings that were making her nerves scatter.

She forced herself to focus on the beauty of the restaurant. Now that she looked around, she saw that the interior was also stone, the vaulted ceilings carved, the floor tiled, the windows shaped like arches and filled in with glass that looked to be very old. The décor was classic—round tables of differing sizes covered in crisp white clothes, the chairs a black bentwood, the lighting all chandeliers, reminding Emma of scenes from the old gangster movies she’d watched as a teenager.

It was somehow relaxed and informal at the same time as very elegant.

“Happy?” He prompted, leaning back in his chair, studying her through those eyes that missed, she suspected, very little.

She nodded quickly, swallowed, reached for the water glass that had been filled up by the waitress as they took their seats and had a quick gulp.

“It’s lovely. Do you come here often?”

“When I’m in town.”

“With women?” She blurted out, even when she had a million other questions she wanted to ask, like why didn’t he come back home more often and what had happened between him and Costa?

“Sometimes,” he conceded with a dip of his head. Emma tried to understand the response in her chest. Hurt? Ridiculous. Vasilios didn’t have the power to hurt her—she would never give that power to another person. “Does that matter?”

“Of course not. I was just making conversation.”

“Would you like to discuss my past relationships?”

She shuddered. “No.” After another beat, she leaned forward. “I think past relationships don’t serve anyone any good to discuss, do you?”

“Probably not,” he agreed, but there was something in his voice, a reserve that left Emma less than convinced.

The waitress appeared, smiling over-enthusiastically at Vasilios and barely looking in Emma’s direction. She spoke in Italian, which Emma struggled to comprehend—while she was learning, she was still a way off being fluent— and Vasilios translated for Emma, leaning forward and putting a hand over hers. Did he know she wanted reassurance? Was she so obvious? She pulled her hand away in rejection of that very idea, tucking it under the table.

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