Bound To The Tuscan Billionaire. Susan StephensЧитать онлайн книгу.
expression blackened. ‘I beg your pardon?’
She had to remind herself that she loved this job, and that it would help to pay for her godmother’s trip to Australia, and therefore she should say nothing and just get on with it.
‘As Maria isn’t here, you’ll have to do,’ he said, giving her a scathing appraisal. ‘Clean yourself up and fix lunch.’
Her face blazed red beneath the arrogant stare. She had to remind herself that she had dealt with plenty of difficult customers at the supermarket. Sucking in a steadying breath, she told herself that for all his immense wealth Marco di Fivizzano was just another man.
Just another man?
She would have to remind herself of that several times a day, Cass guessed wryly, but she couldn’t deny that if there was one thing she loved it was a challenge.
‘My cooking isn’t up to much,’ she admitted, kicking off her boots.
‘Do what you can.’
Senna pods in his omelette sprang to mind.
Stepping inside the beautiful old house, she was silenced for a moment. Overwhelmed by its beauty, she stared around in awe. This had to be the most beautiful hallway outside a palace. It was square and elegant...beautifully proportioned, with a high, vaulted ceiling. It was decorated with burnished antiques, as well as the most exquisite rugs—rugs Marco di Fivizzano was simply striding over in his outdoor shoes on his way to the foot of an impressive mahogany staircase.
‘You can clean yourself up in the back kitchen,’ he instructed, as if she were a latter-day Cinderella. ‘An omelette shouldn’t be beyond you.’
‘I’ll pick some fresh herbs—’
Her suggestion was wasted. He was already halfway up the stairs.
So much for that challenge she’d been looking forward to!
Her first assessment of Marco di Fivizzano had been correct. He was insufferably rude and incredibly insensitive. She didn’t even register on his radar. He was hungry and he expected to be fed.
Then she remembered with a little pulse of interest that Marco di Fivizzano was always hungry, according to the scandal sheets—and she doubted they were talking about food. He was also a spectacular lover, according to the same magazines...
She definitely needed that wash down in cold water before she saw him again.
Having cleaned herself up, she went back into the garden and, selecting a clump of herbs, she slashed them with her knife.
No supressed emotions to deal with at all, Cass concluded with amusement.
As she walked back to the house she glanced at the upstairs windows. She could just imagine all that brute force naked beneath the shower. She’d always had a down-to-earth attitude when it came to men and sex, though living in the remote beauty of the Lake District with her godmother had hardly provided her with a wide pool of men to choose from. And when she had chosen, she’d got it wrong. She’d had one or two unsuccessful attempts to make a go of a relationship, but the men had disappointed her in a way she couldn’t really explain. There had been nothing wrong with them. They just hadn’t fired her imagination, and she had always dreamed of being swept away.
One thing was sure, nothing could have prepared her poor frustrated body for the arrival of a force of nature like Marco di Fivizzano.
Sheathing her knife, she wiped a hand across the back of her neck. Would he need a cold shower after meeting her? Somehow she doubted it. She guessed she was more of a wasp he’d like to swat than a beautiful butterfly he’d like to do other things with. Sex radiated from him. Even clothed in what had to be the most expensive tailoring known to man, there was something primal about him—something dark and hidden at his core—an animal energy that suggested he would consider any woman fair game.
But not this woman.
Because she had more sense?
It was time to stop daydreaming and get on with making his meal.
* * *
He took an ice-cold shower. His senses had received an unexpected jolt thanks to a most unlikely woman. He smiled grimly as he soaped himself down, imagining the type of chaos she would be creating in Maria’s pristine kitchen round about now. He could only hope she’d washed her hands. He didn’t care for soil in his food.
He shook his head and sent water droplets 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.