Читать книгу The Italian's Virgin Bride - Trish Morey - Страница 8

‘YOUR wife! You have to be kidding. Why the hell would I want to agree to that?’ Opal noticed the turned heads, remembered where she was and sucked in a deep breath. ‘I think it might be a sensible idea to conclude this matter in my office.’

In truth it was an attempt to gain breathing space. As soon as she had him in the office she was telling him where to well and truly get off. It would not be a prolonged conversation.

He followed her, too close, unnecessarily close, so that his expensive cologne taunted her, even though it was she who led the way to her modestly sized but well-appointed office.

Dammit—it wasn’t his cologne taunting her. It was him. He projected an aura of power and control that filled the small space of her office and made her wish she’d thought of somewhere roomier, maybe the boardroom, for this confrontation. There was nowhere here to get away from Domenic Silvagni, and right now she wanted to be as far away from him as she could get. But first, she had to put paid to his ridiculous suggestion.

Standing with her back to the wall, she crossed her arms, all too aware of the heart hammering away inside her chest. ‘My offer of a share in Clemengers,’ she said, with all the calmness she could muster, ‘is a serious one. I’d appreciate it if you treated it accordingly.’

He smiled from his position near the closed door, tilting his head to one side and sliding his hands casually into his pockets. Her eyes followed the movement, the fine shirt exposed, the perfect fit of his clothes all but screaming the firmness of the body beneath. She swallowed and dragged her eyes back to his face, where the smile slid away and his eyes took on a predatory gleam.

‘I’m perfectly serious. You agree to marry me and I’ll rescue your precious hotels. It’s quite simple.’

‘It’s quite ridiculous!’

‘And expecting me to come away from this deal with only a minor partner’s share is not?’ His hands flew from his pockets, sweeping through the air in a potent Mediterranean gesture as he moved closer to the desk between them. ‘Surely you didn’t expect me to agree to your demands so easily. Surely you would have expected me to have counter-demands.’

‘But marriage? You must have some ego if you think I would be falling over myself to agree to that!’

‘You would prefer, perhaps, to become my mistress?’

The shock must have been all too obvious on her face and he seemed to take a sadistic pleasure from it. ‘The idea is not without its attraction…’ He paused, studying her closely, his gaze searing a trail along the length of her, while he stroked his chin, as if seriously considering the idea. ‘But no, I think my parents would be happier if I was finally to put a ring on a woman’s finger.’

‘I will be neither your mistress nor your wife.’

‘You think marriage to me would be such an imposition?’ He moved closer, hands on hips, until less than a metre separated them. ‘You are a very beautiful woman. I see the fire in your eyes, even though you try to pretend it’s not there. I think we could be very good together.’

‘You seem to think, Signor Silvagni,’ she whispered in almost a snarl, determined not to let him intimidate her by his proximity, ‘I have some interest in you as a man. Let me put it to you straight, so there are no more misunderstandings. This is a business transaction, pure and simple. I’m not interested in your body—just your money.’

Eyebrows raised, he looked down at her, and lifted one hand, gently tracing the pad of his thumb across her lips. ‘Are you entirely sure about that?’

‘Oh, quite sure,’ she said, when the thumping in her heart had quietened enough for her to speak. ‘I never put sex before business.’