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Without admitting the truth behind her estrangement, she might be able to convince him of the necessity of her staying away. After all, if he was Anton’s best friend, then surely he had a reasonable side.
And pigs might fly, she thought to herself, all hopes of Benedetto being, deep down, a benevolent, kind-hearted billionaire evaporating when she stepped onto the deck to find him glaring out at the ocean as though it had personally committed some great wrong against him.
He was so entrenched in his thoughts that he didn’t hear her arrive at first, so she had a moment to study him, and in that moment all of the new-found determination to simply, logically reason her way out of this situation disappeared.
There was nothing reasonable about this man.
Nothing measured or calm.
He was pure animal, pure instinct.
And didn’t that just turn her insides to jelly?
She had always regarded herself as a feminist, so it was damned hard to make her peace with this side of her nature. Besides, that would be a job for later. For now, she had to focus on concealing how she felt, what he inspired in her.
First step? Dinner.
Finally becoming aware of her presence, he tilted his head, even that simple movement imbued with arrogant disdain, so she was aware of her hackles rising, her irritation growing back to the levels it had been earlier. And not just her irritation. Her insides churned and her skin suddenly felt clammy and warm.
She reached up and pulled her hair over one shoulder, seeking the relief of a light ocean breeze against her nape. Instead, her temperature spiked when his eyes fell from her face to her breasts as though they were his and his alone.
And she was back to feeling parched, and totally flummoxed.
‘You said dinner would be at eight?’ she reminded him crisply, doing her best to tamp down the feelings assaulting her.
But his knowing smile showed that he saw right through her. ‘Would you like a drink?’
Amelia moved to the edge of the boat, wrapped her hands around the cool metal balustrade for strength. ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Oh?’
‘Whisky?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why not?’
He considered her a moment, shrugged as if he had not a care in the world, then disappeared inside. She watched him go, trying not to notice how pleasingly masculine his waist was, how well his trousers moulded his bottom, how tall and athletic he was. She quickly turned back to the water, seeking in it a reprieve, a blast of sanity and calm when everything else was threatening to overwhelm her. But the ocean was at her favourite state—bathed in dusk light, with the moon rising through the orange and pink sky, the waves gentle and undulating, rhythmic and talkative, so there was an inherent romance to the water that was definitely no help to her present mindset.
He returned with a whisky, handed it to her, and, despite the fact she rarely touched strong liquor, she forced herself to lift it to her lips. It practically burned, yet it also reminded her of her brothers, with whom she’d shared this drink often over the years, and her heart panged with missing them, so she threw back the entire measure to disguise her reaction.
The Scotch acted like a balm on her overwrought nerves and she expelled a long, slow breath before returning the glass to him. Her smile was over-sweet. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘No problems, Princess,’ and she felt things tip beneath her.
It had been a long time since anyone had called her that. Two years, in fact.
‘Don’t,’ she whispered, digging her nails into her palm.
‘Why not? You’re going home. Isn’t it time to get used to your title again? Or would you prefer Your Highness?’
She shook her head in consternation. ‘Neither, please.’
‘So I shall simply call you Amelia while you are on board?’
‘I prefer Millie now,’ she corrected.
‘Millie is not a princess’s name.’
