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“Do you really think I’m prim?” She asked, moving closer, pretending that she wanted to witness his signature. He etched his name on the page, placed the pen down deliberately and slowly, and straightened.
“I’ve speculated about it,” he said thoughtfully. “Outwardly, yes, but there’s always been something about you,” he continued. “Something that makes me think you could be quite wild beneath all this,” he gestured to her grey suit.
Her insides trembled. This was her boss’s brother. Or was he technically her boss, given that she worked for the family business? Whatever. He was a total cad, a bachelor who changed women more frequently than most people changed sheets. He was definitely out of her league in terms of experience and, well, just about everything, really.
And yet…
She didn’t leave.
She didn’t want to leave.
She wanted more of this. More of feeling interesting. Sensual. Of feeling that someone like Marco might actually have been contemplating her wildness, or lack thereof.
It was just a question of ego. Hers had been badly battered and bruised, and suddenly she saw a way to feel better. Just for a minute. It couldn’t go much further than this, but just letting him flirt with her was doing something to the deep, aching wounds of her soul.
He’s your sort-of boss,an inner-voice screamed, but Portia blanked it.
“I think,” she said, belatedly, realizing he was looking at her, as though waiting for an answer. “You’d be disappointed.”
His eyes flicked to hers. “Is that an invitation?”
She gasped, unaware of having said as much, and yet, basically, yes. She had been inviting him to test his theory, to ascertain for himself the truth of his speculation.
“I’m asking,” he said, after a beat, teasing. “For the record. In case HR requests to speak to me.”
She swallowed, her throat shifting with the movement, his eyes dropping and lingering there. “I’m not going to go to HR,” she said, jutting her chin.
“No?”
She shook her head.
“Because you want me to kiss you?” He asked, a mocking, confident smile on his lips that made her hate him even when she wanted him with every fiber of her being.
“I—you’ve kissed pretty much every other woman in England, so I guess fair’s fair.”
His grin was so sexy. Her stomach squished.
“Jealous?”
She snorted. “Of someone like you? Please.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I’m not, believe me.”
“I don’t.” He reached for the pen and her heart thumped. Was he going to just sign the document? End this? Without kissing her? Her insides squeezed. She moved closer, looking over his shoulder as he reached not for the documents but for the envelope in which she’d brought them and wrote:I, Portia Mason, want to be kissed by Marco Santoro.
Her heartrate trebled.
“Sign it,cara.”
She stared at him, bewildered. “Why?”
“HR,” he grinned, passing the pen to her, his fingers brushing hers so she startled, eyes wide. “Just so there’s no doubt.”
“I’m not signing that.”
“Then I’m not kissing you.”
