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So surely she would push him away any moment, tell him this had been a mistake, remind him not to mention it. And she’d be right.
Marco had definitely let the however-many-beers he’d had the night before and into the morning call a few of the shots here. No matter how fascinating he found her untouchability, if he’d been stone cold sober, he would never have acted on it.
He braced his palms on either side of her head, watching, waiting.
Her slow, steady smile was the last thing he expected.
“That was…really good.”
As far as praise went, it was pretty average, yet his chest swelled and something like pleasure spun low in his gut. It wasn’t what she’d said, but how she’d said it, with her whole body, the words breathed out from deep in her belly.
“I’m glad you approve.” His words emerged as a rumble.
“That’s not what I said.” And there it was. The hint of worry in the depths of her eyes.
Regret?
Portia lifted a hand, pressing it to his chest. “I need to get back to the office.”
He knew better than to suggest she stay. Portia wasn’t an heiress with all the time in the world to waste in Marco’s bed. She wasn’t a model, an out of work actress or a wealthy interior designer floating around between jobs. She worked her ass off for Dante, and no doubt Marco’s imperious brother was already sweating on her return.
He pulled away from her, turning his back and striding to the kitchen to dispose of his condom. By the time he’d returned, she’d pulled on her underpants and bra. Naked, she’d been breathtaking, but seeing her like this, in only her underwear, made his stomach loop uncomfortably.
He reclined against the door frame with the appearance of lazy indolence, watching as she dressed, even when her cheeks turned bright pink and she sent him a barbed look.
“You have two pages left to sign,” she murmured, cool as a cucumber once more, flicking the papers and indicating where he needed to add his name.
“So I do.” He strolled towards, taking the pen and adding his scrawl to the first page, then flicking over a few and signing once more.
She expelled a long breath. Of relief?
“Thank you.” She put a hand on his arm, surprising him. “I—needed that.” And she smiled again, the worry gone from her eyes.
She was fascinating.
But Marco had never spent much time thinking about the women he slept with, and he was sure Portia would be no different. Once she’d left, he’d go back to bed, fall asleep, and tonight, he’d see where the world took him.
He lifted her chin, tilting her face to meet his. “My pleasure,” his grin was slow, sensual. She reached for the documents then the envelope in which she’d brought them, only to realise they’d decorated it in a way that was definitely not-safe-for-work.
“I don’t suppose you have another one of those somewhere here?”
He laughed softly. “No.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll carry them like this.” She stood where she was, looking at him, waiting for something? Marco studied her face, the flicker of light in her eyes, the expression in her features, and wondered what she was thinking, but before he could do something quite so out of character as ask, she turned and began to walk confidently away from him, towards the entrance foyer.
She paused at a Degas, stared at it with her lips parted. “Is this real?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head a little, looked back at him with yet another expression he didn’t understand but somehow knew he didn’t like, then forced a smile. “Goodbye, Marco.”
“Ciao, cara.”
He watched her go, then took himself back to bed, to sleep, and dream of his brother’s sexy, uptight, but definitely not too prim to enjoy good sex, assistant.
Portia’s heartwas racing faster than if she’d run a marathon. She all but threw herself into the backseat of the cab, giving the directions to her office with a voice that was almost unrecognizable, contracts clasped in her hands, staring straight ahead.
Holy heck.
