Free The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress by Sharon Kendrick Page A

And when he spoke, his voice was silky—a tone she’d never heard before and didn’t quite recognise. ‘Well, well, well. And what, pray, is this?’
    Steadily, she regarded him—praying that her calm face didn’t betray a trace of the heart-thumping excitement she felt at being alone with him again. Because she didn’t want to feel heart-thumping excitement. She wanted nothing more than neutrality to get her through the days until she could slap her resignation letter on his desk and walk away without a backward glance.
    ‘What is what ?’ she questioned brightly even though her heart was slamming against her ribcage.
    Riccardo flicked her another cool glance. He had psyched himself up for a very different encounter. Had been expecting—and dreading—Angie to creep into the office with red-rimmed eyes. For her to sulk and pointedly give him the cold shoulder. For cups of coffee to be slammed down in front of him. And that the memories of that unbelievably erotic night would fade with every glance he cast over her drab figure. Except that she wasn’t looking in the slightest bit drab. He frowned again.
    What the hell had changed? He was sure the plain woollen dress she wore wasn’t new and yet the garment seemed to have undergone a dramatic transformation. Was it the tight belt which was drawing his attention to the narrow curve of her waist and the tempting swell of her breasts? Or just the fact that he now knew what treasures the dress concealed? He felt his throat constrict. ‘You’ve…you’ve had your hair cut,’ he said suddenly.
    He’d noticed! Angie felt a shaft of pleasure pierce her—until she forced herself to get real. Don’t be so pathetic. He’s noticed that at long last you’ve changed your hairstyle—big deal. Nevertheless, her fingertips touched the newly shorn locks.
    ‘That’s right. Do you…do you like it?’ The question came out before she could stop it—did it sound like the desperate query of a discarded lover keen to reappraise herself in the eyes of the man who had walked away?
    Riccardo’s gaze flicked over her. Unfortunately, the question required him to continue looking at her, and looking at her was the last thing he wanted. Or rather, it was. It was just that looking at her made him remember the pink and cream softness of her body and the way she had cried out when he had entered her.
    Today she didn’t look remotely pink. Or soft. She looked glossy, and sleek. Like some pampered little pussy-cat who was longing to be stroked.
    With an effort, he forced his mind away from the pert thrust of her breasts and up to the shiny new haircut. Did he like it? It was difficult to judge because his head was now full of conflicting images which were jangling for his attention. Angie with her hair scraped back from her face in its usual stark, utilitarian style. Angie with her hair spread out all over the pillow. And now Angie with her hair all feathered around her chin and showcasing a remarkably long and slender neck. He gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘It’s okay.’
    Suddenly Angie understood the meaning of the expression being damned with faint praise. So stop seeking it, she told herself fiercely. Act like you’d normally act—the way you used to before you spent the night with him. The trouble was although she could remember how—she wasn’t sure whether she was going to be able to accomplish it. She had been in love with him for so long, but had become an expert at hiding her feelings for him behind the easy working relationship they’d forged. But now it felt all skewed. Odd.
    Now she knew the reality of Riccardo as a lover and it was the memories of that which dominated her thoughts. For how could you possibly keep your mind on his latest financial acquisition when you kept being reminded of the way his lips had whispered with a featherlight touch across your bare belly?
    Remember how callous he was the morning after you slept with him, she told herself. Remember how