Free FIERCED 1: A Stepbrother Romance by Stephanie Brother Page B

you'd give to a sweet and officious child. If he were closer to me I get the feeling he'd give me a patronizing pat on the head.
    “ Your Father?” he says with the emphasis on the word your. Of course mine, who else's? “No, he isn't here yet.”
    “Well then, what are you doing in his office? Does Sandro know you're in there?”
    I sound ridiculous. I know it even without the smirk on his face. Which I wish I had the courage to wipe away with a sharp slap. I'm acting like a snotty bitch but it's the insolent arrogance written all over his gorgeous features making me livid for some reason. He knows he's beyond movie star gorgeous and he thinks he can do whatever he wants because of it.
    Entitled.
    He's strolling down the majestic hallway looking like a dirtbike bum, dropping mud all over the antique rugs like it's his birthright. Danger and rebellion pour out of every pore and insinuate their bad attitude into mine so my skin tingles.
    He doesn't bother with the usual sweet talk for the ladies. Because what the heck, I'm too sexy for seduction. Or maybe it's only this lady. I wish it didn't irk me so much that he's making zero attempt to flirt and start with the corny lines that somehow make you glow in spite of the schmaltz. He should though because his voice is swoony. The sound of soft grit in the back of his throat.
    I feel a horrible embarrassing pressure in my breasts from the proximity of him. He fills the huge hallway, his presence pushing at the walls as hard as it's making my nipples ache.
    Is he looking at them?
    Fuck. The prick is actually staring at my nipples prodding hungrily at my chiffon top. I'm rocking a retro sixties look at the mo – all Free People groovy – and the gossamer thin fabric is giving up all my secrets to this bastard. I hate him. No reason. It's irrational, but he's way too stuck on himself, even by Italian man standards.
    “I'm here to speak to Cola on a personal matter. Not that it's any of your biz, Principessa .”
    Jesus Christ that accent is lilting honey on a gnarled stick dripping all over me. He doesn’t even need to try to hard with the charm. I bet the women all kick back and spread as soon as this muscle bound monster walks on by.
    “Cola? My father's name is Nicholas. Or Ambassador Saint James to you.”
    “Are you always this hostile to your daddy's guests? Aren't you supposed to extend a warm welcome to everyone who enters here?”
    “Not the people I discover snooping when my father isn’t here.”
    “Don't worry your little head. If I wanted to break and enter you'd never be able to stop me.”
    I can believe it.
    “Your father and I have business to discuss. So why not leave it to the men and get back to your- what, celebrity gossip? Make up? No I can see you obviously have no interest in make up, or fashion.”
    What? Is he referring to my lace-up granny boots matched with the floaty chiffon? He wouldn't know fashion if he fell across Armani in the street. He's the Italian version of a gang member. His huge black biker boots have a chain around one ankle. And that tattoo. We shouldn't allow men like him inside the embassy.
    “Maybe you should wait in the visitor reception area until the Ambassador arrives,” I snap. What possible business could my father have with this character?
     
     
     
     

 
     
    Chapter TWO
     
    “What ever you say, Principessa .” He calls me Princess with a demeaning growl, his lips curled in part ironic grin, part sneer.
    Lips I’d love to feel wrapped around my agonized – fuck, stop. The guy's an ass. Stop thinking about being crushed under his sizzling solid bulk while that mouth explores all the untouched parts of my body.
    He saunters back down to the reception area and I know he's only doing it to tease me, not because he really wants to follow my direction.
    “Put that down,” I squeal when he picks up the folder of photographic prints I'd dropped on the console when he surprised me emerging into the passage and