The Italian's Christmas Housekeeper - Шэрон Кендрик (2019)

Molly was aware of a crushing sense of disappointment. She’d wanted... She stared very hard at her brandy glass as if the dark amber liquid would provide the answer. What had she wanted? To see him at breakfast—their eyes meeting in a moment of shared complicity as they remembered this illicit, night-time drink?

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ she said, sounding genuinely disappointed.

He smiled, as if her earnestness had amused him. ‘You know, you’re far too sweet to be hiding yourself away somewhere like this, Molly.’

Sweet. Molly knew it was a compliment yet for some reason it offended her. It made her sound like the cake he’d caught her eating. Because sweet wasn’t sexy, was it? Just as she wasn’t sexy. ‘Am I?’ she questioned tonelessly.

He nodded, walking over to the desk and writing something on the back of a business card before crossing the room and handing it to her. ‘Here. Take this. It will get you straight through to my assistant. If ever you decide you want a change, then give her a ring. She knows plenty of people, and domestic staff are always in short supply.’ He met her eyes. ‘You could always find something better than this, you know.’

‘Despite dinner being such a disaster?’ She tried to sound jokey even if she didn’t feel it, because she realised she was being dismissed. Getting up from the comfort of her fireside seat, Molly took the card and slid it into the hip pocket of her dress.

‘Despite that,’ he agreed, his words suddenly trailing away as his gaze followed the movement of her hand.

Molly became aware of a subtle alteration in the atmosphere as Salvio lifted his eyes to her face. She’d wondered if the attraction which had sizzled between them earlier had been wishful thinking, but maybe it hadn’t. Maybe it had been real. As real as the sudden thrust of her nipples against the soft fabric of her dress and the distracting heat between her thighs. She held her breath, waiting, instinct telling her that he was going to touch her. Despite him being who he was and her being just Molly. And he did. Lifting his hand, he ran the tips of his fingers experimentally over her hair.

‘E capelli tuoi so comme a seta,’ he said, and when she looked at him in confusion, he translated. ‘Your hair is like silk.’

It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to her and when she heard it in Italian it made her want to melt. Was that why he did it, knowing it would push her a little further beneath his powerful spell? Molly told herself to move away. She should thank him for the drink, for his kindness and for giving her his card and then hurry back to her little room to mull over her memories and hug them to her like a hot-water bottle. But she didn’t move. She just carried on gazing up into the rugged perfection of his looks, praying he would kiss her and make the fairy tale complete—even if that was all she was ever going to have to remember him by. ‘Is—is it?’ she questioned.

Salvio smiled, letting his thumb drift from the fire-warmed strands, to hover over the unmistakable tremble of her lips. He felt a tightness in his throat as he realised what he was about to do. He had invited her here because he sensed she was lonely and unhappy—not because he intended to seduce her. Because there were rules and usually he followed them. He no longer took physical comfort just because it was available—because it was pretty much always available to a man like him. Just as he no longer used sex to blot out his pain, or his anger.