Kate Hewitt - Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress

He was playing with fire. Touching her. Needing to touch her. And enjoying it.

Leandro flung himself into his desk chair and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t banish the image of Zoe Clark at dinner, wearing that silky top, her hair dark and soft around her face. He pictured the way her eyes had danced with amusement, the way those silly little straps had slipped off her tanned shoulders. The way he’d wanted to push them off.

And she would have let him.

He could still feel the barest brush of her finger against his lips—what had he been thinking, teasing her like that? Teasing himself?

He certainly wasn’t going to act upon the latent desire that hummed inside him—between them. If he were a different man he might have. He might have said to hell with good intentions and higher principles, and taken what was so blatantly on offer. He’d enjoy it, for a time, and then he’d walk away—tabloids, colleagues, family be damned … All for the sake of desire.

But he wasn’t a different man.

He wasn’t his father, and he wouldn’t cheapen and enslave himself to desire. Not for a woman like Zoe Clark—a woman like all the others who took and took and didn’t care who she stepped on to get what she wanted.

Who she hurt.

It’s obviously made you rich .

His mouth thinned in distaste at the memory of her words. Another woman on the prowl. Well, she wouldn’t get anything from him . He wouldn’t give her the chance.

Stifling a curse, he pulled his papers towards him, one hand fumbling for the spectacles he’d discarded on his desk. He switched on the desk lamp, and with a grim, determined focus bent his head to his work.

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