Amy Andrews - His For Christmas

His gaze swept over her like an icy black searchlight—objective, speculative and entirely without emotion.

‘Because I like your style,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘I like the way you dress and the way you look. I always have. And if you can satisfy my exacting friend with your designs—then the job is yours.’

Alannah felt ridiculously thrilled by his praise, yet she didn’t want to be thrilled. She wanted to feel nothing. To give nothing and take nothing. She met his dark gaze. ‘And the fact that you want to go to bed with me has nothing to do with your offer, I suppose?’

He gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh, but it has everything to do with it, mia sirena ,’ he said. ‘As you said yourself, there are a million interior designers out there, but your desirability gives you a distinctive edge over your competitors. I cannot deny that I want you or that I intend to have you.’ His black eyes gleamed. ‘But I wouldn’t dream of offering you the job unless I thought you were capable of delivering.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘NICCOLÒ WILL SEE you in just a moment, Alannah.’ The redhead sitting outside Niccolò’s office wore a silk blouse the colour of the lilies on her desk and when she smiled her lips were a neat coral curve. ‘My name’s Kirsty, by the way—and I’m one of Niccolò’s assistants. Take a seat over there. Can I get you a coffee? Some tea perhaps?’

‘No. I’m fine, thanks.’ Carefully putting down her mood-boards, Alannah sank onto a seat, wondering if any of her reservations showed in her face. Whether her nerves or sick dread were visible to the impartial observer.

Ever since she’d left New York, she had listed all the reasons why she should say no to Niccolò’s offer of work and during the cramped flight she had checked them off on her fingers. He was arrogant. Tick. He was dangerous. Double tick. He was also completely unapologetic about wanting to take her to bed. Only he hadn’t even said that in a flattering way. He’d made it sound as if she was just something he needed to get out of his system. Like an itch. Or a fever. She bit her lip because his attitude brought too many memories flooding back. She hated men who regarded a woman as some kind of object , so surely self-respect and pride should have made her turn his offer down, no matter how lucrative?

But he was offering her work—legitimate work. His proposition had been like a cool drink when your throat was parched. Like finding a crumpled ten-pound note in your jeans before you washed them. She thought about the scarcity of jobs in her highly competitive field, and the ridiculously high mortgage on her tiny bedsit. She couldn’t afford to turn him down—which was why she’d spent all weekend coming up with ideas she thought might appeal to a Greek billionaire who didn’t like beige. And through it all she had realised that this was the vital springboard her career needed and she was going to grab at it with both hands.

She stared at the cream lilies on Kirsty’s desk, trying to concentrate on their stark beauty, but all she could think about was the way Niccolò had stroked his finger over her when they’d been dancing at the wedding. Her heart began to pound. It had been an almost innocent touch and yet her response had been anything but innocent. The intensity of her feelings had shocked her. She had wanted him to peel the bridesmaid dress from her body and touch her properly. She had wanted him to kiss her the way he’d done all those years before—only this time not to stop.

And that was the problem.

She still wanted him.

She had done her best to quash that thought when she’d emailed him some suggestions. And had attempted to ignore her spiralling feeling of excitement when his reply came winging into her inbox late last night.

These are good. Be at my offices tomorrow at 7 p.m.

It hadn’t been the most fulsome praise she’d ever received, but it was clear he considered her good enough for the job and that pleased her more than it should have done. And hot on the heels of professional pride came a rather more unexpected feeling of gratitude. She had stared at his email and realised that, no matter what his motives might be, Niccolò was giving her the chance to make something of herself.

So she’d better show him that his faith had not been misplaced.

A buzzer sounded on Kirsty’s desk and she rose to her feet, opening a set of double doors directly behind her.

‘Niccolò is ready for you now, Alannah.’ She smiled. ‘If you’d like to come this way.’

Alannah picked up her mood-boards and followed Kirsty into a huge and airy office, blinking a little as she looked around her, because she’d never been anywhere like this before. She gulped. It was… spectacular . One wall consisted entirely of glass and overlooked some of London’s more familiar landmarks and Alannah was so dazzled by the view that it took a moment for her to notice Niccolò sitting there and to realise that he wasn’t alone.

Her first thought was how at home he looked in the luxury of his palatial surroundings. Long legs stretched out in front of him, he was reclining on a large leather sofa in one corner of the vast office—and opposite him was a man with black hair and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. This must be Alekto Sarantos, Alannah thought, but she barely noticed him. Despite his unmistakable gorgeousness, it was Niccolò who captured her attention. Niccolò whose outwardly relaxed stance couldn’t quite disguise the tension in his powerful body as their gazes clashed and held. She could read the mockery in his eyes. I know how much you want me, they seemed to say. And suddenly she wished that the floor could swallow her up or that the nerves which were building up inside her would show her some mercy and leave her alone.

‘Ah, Alannah. Here you are.’ Black eyes glittered with faint amusement as he looked her up and down. ‘Not jet-lagged, I hope?’

‘Not at all,’ she lied politely.

‘Let me introduce you to Alekto Sarantos. Alekto—this is Alannah Collins, the very talented designer I was telling you about.’

Alannah gave an uncertain smile, wondering exactly what he’d said about her. They were friends, weren’t they? And didn’t men boast to their mates about what they’d done with a woman? She could feel her cheeks growing slightly warm as she looked at Alekto. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

‘Do sit down,’ he said, in a gravelly Greek accent.

Alannah saw Niccolò pat the space beside him on the sofa—and she thought it looked a bit like someone encouraging a dog to leap up. But she forced herself to smile as she sat down next to him, unwinding the vivid green pashmina which was looped around her neck.

Alekto turned his startling blue gaze on her. ‘So…Niccolò assures me that you are the person who can replace the existing décor with something a little more imaginative.’ He grimaced. ‘Although frankly, a piece of wood could have produced something more eye-catching than the existing scheme.’

‘I’m confident I can, Mr Sarantos.’

‘No. Parakalo —you must call me Alekto,’ he said, a hint of impatience hardening his voice, before giving a swift smile. ‘I always like to hear a beautiful woman saying my name.’

Beautiful? No woman ever thought she was beautiful and that certainly hadn’t been the effect Alannah had been striving for today. She’d aimed for a functional, rather than a decorative appearance—tying her hair back in a thick plait to stop it being whipped up by the fierce December wind. She had wanted to project style and taste as well as hoping her clothes would be like armour—protecting her from Niccolò’s heated gaze.