Amy Andrews - His For Christmas

Who could blame him for despising her—for not realising that she was so much more than that?

She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think polite interaction is going to be possible after all. There’s actually too much history between us.’

‘Or not enough?’ he challenged and suddenly his voice grew silky. ‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea to forge some new memories, Alannah? Something which might cancel out all the frustrations of the past?’

Alannah stiffened. Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? Was he flirting with her? She swallowed. And if he were? If he were, she needed to nip it in the bud. To show him she respected herself and her body.

She slanted him a smile. ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen. I think we need to avoid each other as much as possible. We’ll support Michela all the way and try not to let our mutual animosity show, but nothing more than that. So why don’t you do me a favour and talk to the woman on your other side? She’s been trying to get your attention since you first sat down and she’s very beautiful.’ She picked up her wine glass and took a sip, her eyes surveying him coolly over the rim. ‘I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed that, Niccolò.’

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS THE worst night he’d had in a long time, or maybe it was just that Niccolò couldn’t remember ever losing sleep over a woman before. He lay tossing and turning in the king-size bed of his hotel room, trying to convince himself that Alannah had been right and the less time they spent together, the better. But every time he thought about distancing himself from those denim-blue eyes and that pouting, provocative mouth he felt an uncomfortable ache deep inside him.

What was the matter with him?

Kicking away the rumpled sheet, he told himself she wasn’t his kind of woman—that she represented everything he despised in a sometimes trashy and disposable society.

Abandoning all further attempts to sleep, he dealt with his emails and spoke to his assistant in London, who informed him that Alekto Sarantos was still unhappy with the interior of the penthouse suite. The Greek billionaire had let it be known that the apartment’s design was too ‘bland’ for his tastes and, despite a close association going back years, he was now considering pulling out of the deal and buying in Paris instead. Niccolò silently cursed his temperamental friend as he terminated the phone-call and wondered how soon he could decently leave after the wedding to return to work.

Pulling on his gym gear, he went for a run in Central Park, where the bare trees were etched dramatically against the winter sky. Despite his restless night and the fact that little was in bloom, his senses seemed unusually receptive to the beauty which surrounded him on this cold winter morning. There were ducks and gulls on the lakes and woodpeckers were tapping in the trees. Other runners were already out pounding the paths and an exquisite-looking blonde smiled hopefully at him, slowing down as he approached. But he didn’t even bother giving her a second look. Her eyes were glacial green, not denim blue—and it was that particular hue which had been haunting his sleep last night.

The run took the edge off his restlessness, even if it didn’t quell it completely, and after he’d showered and dressed he found a series of increasingly frantic texts from his sister queuing up on his smartphone. The final one was followed by a wobbly voicemail message, demanding to know where he was.

He went along the corridor and knocked at her door—stupidly unprepared for the sight of Alannah opening the door, even though he’d known she was sharing a suite with his sister. He felt almost high as he looked at her and could feel the aching throb of longing which stabbed at his groin. She was wearing a denim shirt-dress which matched her eyes and a tiny ladybird brooch which twinkled red and black on the high collar. For a moment it occurred to him that she was dressed as sedately as a schoolteacher and he watched as a complicated series of expressions flitted across her face as she looked at him, before producing a smile which was clearly forced.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ He tried his own version of that fake smile. ‘Sleep well?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re here to enquire how I slept?’

No, I’m here because I’d like to take your panties down and put my tongue between your thighs. He shrugged. ‘Michela has been bombarding my phone with texts. Is she here?’

‘She’s…’ cocking her head in the direction of one of the closed doors behind her, she pulled a face ‘…in the bathroom.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘She’s broken a nail.’

He frowned. ‘Is that supposed to be some kind of a joke?’

‘No, Niccolò, it’s not a joke. It’s the finger her wedding ring will go on and everyone will notice. To a bride who’s just hours away from the ceremony, something like this is nothing short of a catastrophe. I’ve called the manicurist, who’s on her way up.’

‘First World problems,’ he said caustically. ‘So everything is under control?’

‘Well, that depends how you look at it.’ She met his gaze and seemed to be steeling herself to say something. ‘Her nerves aren’t helped by the worry that you’re going to lose your temper at some point today.’

‘What makes her think that?’

‘Heaven only knows,’ she said sarcastically, ‘when you have a reputation for being so mild-mannered and accommodating. Could it have something to do with the fact that you and I were at loggerheads throughout dinner last night, and she noticed?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘So what does she want us to do—kiss and make up?’

‘Hardly,’ she snapped. ‘That might be stretching credibility a little too far.’

‘Oh, I think I could manage to put on a convincing enough performance,’ he drawled. ‘How about you?’

So she hadn’t been imagining it last night. Alannah stiffened. He really was flirting. And she was going to have to put on the performance of a lifetime if she wanted to convince him that it wasn’t working.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘So can I tell Michela that you’re planning to be a good boy today? Do you think you’re a competent enough actor to simulate enjoyment and behave yourself for the duration of the wedding?’

‘I don’t usually have to simulate anything—and I’ve never been called a good boy in my life,’ he answered softly. ‘But if Michela wants reassurance that I’m going to behave myself, then tell her yes. I will be extremely virtuous . And I will be back here at three, to take you both down to the wedding.’

Alannah gave a brief nod and her cool, careful smile didn’t slip until she had shut the door on him, though her pulse was pounding loudly.

At least an air of calm had descended by the time the manicurist arrived to repair the tattered nail and the mood was elevated still further as Alannah helped Michela slide into her delicate white gown. Because this was her territory, she reminded herself fiercely. She was proud of the dress she’d made for the bride and she wasn’t going to let Niccolò da Conti whittle away at her confidence.

Her movements became sure and confident as she smoothed down the fine layers of tulle and soon she felt like herself again—Alannah Collins, who was living life according to her own rules, and ignoring the false perceptions of other people.

But the moment Niccolò arrived all that composure deserted her. She was aware of his piercing gaze as he watched her adjusting the floral circlet which held Michela’s veil in place and it was difficult to keep her fingers steady. She could feel his dark eyes moving over her and the only comfort she got was by reminding herself that after this day was over, she need never see him again.