Ally Blake - Happy Mother’s Day! - Accidentally Pregnant, Conveniently Wed / Claiming His Pregnant Wife / Meant-To-Be Mother

Fedele laughed. ‘Most women would not find that such a horrifying proposition!’

‘I work for him, that’s all.’

‘Ah! And what do you do?’

‘I’m a head-hunter.’

‘Cacciatore di teste?’ Fedele translated. Aisling had heard the phrase before and she smiled. ‘That’s right—somehow it sounds much better in Italian.’

‘That is because everything sounds better in Italian!’ came a soft, arrogant boast from behind her, and Aisling turned to find Gianluca’s mocking black eyes on her. ‘And do you know why that is, cara?’

Like a snake hypnotised by the charmer’s pipe, Aisling found herself shaking her head. ‘No. Why?’

‘Because we Italians are better at everything.’

‘That’s … outrageous,’ she protested.

He shrugged. ‘Ah, but it is also true!’

And try as she might—Aisling couldn’t do anything to stop smiling or prevent the slow, unfurling of desire in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, she felt like a non-swimmer who was out of her depth—and that was a very precarious place to be.

‘Your glass is empty,’ he observed. ‘Come, let us find you another drink.’

Had she really drunk a whole glass without noticing?

Gianluca took her to the far end of the room where wine was being served and poured them both a couple of glasses, watching her as he raised his glass. This morning he had idly been wondering whether a real woman lay beneath the outer armour of her unimaginative suit—but the contrast between what she had been and what she had now become was blowing his mind. His senses were shocked and his body was aroused and he wanted her.

Now.

‘So,’ he said huskily as he touched his glass to hers in a toast. ‘Salute.’

‘Salute,’ Aisling echoed as she manoeuvred the drink to her lips.

‘You like it?’ he queried softly.

‘It’s … wonderful.’

‘Ah, Aisling—but you find everything wonderful tonight,’ he teased.

‘You’d rather I objected?’

His lips curved. ‘Now that is more like it.’

‘Oh? And what’s that supposed to mean?’

Gianluca heard the defensiveness in her voice. Did she have an Achilles heel like other mortals? Was the icemaiden seeking his approval? ‘One of the reasons you are so good at your job is because you have a critical and discerning eye—but it seems to be absent tonight. And that is no bad thing.’ He smiled. ‘Relax, cara. Don’t look so tense. Tell me what you know about wine.’

‘Well, nothing really,’ she said quickly. ‘Except how to drink it.’

‘Then perhaps I should educate you. What do you think—would you like me to teach you everything I know?’

Aisling bit her lip. Everything he knew. How much would that be? As she met the sensual question in his eyes she found herself wanting far more than being taught about wine appreciation. Gazing at the perfection of his hard body, she found herself wondering what it must be like to be made love to by him. Had he meant her to think that? You work for him, she reminded herself—but it didn’t seem to alter her chaotic thoughts.

‘Education is never wasted,’ she said primly.

Gianluca gave a soft, low laugh at the repressive note in her voice and felt the ache in his groin increase. Ah, sì. This was novel indeed. A woman who was keeping him guessing about whether she would let him make love to her. ‘Then let me be your teacher,’ he murmured.

She wanted to tell him not to be so provocative—but what if that was simply her interpretation of his behaviour? A repressed single woman’s wildest fantasies. What if he was just being an affable host, out to give her an enjoyable time after the successful completion of a job? Who was to say that he wouldn’t have been behaving this way if she had been a man?

But if she’d been a man, surely he wouldn’t have been standing quite so close to her, so close that she could smell his subtle scent—evocative of sandalwood and citrus and something else which seemed to symbolise everything that was masculine. From this near she could feel the heat radiating from his powerful frame, and see a tendril of dark hair which curled onto the olive sheen of his skin, so that at that moment she found herself wanting to curl that errant lock around her finger.

‘You know how to drink it—to best enjoy it? No? Then I shall show you. First, we look at it.’ Gianluca held his wine up, swirling the claret-coloured liquid around the bowl of the glass, so that it left sticky little trickles running down the side. ‘See its beauty? Like the richest rubies, sì?’

‘Y-yes.’

He shot her a look before briefly lowering his nose to inhale deeply, his dark lashes arcing downwards to shield the dancing dark light in his eyes. ‘And then we breathe it in. We inhale its bouquet. We engage the senses before at last we feel it on our tongue to taste it, and then, at last, we savour it.’ His eyes captured hers over the rim of the glass before taking a slow mouthful of the dark red wine and moving it around his mouth in a gesture which was sheer eroticism.

‘You see, the anticipation of pleasure only adds to the eventual enjoyment—as it does with all the pleasures in life,’ he finished and waited for her to bristle with her very English disapproval. But to his surprise, she did no such thing.

‘I see,’ said Aisling faintly, completely mesmerised by the silken caress of his voice. She wondered what spell he had cast to root her feet to the spot like this, to make her want to carry on looking at that beautiful, rugged face until the end of time. To want to touch her fingertips to its glowing skin and trace the line of those perfect lips.

Oh, Aisling, Aisling, you’ve started to commit that sad sin of women nearing thirty—who believe that fairy tales really can happen.

At work, she was better equipped to deal with his charisma, yet it was as if by coming here tonight, and putting on these jeans—which were clinging rather suggestively to her bottom—she had removed whatever it was which usually kept her safe. She had put herself at risk, and she needed to do something about it. The question was what.

‘You like this wine?’ he queried.

‘I like it … very much.’

‘Perfetto.’ He took another sip, aware that his heart was pounding with a strangely slow and heavy beat. He could see the swell of her breasts brushing against the fine material of her top and, despite the warmth of the evening, how her nipples were perking in pert points.

He was aware of the sweet pain of his erection, which was pushing against him, and suddenly he felt like a schoolboy, aware that the evening had cast him into a role in which he was unfamiliar. That for once he was playing a game and he didn’t know how it would end—or even which rules to engage. Normally, when he wanted a woman he didn’t even have to try. A glance, a murmur, a hint of sensual promise in his eyes was enough to capture his quarry.

Yet with Aisling, it was different. The unthinkable had happened because he simply didn’t know whether she would be willing to be seduced. Or whether you should be breaking the rule of a lifetime and sleeping with someone with whom you have a professional relationship—someone you employ!

But he ignored the voice of his conscience—for something much more compelling was driving him. He wanted her and he would have her. ‘We should eat something,’ he said suddenly.

Aisling looked at the nearby tables, which were completely covered with food. Platters of anchovies and whitebait, and colourful dishes of salad. A whole small roasted pig sat close to pasta with wild boar and truffle sauces and yet another table was stacked with cheeses and figs and ripe peaches, the fruit tumbling over the bowls like a still-life painting.