Hired:The Italian's Bride

He started to step aside so she could pass, but at the last moment he couldn’t let her go without checking she was okay. He moved forward, reached out, clasped her elbow.

“Get your hands off me.”

She said it quietly, calmly, but the underlying venom in it shocked him so much that he stepped back, immediately releasing her elbow. He hadn’t thought it possible but she paled even further.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she said stridently, as she quickly picked a path around the scattered forgotten furniture. She scrambled out the door, leaving it open. Seconds later he heard the elevator pause, open and close again.

He sat down on the nearest chair, releasing a puff of dust. He’d only been trying to be a gentleman when she was clearly in distress. It was obvious that whatever attraction he’d felt earlier was not reciprocated. She was cold, irritating, dictatorial. Nothing but a complication. He should fire her and get on with turning the Fiori Cascade into the hotel it was meant to be.

But he couldn’t do that. She was good at what she did, he could tell. He’d promised her no one would lose their jobs. That had included her.

And Luca Fiori was a man of his word.

When he went back to the administration offices, her door was closed. He knocked, then opened it.

It was like the scene upstairs had never happened. Her suit was straight, brushed of any dust. Her color was back, enhanced by fresh lipstick and her hair was tidied, even more severely pinned in place, if that were possible.

The sting of the insult had worn away and he’d been left with the very empty knowledge that for some unknown reason, Mari was afraid of him.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

She looked up from what she was writing and pasted on what he was rapidly coming to understand was her face-the-public smile. “I’m fine, thank you. A little behind after our tour, though.” She looked back down at her paper and began writing again.

He wrinkled his brow. The woman before him was cool, assured, in control. A direct contrast to the woman who’d nearly come unglued the moment he’d put a hand on her elbow. A woman practiced at hiding her feelings, who happened to have slipped and let him witness a weak moment.

He should nod and walk away. It was none of his business. But then he remembered the stark look of nakedness he’d seen on her face when he’d spoken of the antiques. She’d looked like a woman who’d been stripped bare. He couldn’t ignore that, even if he wanted to. If he let this go now, it would stand between them the entire time they worked together. It would be far better to get it out in the open. Move on.

“Do you want to talk about it, Mari?”

With a sigh she put down the pen, placed her hands flat on her desk and crossed her legs. “Talk about what, Luca?”

“About what happened in the attic.”

She looked away. “No, I don’t.”

“You were frightened. I want to know why.”

“I was not frightened. I happen to be…claustrophobic.”

It was paltry and he saw through it. But he could not make her talk and he hardly knew her well enough to pry. Still…

“I did not realize that when I reached for your arm.”

Her hands remained flat on the blotter and she met his eyes coolly. “Luca, I am a person who does not like her personal space invaded. I’m not a touchy person. That’s all. I’m sorry if that is blunt, or rude.”

“It is honest, and I appreciate it. So it is not just me you don’t want to touch you, it is everyone.”

Her cheeks flamed. “That’s correct.”

“It’s nothing personal.”

She swallowed, and his gaze was drawn to the curve of her throat. Damn, it sure felt personal right now.

“Nothing personal,” she echoed weakly.

“I’m glad, because we will be working together closely and it will be difficult if there is animosity between us.”

Animosity?

Mari swallowed and forced the cool, neutral expression to remain on her face. He had no idea about what had happened in the attic. How his words touched her, mirrored so many of her own emotions. How she’d suddenly felt strangled and had to get out.

He’d touched her.

She hated being touched. And when he’d gripped her elbow, something had shot through her that terrified her.

But it wasn’t memory. It was longing. Something she hadn’t felt for so long the very presence of it undid her. She liked the feel of his hand on her elbow, connecting them. Liked it so much she’d wanted to slide forward into his arms and let them surround her. Protect her.

She’d vowed no man would touch her ever again, and until now she’d never wanted one to. Oh, nothing made sense! She’d had to escape, pull herself together.