The Italian's Virgin Acquisition

‘Pity,’ he drawled meaningfully. ‘But I was referring to you as a person. You drilled me about my life: turnabout is fair play.’

Poppy swallowed heavily, even more embarrassed than before. ‘Red and rice pudding,’ she said stiffly.

Sebastiano shook his head slowly. ‘You’re going to have to do better than that, bella.’

Noting her red face Sebastiano decided to cut her a break and moved to the roughly sanded sideboard against the cracked wall, studying the meagre number of photos on display. There was one of Poppy a few years younger, with a young boy and an older woman, and various others that were a variation on the same theme.

‘Who’s the boy?’

‘My brother.’

Sebastiano cast her a glance over his shoulder, noting her stiff shoulders and pursed lips. So Little Miss Intrusive didn’t like being on the receiving end of probing questions. How interesting.

Not that he really cared. He already knew her impressive academic credentials and he had no wish to learn more about a woman he found himself unwittingly attracted to and would never see again after the weekend.

But she did have a point. If this were a legitimate relationship they would know certain things about each other. Things his g

randfather, in particular, would expect him to know.

‘So this woman would be your mother, yes?’ He pointed to a framed photograph, curious despite his intentions to remain detached from her.

‘No.’ She came to stand beside him and he could smell the faint trace of flowers clinging to her skin. He doubted it was perfume, because she didn’t seem the type, so it had to be soap. And her. He inhaled deeply, his gaze drifting to her straight hair hanging past her shoulders in a thick, lustrous curtain. It looked soft to the touch and he had to shove his hands inside his pockets to stop himself from finding out for sure.

When she didn’t elaborate on her answer about the woman in the photo, he raised an eyebrow. ‘Just “no”?’

She sighed. ‘That’s Maryann. My neighbour with MS.’

‘And your parents?’

‘They’re not around.’

‘Where are they?’

‘I don’t think it’s fair that you get to ask me all sorts of probing questions,’ she complained, ‘when you gave me such clear back-off signals before.’

‘I answered your questions, didn’t I? Now you answer mine.’ He scowled down at her. ‘Anyway, you were right, my grandfather will expect me to know everything about you.’

Her eyebrows climbed her forehead. ‘Everything?’

‘Yes. The Castiglione men are very protective of what is theirs. If I was truly in love with you, I would know everything about you.’

Even as he said the words, Sebastiano knew he was being unfair but he didn’t care. This was just strategising to achieve the best outcome. And he was a master strategist.

He wasn’t sure she was going to answer, but then she said, ‘My mother died of a drug overdose when I was twelve and I—I don’t remember my father.’

Shocked by her matter-of-fact revelation, Sebastiano stared down at the top of her glossy head. ‘Who raised you and your brother?’

‘We lived in the foster care system until I was seventeen.’

Foster care?

‘It wasn’t as bad as you probably imagine,’ she said, reading him correctly, and Sebastiano knew by her offhanded tone, and the way she avoided eye contact, that it had probably been very much worse than anything he could imagine. ‘So we’re both orphans,’ he mused.

She gave him a look. ‘So it seems. Hell of a thing to have in common.’

He paused, noting the way her chin jutted forward, as if she dared him to feel sorry for her. ‘You’re a tough little thing, aren’t you, Poppy?’

Her small chin jutted even further forward in a stubborn tilt. ‘I thought your plane was ready to go, Mr Castiglione?’