Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire

‘I hope you enjoy the omelette,’ she said with apparent sincerity.

He dragged his attention away from one potential feast to glance at the surprisingly appetising meal she had laid out on the table. ‘It looks good,’ he said approvingly, ‘but, where’s the bread?’

He noted the flash of fire in her eyes, more typical of the way she had behaved in the garden, but then she said meekly, ‘I’ll get it for you, sir.’

For some reason her unusually compliant manner annoyed him too.

‘For goodness’ sake, call me Marco.’

He couldn’t be sure if she was mocking him or not, he realised, though his best guess was yes, and blood pounded through his veins as he accepted the challenge.

‘It’s only a simple meal,’ she explained as he grunted his thanks and sat down.

Her attempt to take out her frustration on the eggs had failed completely, Cass concluded. On second viewing, Marco di Fivizzano was even more improbably attractive than the first time she had seen him. Glancing down to make sure her top wasn’t clinging to her breasts, she found her nipples were practically saluting him. In a tailor-made suit, garnished with a crisp white shirt and grey silk tie, her boss had been staggeringly attractive, but in snug-fitting jeans—she had unavoidably scanned his outline beneath them—together with a tight-fitting black top that revealed his banded muscle in more than enough detail he was an incredible sight—

‘Bread?’ he reminded her sharply.

He was also the rudest man she’d ever met.

She hacked at the bread with a vicious stab. The large, country kitchen seemed to be closing around her—no wonder with his arrogant animal magnetism taking up all the space.

‘Have you eaten yet, Cassandra?’

She was surprised by the question but had no intention of sitting down to eat with him.

‘I’m not hungry.’ She was always hungry after working in the open air. ‘I’ll have something later.’

‘See that you do,’ he said, laying down his cutlery. ‘You’re far too thin.’

Apart from the fact that she had never once been called thin—she loved her food, and wasn’t prepared to sacrifice a tasty meal for the sake of wearing jeans a size smaller—he was completely out of order, making personal comments like that.

You love this job—remember?

Heaving a calming breath, she held her tongue.

The girl kept his attention, and though she wasn’t pristine, as he expected his women in Rome to be—even after cleaning herself up she had mud on her neck and more smears on her arms—at least she wasn’t a simpering fool. Neither could she be grouped with the career women with whom he sometimes had a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Cassandra was unique—and not everything on his Tuscan estate was pristine, he reminded himself. He had always thought his estate better for its quirkiness.

‘You’re enjoying the omelette?’ she guessed as he forked up the last mouthful.

‘Very much,’ he admitted.

He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he’d sat down to eat—or how different this kitchen was from his sleek, steel and black granite, largely untouched kitchen in Rome.

And he wouldn’t change a thing, he mused as he stared around. His critical stare returned to Cassandra. ‘How did you get this job?’

‘A friend of my godmother’s recommended me—she’s another keen gardener.’

‘Who employed you?’ he asked, frowning.

‘You did— I mean your...’ Cass was stumped. Her knowledge of office hierarchy was non-existent.

‘My PA?’ he offered. ‘She’s the only one with the authority to hire my personal staff.’

‘Must have been,’ Cass agreed. She didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. One piercing stare from those compelling eyes and her mind had been wiped clean.

‘I haven’t seen your CV yet,’ he pressed, holding her pinned in his stare. ‘What are your qualifications for this job?’

She had none, other than her passion for the plants she nurtured and the earth she turned. ‘I’m self-taught,’ she admitted. Her knowledge came largely from gardening books and, of course, her favourite book, The Secret Garden.

‘And your previous job?’

She watched Marco—as she must somehow learn to think of him—push his plate away before she spoke. ‘I worked the tills in my local supermarket—when I wasn’t stacking shelves.’