Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire

‘Sorry—didn’t you want eggs again?’ she asked him as he groaned out loud, thinking back to her dance in the moonlight.

‘Eggs are good—eggs are fine. Thank you.’ He sat back in his chair and tried to not to think about Cassandra and her night-time activities.

‘My cooking skills are pretty basic,’ she added, as she busied herself at the business end of the kitchen. ‘Maria should get back today, so tomorrow you’ll have better food.’

And then she bent down to put a pan away and her faded denim shorts clung tightly to the outline of her bottom. The urge to join her—to stand behind her and press his body into hers—to map her buttocks with one hand holding her in place, while he pleasured her with the other—

‘More bread? Eggs? Coffee?’ she called out.

‘No. Thank you.’

When she turned to face him, his thoughts were not of breakfast but of slowly sinking into her welcoming body and sheathing himself to the hilt. Her long, slender legs would wrap around his waist, and she would move with him. Her soft cries of need would urge him on, as he worked steadily to bring her release—multiple releases, he amended. He sat up as she put a hand to her forehead. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Dishwasher tablets!’

He blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘We’re out of them,’ she explained, frowning.

So much for his fatal charm! Though, far from being discouraged, her quirky ways had only fuelled his hunger for her.

* * *

Marco di Fivizzano was driving her crazy. He was about to start clearing the garden after the storm as she set out to go shopping, and he was stripped to the waist with an axe in his hand, looking like every one of her fantasies come true. But who was he, really? Her boss was so wealthy and powerful he could keep his backstory under wraps. That didn’t stop her wondering about him. He made her curious. Everyone had an interesting backstory, once she had scraped the surface, but Marco didn’t allow anyone to get close enough to tickle his back, let alone scrape his surface.

She wouldn’t mind tickling his back... She wouldn’t mind digging her fingers into those impressive shoulder muscles—

The spell broke abruptly as Maria came bustling out of the house. There had obviously been a call for Marco. Burying the axe in the tree stump, he led the way back into the house.

Sometimes life was so unfair, Cass mused wryly as Marco and his delightful body disappeared inside the house. But there was always a next time...

She spent the afternoon in the village, where it was tranquil and cool after the storm. She still had some work to do in the garden to make sure everything was straight again, so she set off back to the house as soon as she could, and was surprised to find Marco pacing the kitchen, waiting for her.

‘Leave that now,’ he said, as she started to put away the shopping.

‘What’s wrong?’ She frowned as she straightened up.

‘We need to talk.’

She felt a frisson of alarm, and couldn’t help wondering if she was about to lose her job. She couldn’t bear to lose this job. It was perfect for her. It was her first step out of the shadows without having to confront a complex world. She had shunned the spotlight since escaping the tarnished glitter of her childhood, and here in Tuscany she was taking her first step back into the light.

‘Come into my study,’ Marco instructed.

His tone was stern, adding to her apprehension. She glanced around, thinking to learn something of him from this inner sanctum, but there was no clutter or ornament...no softening touches anywhere, as far as she could tell. There were no plants sunning on the windowsill, or papers left lying casually about. The room was still, and preternaturally tidy. It was also very expensively fitted out. He didn’t invite her to sit down. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable if he had.

He launched straight in. ‘I’ve got a problem.’

‘A problem?’ For a moment her brain refused to compute the idea that Marco di Fivizzano could have any problem he couldn’t solve, let alone a problem he was about to share with her.

‘I need your help, Cassandra,’ he elaborated, spearing her with one of his hard looks.

‘What can I do for you?’ Unless he was seeking advice on root propagation, or wanted to discuss soil management in a country that was basically a long piece of rock with almost unworkable clay loam soil, she couldn’t think how she could help him. And she somehow doubted he’d brought her in here to talk about gardening.