Return of the Italian Tycoon

He wasn’t sure about that, but there was one girl, Vera Carducci, and he’d had the biggest crush on her. He hadn’t thought of her in years.

“See. I was right.” Kayla smiled triumphantly.

“Actually, I was the one who got dumped.”

“That’s so hard to believe—”

“It’s the truth.” Why did he feel the need to make Kayla believe that his life was far from idyllic? What was it about her that had him letting down his guard? He had to do better. He couldn’t let her get too close. It’d only cause them pain in the end.

Kayla walked over to a tree in the school yard. Her fingers traced over the numerous carvings from initials to hearts. “Was this the kissing tree?”

He nodded, suddenly wishing they were anywhere but here.

“I bet your initials are here...somewhere.” Kayla’s voice drew him back to the present. “Want to point me in the right direction?”

“Actually, they aren’t here.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Really? I thought for sure that you would have been popular with the girls.”

He shrugged, recalling his fair share of girlfriends over the years. But he’d never kissed them here. Not a chance.

“Surely you stole a kiss or two.” Her gaze needled him for answers.

“Not here.”

“Why not?”

Oh, what did it matter if he told her? It wasn’t as if there was any truth to the legend. It was all a bunch of wishful thinking.

“There’s some silly legend attached to the tree that says whoever you kiss here will be your soul mate for life.”

Kayla’s green eyes widened with interest. “Really? And you don’t believe it?”

He shook his head. “It’s just an old wives’ tale. There’s nothing to it.”

“And yet you’ve made a point not to kiss anyone here.” She stepped closer to him. “If you don’t believe in such superstitions, prove it.”

His pulse kicked up a notch. Why was there a gleam in her eyes? Was she challenging him? Did she really expect him to kiss her here?

Instead of the idea scaring him off, it actually appealed to him. His gaze dipped to her lips. Kayla was the only woman he had ever contemplated kissing here—wait, when did that happen? He gave himself a mental jerk, but it didn’t chase away the tempting thought.

What was it about Miss Kayla Hill that had him wishing there were such things as happily-ever-afters instead of roller-coaster relationships? He’d had so much turbulence in his life that he couldn’t stand anymore. But Kayla was different. She had a calming presence.

This wasn’t right. He should make it perfectly clear that he was no Romeo, but the way she kept staring at him, challenging him with her eyes, filled him with a warm sensation. He didn’t want it to end. What would it hurt to let her remain caught up in her romantic imaginings?

Without thinking about the pros and cons of what he was about to do, he dipped his head and caught her lips with his own. Her lips were soft and pliant. He wrapped his arms around her slender waist and pulled her to him. She willingly followed his lead. Her soft curves pressed to him and a moan swelled deep in his throat. How in the world was he ever going to let her go? He’d never felt anything this intense f

or anyone—ever.

He wanted to convince himself that it was because she was forbidden fruit—his assistant. But he couldn’t buy that. There was something so special about her that he couldn’t diminish the connection with such a flimsy excuse. He knew as sure as he was standing there in a lip-lock with her that if their situation were different and he wasn’t her boss that he’d still desire her with every fiber of his body.

His mouth moved over hers, slow at first. Yet when she met him move for move, the desire burning in him flared. Her mouth opened to him and she tasted sweet like the sun-ripened berries she’d sampled back in the village. He’d never tasted anything so delectable in his life. He doubted he’d ever experience a moment like this again.

There was something so special about Kayla. It was as though no matter what he did, she could see the real him. But could she see his scars, the ones that kept him from letting people get too close?

Her hands slid up over his shoulders and wrapped around the back of his neck. Her touch sent waves of excitement down his spine. He wanted her. He needed her. But his heart and mind were still guarded.

If he let her get any closer, she’d learn of his shame—of his ultimate pain—and then she’d pity him. Pity was not something that he could tolerate. He was Angelo Amatucci. A self-made man. He needed no one’s sympathy. He needed no one.