She’d woken this morning with a tiny glow of optimism in her chest that she was determined to cling to as tightly as she could.

Last night when she’d stormed away from the table she’d been so mad at Xavier, and so determined to leave. She’d felt hurt and exposed, and she’d wanted to stay angry at him, but he’d made it so difficult—or at least that was what she’d told herself as she’d climbed into that gloriously comfortable bed and felt a stab of guilty relief that she wasn’t climbing into a narrow bunk in a hostel room shared with strangers.

But the truth was she had been a hopeless push-over, losing the battle from the moment he touched her, when the anger pulsing in her veins had morphed into a very different sort of heat.

And then he’d tipped up her chin and said he was sorry. That the word sorry even existed in his vocabulary should have shocked her, but she’d barely noticed the apology. She’d been too distracted. Too busy watching him look at her mouth and too stunned by the knowledge of what she was witnessing in his eyes.

Heat.

Desire.

Hot, prickling awareness had washed over her, settling in the pit of her belly and leaving traces of heat long after he’d left the room.

This morning, as she’d made her way down to breakfast, which Rosa had laid out buffet-style on the terrace, her pulse had still pounded unevenly and she’d wondered what she should do with that knowledge.

Ignore it?

Pretend she hadn’t noticed?

Try to forget that she’d lain in that big bed last night and dreamt of shocking, inappropriate things that were guaranteed to make her blush furiously when she next saw Xavier?

Easier said than done.

And, yes, heat had swarmed her face—along with other, less visible parts of her body—when she’d walked onto the terrace and found him already there, sitting at the table with his long legs stretched out in front of him and his dark hair and bronzed olive skin gleaming in the sun.

He’d held an espresso cup in one hand and a palm tablet in the other. As she’d approached he’d looked up and said, ‘Buenos días.’ Then he’d enquired how she’d slept and poured her a cup of eye-wateringly strong coffee.

It had all been perfectly polite and pleasant, and that was all. There’d been no heated looks. No lingering gazes. Nothing to suggest that he hadn’t walked out of her room last night and either forgotten the moment instantly or dismissed it as being of no significance.

And it was a relief. Really, it was. She hadn’t come to Europe looking for a holiday fling, even if her friend Ellie had said that it was precisely the kind of liberating, no-strings fun she needed after enduring the toughest few months of her life.

No. She was taking a month to travel, with a list of things to do and see, and then she was going back to Australia to build a new life, since most of her old one was, sadly, now gone.

Anyway... If she were looking for a holiday romance she wouldn’t be setting her sights on a man who was as arrogant as he was sexy—and who happened to be her stepmom’s son!

The car swept around another bend and she shifted to look at the satnav on the dash.

‘Another hour,’ Xavier said. ‘If you want a drink or a restroom there’s a town a few miles ahead.’

‘No. I’m fine, thanks. Unless you need a break...?’

‘I’m good.’

His eyes were focused on the road, so she let her gaze linger on him for a bit. Just because their relationship would only ever be platonic, at best, it didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate that he was a magnificent-looking man.

He looked totally at ease in the driver’s seat of the Aston Martin—as competent and self-assured at the wheel of this sleek, powerful machine as he was at the helm of his family’s multibillion-dollar business.

Jordan wasn’t a car enthusiast by any stretch, but she had to admit that this morning, when Xavier had driven the shiny silver sports car out of its garage into the sunshine, and then lowered the roof, the prospect of riding in the luxurious convertible with the top down had sparked a tiny thrill of excitement.

‘What, Jordan?’

His deep voice startled her from her thoughts and at the same time sent a shiver racing across her skin. Before last night she’d wished he would call her by her first name; today she wished he wouldn’t. Something about the way his mouth framed the word, combined with the sound of his rich, accented baritone stroking over the syllables, was altogether too...sensuous.

‘What?’ she returned innocently.

‘You were looking at me.’

Her face heated. ‘You’re looking at the road. How can you possibly know what I’m looking at?’

Tags: Angela Bissell Billionaire Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net