Sensible Housekeeper, Scandalously Pregnant. Jennie Lucas

a pause in the darkness. “Miss Grey.” His voice sounded suddenly odd, almost wistful. “You seem to always know what I need. Sometimes even before I do.”

      The look he gave her made her heart catch in her throat. As if he needed something very much right now and wished she knew what, without him saying a word.

      She felt his look with a flood of heat. Against her will, she was reminded of how it had felt when he’d kissed her…No. She wouldn’t think about that night. Couldn’t!

      “It’s my job to know what you’ll want,” she said evenly, folding her arms. “You pay me to know.”

      The words you pay me hung between them, dividing them.

      “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “I do.”

      He turned away, but not before she caught the stark look in his eyes. The same look she’d seen on his face when he’d first come through the garden gate. It wasn’t anguish, exactly, but a flash of vulnerability. Of weariness. Loneliness. But that was ridiculous. How could the most ruthless playboy in Europe ever be lonely?

      “You never should have sent the maid,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “I told you specifically I wished for you to bring me dinner. Not some maid. You.”

      He wanted to be alone with her?

      Exhilaration flooded through her. Then fear overwhelmed everything. She couldn’t allow herself to be seduced again, couldn’t!

      She kept her expression unmoved, hiding her emotions behind layers of her training as she’d been taught. Formality was her strongest weapon. Her only weapon.

      “I regret I did not correctly understand your request, sir,” she said stiffly. “I have brought up a newly prepared sandwich for your dinner.” She gave him a little bow. “Now, if you please, I will leave you to the peace and tranquility of your own company.”

      “Stop.”

      Something in his voice made her obey. Slowly she turned back to face him.

      His face was dark. He came close to her, almost touching. “I never should have done it.”

      “Thrown the tray?” she agreed.

      His dark eyes seared through hers. “Made love to you in Paris.”

      For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

      Her desire for her boss threatened everything she held dear. Her career. Her self-respect. Her soul.

      She forced herself to straighten. “I don’t remember any such incident, sir.”

      “Don’t you?” he said in a low voice. He reached down to stroke her cheek. His fingertips were featherlight as he turned her chin to meet his gaze, and she shivered at his touch, at the intensity of his dark eyes. “If you cannot remember it, then I must have been mistaken,” he whispered. “I didn’t kiss you, then. I didn’t feel your body trembling against mine.”

      “No, you didn’t.” She could hear the rasp of her own breath, was choked by the frantic beating of her heart. “It never happened.”

      He leaned forward. “Then why,” he said, “have I thought of nothing else?”

      Her knees shook. She was so close to surrender. So close to acting like all the others, to flinging herself at him. But there could be only one end to that. She’d seen it played out too many times.

      Rafael Cruz was ruthless. He broke women’s hearts with careless pleasure.

      If she let herself want him—he would be the poison that killed her.

      She shook her head desperately. “I don’t remember you so much as kissing me.”

      “Perhaps,” he said softly, “this will remind you.”

      Lowering his head, he kissed her.

      His lips seared hers, scorching her entire body with that one point of contact. She felt his arms around her, pulling her close, closer still until his large, muscular body seemed to surround her on all sides. She was lost, lost in him. His tongue swept hers, causing every nerve ending from her nipples to her earlobes to her toes to sizzle and contract.

      He kissed her, and against her will, she surrendered.