‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Alessandro di Agnio,’ he introduced himself brusquely, and thrust one hand out for her to shake.
Meghan inclined her head in introduction, resisting the impulse—the desire—to take his hand. Long, tapered fingers, strong, square nails. No, she didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to invite that particular temptation into her life.
‘I don’t think I know you,’ she said, for he was still staring at her, eyes narrowed, mouth thinned in … what? Disapproval? Dislike? Disdain? Whatever it was, Meghan didn’t like it.
He dropped his hand, smiling slightly in rueful acknowledgement of her rebuff.
‘No, you don’t. Not yet. But I hope you will very shortly.’ His mouth curved in a small wry smile that flickered along her nerve-endings, skittered across her pulse. ‘I wanted to hire your services for the evening.’
Meghan recoiled in spite of her best intentions to stay aloof. His words echoed in her brain. Hire your services. His meaning, the desire darkening his eyes, the faintly sneering curl of his lip, were plain enough.
She lifted her chin, summoned her strength. ‘Services? I think you’re talking to the wrong woman, signore.’
There was a moment of charged silence as he regarded her in obvious distaste. ‘Perhaps I am. I need to hire a waitress for a private dinner party at my villa.’ He raised an eyebrow, humour and contempt mingling in those dark, knowing eyes. ‘Or were you thinking of some other kind of services?’
Humiliation burned colour in her cheeks. Her stomach felt as if it were coated in ice … or acid. Still Meghan glanced at him coolly, refusing to be unnerved. Condemned. ‘A strange man asks to see me in the middle of the street—wants to hire my services— what am I supposed to think?’
‘I can hardly put myself in your place, but I would imagine most women wouldn’t immediately think they’d been mistaken for a whore.’
‘Most women wouldn’t appreciate being looked over like a piece of meat,’ Meghan replied shortly. The word echoed in her numb brain. Whore.
A faint blush stained Alessandro di Agnio’s sharp cheekbones, and he gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. Meghan knew his type well enough to know there would be no apology forthcoming.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, surprising her. ‘You’re a beautiful woman, and Italian men admire that. Some are more obvious than others. I promise you, I want to hire you as a waitress only, at my villa. It’s a private dinner party for two.’
No doubt the business colleague from lunch, Meghan surmised. She’d seen the way his watery eyes had roved over her, the way his little mouth had pursed in greedy desire.
Yet she wasn’t afraid of that man.
She was afraid of this one.
Afraid of his power, his effortless control, the way his eyes swept her from head to foot … the way her body reacted, tensing, tingling.
He had the face of an angel, Meghan thought, with those liquid eyes and sculpted lips. Not the innocent round-faced cherubs she’d seen in frescoes, but something elemental, beautiful in its power. His jaw was square, cheek-bones chiselled. A dangerous angel.
She shook her head. ‘Why me?’
‘I want a pretty girl as a waitress.’ He shrugged, unapologetic. Unashamed. ‘Someone to lighten the atmosphere, add a bit of flair. It’s not an uncommon desire.’
Meghan cringed just a little bit at his words. A pretty girl. That was all she was, all she’d ever be. So little, so damning.
‘Lighten the atmosphere?’ she repeated, with a scornful note of incredulity. ‘I’m not an entertainer.’
‘Aren’t you?’ His eyes burned her from head to toe, and a slow smile stole over his features.
Meghan flushed angrily. He might not have said it in so many words, but she knew what he thought. Perhaps even what he expected. ‘You don’t know me, signore, she said in a voice of restrained fury. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘No, I don’t.’ His eyes flicked coolly back up to her face. ‘Not yet. So what will it be? I’ll pay you double what you make at Angelo’s.’ There was an impatient edge to his voice. ‘Triple. I’m sure you could use the money.’ His dispassionate glance raked her again, taking in her worn white tee shirt with its tomato sauce stain, the black skirt that was cheap and shiny from wear.
Meghan refused to be embarrassed. She was a waitress; of course she was poor. Of course she could use the money.
And yet she didn’t like the way Alessandro looked at her. As if he were buying goods, services, and cheap ones at that.
‘Well?’
Meghan knew she should say no. Whatever Alessandro di Agnio said about hiring her as a waitress, she knew there were other expectations involved. A man didn’t look at her like that if he just wanted her to serve food.
And yet Alessandro di Agnio hardly seemed like the kind of man who needed to purchase his pleasure.
Her stomach roiled with nerves; doubt wound tendrils around her heart. She didn’t know what kind of man he was. She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
She certainly didn’t want to go to his villa alone, unprotected. Vulnerable.
Unless she could be stronger than that. Unless she could make it work to her advantage. Get through dinner, leave with euros in her pocket and a smile on her face.
Nothing changes the past.
No matter how far you run.
‘One night,’ Meghan clarified.
His lip curled. ‘You want more?’
‘Certainly not,’ she snapped. ‘I’m leaving Spoleto anyway.’
‘Things not to your liking?’
Meghan’s mouth hardened into an unforgiving line, a determination darkening her eyes. ‘It’s time to move on.’
‘Then earn triple the last night you’re here,’ Alessandro suggested smoothly.
Meghan lifted her chin. Her pulse raced, blood rushed in her ears. ‘Maybe I will.’
His eyes fastened on hers, and Meghan saw the hunger in them turning them opaque. She saw expectation, anticipation. Satisfaction. The deep, primal look of a conqueror regarding his spoils.
And she knew that, no matter what Alessandro said, he thought he was getting something more than a waitress for the night.
And was he?
No. For once she would prove who she was. What she was.
And what she wasn’t.
‘Yes, I’ll do it,’ she said, her voice coming out strident. ‘What time do you want me to come? And where?’
‘Villa Tre Querce. It’s five kilometres outside of town. I’ll send a car.’
‘No.’ She didn’t want his car showing up at the grotty hostel she currently called home, and she didn’t want to take anything else from Alessandro di Agnio. ‘I’ll take the bus.’
‘The buses don’t go to Tre Querce,’ Alessandro informed her shortly. ‘I have a car and a driver. Give me your address, and I’ll send him to fetch you at seven o’clock. We’ll dine at eight.’
‘That doesn’t give me much time,’ Meghan protested. ‘It must be six o’clock now.’ Already there was a slight chill in the spring air,