‘I’m always hungry,’ she admitted without thinking.
The wistful note in her voice drew a smile from Emilio. ‘Then that settles it.’
His response drew Megan’s attention to his face. ‘Settles what?’
‘I don’t recall you being this belligerent. Low sugar levels?’
The confident assertion drew a snort from Megan. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my sugar levels.’ It was a great pity the same could not be said of her hormone levels, which had been running riotously out of control since Emilio had appeared.
Since he’d kissed her.
The memory she had tried so hard to suppress rushed over her. It was like walking headlong into a solid wall of heat. It stole her breath, her skin prickled hotly, low in her pelvis things tightened. Megan shuddered, her eyes darkening as she remembered the moment his tongue had stabbed deep into her mouth, the abrasive contact making her melt.
Eyes glazed and misty, she half lifted a hand to her lips, then, catching his dark stare, let it fall away.
She took some comfort from the realisation that she was not likely to be the only female whom he had this effect on.
Don’t start thinking you’re anything special, Megan. You’re creased, cranky and the last person in the world he wants to be lumbered with.
So why didn’t he dump you in an airport hotel?
She was too warm in her linen jacket, air conditioning or not. Her covetous gaze moved resentfully up from his gleaming shoes. She had not got very far before her resentment fell away, and the emotion that replaced it tightened like a fist in her chest—she might not be special, but Emilio was!
There was a ribbon of colour across his cheekbones accenting the sharp, sybaritic curve as their stares briefly connected.
The challenge in his made her heart beat faster as she let her lashes fall in a protective mesh over her eyes.
‘All right, you can buy me breakfast, but nowhere too posh. I look scruffy.’ What could be the harm eating in a public place? And it might be nice to see a part of Madrid that was not her hotel room.
‘I had thought we’d go Dutch, but …’
Despite herself, Megan found herself laughing.
MEGAN lagged a little behind as she followed Emilio into the building. They had crossed the foyer and entered a lift before her preoccupied brain made a fairly obvious leap.
‘This is not a restaurant.’
As she spoke the glass doors closed with a silent swish and the elevator rose silently. Megan, who was not fond of heights, did not take the opportunity to look down into the greenery-filled atrium below.
‘Smart and beautiful.’
Very beautiful, but not obvious, he mused, studying her face. She had classic English-rose beauty, her face a perfect heart shape, her pale complexion flawless. It was the sort of face that might not leap out of a crowd, but great, actually fantastic, bones and once you started looking you found you couldn’t stop.
Or is that just me?
She was about as far removed from the plastic production-line beauty that most of the females he encountered boasted, but then she had what cosmetic enhancement and beauticians could not give. Megan had class; quiet, understated class.
Unaware of his scrutiny, Megan slung him a dark look, smoothed her hair and tried to slow her rapid, shallow, audible inhalations as the elevator came to a smooth halt. She was uneasily aware that vertigo only explained part of her breathing difficulties.
‘Annoying and sarcastic,’ she countered, directing what she hoped was a cool, calm look up at him. ‘What is this place, Emilio?’ And why wasn’t the damned door opening? she wondered, sliding a stressed look at the button on the wall behind him.
She wasn’t claustrophobic and the space was far from cramped, but if the door didn’t open soon she wasn’t sure how long she could resist the strong impulse that was telling her to push him out of the way and punch in the instruction necessary herself or, failing that, bang on the door for help.
Emilio continued to stare as he gave a shrug of disinterest. The building, situated in one of Madrid’s most exclusive residential areas, had been an investment, one that he had actually forgotten he had made until his ever-efficient PA had pointed out that the penthouse apartment being empty could be an obvious solution to his temporary housing situation.
‘I live here.’
Megan’s stomach went into a lurching dive as she digested this information in silence. ‘Live?’ She was able to keep the panic from her voice, but not her tawny eyes, as she stared at a point midway up his broad chest. ‘Live as in …?’
He looked amused by the question. ‘Live, as in I go home to at the end of the day.’
Her eyes dropped as the sarcasm in his voice brought a flush to her cheeks. Agreeing to eat with him in a public place with people around was one thing, but this was not what she’d signed up for!
For God’s sake, Megan, she counselled herself crossly, act your age. How long could it take to swallow a cup of coffee and gulp down a pastry?
What was the alternative, run away like a frightened kid?
Emilio Rios, she reminded herself, could literally have any woman he wanted. He’s not lured you to his apartment to make a pass at you!
The recognition should have made her feel happier.
It didn’t. It wasn’t that she wanted to be someone else, she was happy being herself, but it would have been nice to know what it felt like to exude that indefinable something that made men notice you that way.
Men?
Or was it one specific man she wanted to notice her?
Megan closed down the line of thought, drawing a firm line under the ludicrous flow of speculation. She was a practical person, not given to wishing for things she could not have, and no amount of wishful thinking or Chanel suits were going to give her what women like Rosanna were born with.
As for wanting to be noticed by Emilio Rios. She pressed a hand to her stomach where a fluttering had joined the hollow feeling; even the thought of such a thing made her feel queasy.
Or something!
‘We could go to a restaurant if you prefer?’
Megan found herself responding to the challenge, imagined or otherwise, in his voice.
‘No, this is fine.’ She glanced down at her watch, silently trying to calculate how soon she could make an escape without looking rude.
Five minutes tops to gulp down coffee and a pastry, Megan reckoned, though actually what was so bad about appearing rude? It wasn’t as if he would recognise polite conversation if it bit him on his bottom.
‘You’re not on the clock. Relax.’
‘I am relaxed,’ she gritted, plastering on a determined smile.
Emilio, who had seen nervous bridegrooms who looked more relaxed, did not comment. ‘You seemed surprised that I have an apartment. What did you think—I sleep at my desk?’ he asked, sounding amused.
Her golden eyes swept upwards. ‘Wherever you sleep, I’m sure it’s not alone.’
‘And that bothers you?’ He framed the question slowly, his perceptive gaze trained on her face.
Megan found