Taught by the Tycoon (2 page)

So stilted. As if she were reading a script. “Did you go?”

“No.”

So she hadn’t yet started dating this wealthy fool, though there was still the possibility of it. Why did that relieve him?

“Would you have liked to go?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, before she lowered her lashes and nodded. “Yes, I believe so. He’s charming, and attractive.”

“Then why not accept his invitation?”

Her gaze darted back to his, distress in their hazel depths now. “Because he wanted to take me to Masa. One of the most expensive restaurants in New York.”

Damiano gave a nearly silent grunt. It sounded like whoever this man was, he was taking the quick route to impress and seduce.

“They have more than just sushi, you realize, if you don’t care for it.”

“What? No, this isn’t about the sushi,” she said quickly, and bit her lip. “Look at me, Damiano. Do I look like the kind of woman who eats at Masa?”

He almost wished she hadn’t made the request, because it gave him permission to let his gaze explore.

She looked like a woman full of surprises. A woman begging to be unwrapped from an ill-fitting suit. Had he never noticed this before, or just never allowed himself to? Maybe it was the fatigue over working long hours this week, but his mind was opening all sorts of doors right now.

He slid his gaze over her. The blazer she wore was a bit too big, hiding delicate shoulders and a slender form he’d only rarely had occasion to see. The curve of her small breasts couldn’t be hidden beneath the white button-down blouse. And she’d never been able to hide her legs with skirts that stopped just at the knees.

She looked like a woman who needed to lose control. And quite suddenly he was struck with the urge to be the one to make her lose it. Very injudicious.

He scowled, thrusting the dangerous thought aside.

“Are there types of women who eat there?” he answered, a bit terser than intended.

Rachel blinked in obvious disbelief. “Of course there’s a type. They’re the ones who carry the most expensive Mantovani bags—and, yes, maybe I have one too, but only because you gave it to me the first Christmas I worked here. I could never have afforded it on my own.”

She was talking quite quickly, and before he could get in a word edgewise, she continued on.

“And they wear designer shoes that cost thousands of dollars a pair. They have amazing apartments on Park Avenue. And they barely eat.” She pantomimed in the most fascinating and charming way someone cutting her food. “When they do eat its just tiny, insignificant bites. And they know the difference between all those ridiculously silly utensils. Really, one fork should do.”

Damiano couldn’t help but laugh. “You aren’t certain of which fork to use for your salad? I could help you learn.”

Her lips twisted into a small smile and she relaxed again. “Actually, I think you taught me that last year. Perhaps I exaggerated a bit there. But I’m not like those women, Damiano. You must know that by now. My idea of a lovely meal is at a quaint restaurant in Greenwich Village.” She gestured to her feet and even lifted her leg slightly. “These shoes, I’m proud to say, I found on clearance for around twenty-five bucks.”

She wanted him to observe her legs now? Somewhat alarmed by the turn of this discussion, he bit back a groan, grateful for his desk that separated them.

“And I certainly don’t live in an apartment on Park Avenue,” she continued, her brows drawn together in a fierce scowl that only made him notice that her eyes were more green than brown at the moment. They tended to change with her temper. “I share a small, two-bedroom apartment with my best friend in Brooklyn.”

Damiano’s attention snapped back to what she was saying at that last statement. “Pardon me? You share an apartment? I thought I kept your salary high enough to ensure you wouldn’t struggle financially.”

“Oh.” Rachel paused, seeming stricken. “You have. You’re entirely too generous with me, Damiano. Forgive me, because I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I share the apartment with my friend, not out of necessity, but out of choice. It’s
she
who is struggling financially.”

“I see.” It didn’t surprise him that Rachel would take in a struggling friend. It was in her nature. She was entirely too kind, chronically happy, and, though he’d never let on that he thought so, a bit naïve.

Something about this conversation fascinated him. He was intrigued by the flustered, almost vulnerable side of Rachel he’d never really been exposed to before. She was always so confident and cheerful. Unflappable.

And he wanted to know more about this mystery man of hers. Wanted to know why she wouldn’t let his name slide past the fullness of her pink lips.

His gaze lingered on her mouth that had always reluctantly intrigued him, and again he wondered what it would feel like beneath his. At the sweetness he would find inside.

Such a dangerous, forbidden path he really shouldn’t be exploring. Damiano tossed the pen in his hands back on the desk, and then stood.

Rachel quickly rose to her feet as well, panic flashing in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you with any of this. Really—”

“Have dinner with me.”

Any reply died on Rachel’s lips, and her thoughts scattered from her head like birds startled in the park below. For a moment she felt trapped by the intensity of his contemplative gaze and she couldn’t have looked away if she wanted to. Which was silly.

But her heart began to thud harder, and she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake by soliciting him for advice.

The first time she’d been interviewed by him, she’d nearly forgotten her own name. Fortunately he’d known exactly who she was.

Even though she’d known him as a child, the years apart after private school had dimmed the memory of him some. He’d also disappeared for several years, going back to Italy. She’d heard he’d even dropped out of college for a bit, before once again enrolling.

But seeing recent pictures in the paper hadn’t prepared her for the devastatingly handsome man Damiano had grown into. Not just handsome, but heaven help her, he was charming.

Sometimes she questioned whether he’d given her the job because she was Theo’s younger sister. It hadn’t mattered though. Her pride hadn’t cared. She’d gratefully accepted the position as his personal assistant and vowed to go above and beyond.

She’d forced herself to present a level of immunity to him, a complete indifference, because she would not be one of those nitwits who fell in love with her boss.

Damiano was
not
to be seen as a sexual being. He was her superior. A friend of her brother. She would not be attracted to him. This had become almost her daily mantra, and she’d done fairly well at never giving him any reason to think otherwise.

Until one little night in Paris.

Her heart tripped, and she worried that he might see the sudden softness in her gaze. The memory of what she so desperately tried to forget. With what seemed like a massive effort, she forced her gaze away.

She’d been prepared for the possibility of being brushed off with some comment about how this conversation was hardly professional. And yet he hadn’t. Instead he’d asked her to dinner.

“Dinner?” she repeated haltingly.

“Yes. It’s a meal. Sometimes they serve fish,” he teased. “Conversation is known to occur during such an event. Which would be perfect as we can continue ours.”

Now that he stood, he seemed to loom above her. His height always made her feel at the disadvantage. She wasn’t petite, but Damiano was tall enough that her head only reached his shoulders.

She tried to form a witty reply. Knew that he expected it. But her attention was distracted by the fact that he no longer wore his suit jacket that he’d had on early in the day. Her gaze inadvertently wandered over the dark curls that peeked above the crisp white shirt that wasn’t quite buttoned to the top.

Her mouth grew dry and she curled her fingers into fists, dismayed to realize she had the desire to explore those curls. To discover the hardness beneath them.

These urges had become more frequent lately, and they were completely unwelcome and inconvenient. Much like a cold one would pick up on the subway and be unable to shake.

But she had to shake it. Oh god, she had to shake it. Which was why she knew she had to make an attempt to start dating. Which was also why being alone with him in a non-work situation was risky.

“I thought dinner involved a treadmill, but thank you for setting me straight,” she replied with an attempt at humor, but she knew she was still blushing, and she turned away so he wouldn’t see how much his request had unnerved her.

She took a few steps to the window that overlooked Central Park, and trailed her finger over the cool glass pane. The lush canopies of green trees were bathed in the setting sunlight, but even the lovely view wasn’t enough to help her unease.

It was just a dinner invite, so why was she freaking out? It wasn’t as if they hadn’t dined together countless times before.

Her friends made it no secret they envied her job. Being paid to travel the world with one of the most handsome, eligible billionaires in existence.

But it had never been glamorous for her. Most of the business trips she’d accompanied him on, she’d usually retire to her room to take a meal while he dined with clients. Or often, if there was time, she might go out alone to explore the city they were in. Sometimes he’d join her, but more often not. He was all business, very little pleasure.

She’d been so deliberate, so cautious in her attempts to keep things professional between them. And now tonight it seemed she was sprinting past that line drawn in the sand by requesting his help.

She’d been stupid to seek advice from the man she was trying to distance herself from emotionally.

He was waiting for an answer. She knew it, and realized he must be analyzing her response with every second that passed.

“It’s a Friday night,” she hedged. “Surely you must have other plans.”

She could sense his presence, even without hearing the approach of his silent footsteps.

“Nothing that cannot be rearranged.” His words were soft, deceptively casual, and so close to her ear she could almost feel the heat from his breath.

Her muscles coiled with awareness and she closed her eyes.

“Unless you’ve already eaten?”

“No. I haven’t.” She wanted to lie, but sensed he’d see right through it. He always knew when she lied, could read her like the Sunday Times, and usually she wasn’t stupid enough to try it.

“Wonderful. I’ll have my driver pick us up downstairs in a few minutes.”

Settling into the Rolls Royce some minutes later wasn’t exactly a novelty for her anymore. She traveled enough with Damiano to be used to it. Besides, she counted herself among the New Yorkers who weren’t easily impressed by celebrities or wealth anyway.

The novelty part came into effect when they were ushered to a small, intimate booth in the back of an exclusive restaurant. She wasn’t altogether unfamiliar with the place, having made reservations for Damiano numerous times, but more often it was for him and the current lady on his arm.

Or in his bed
.

She ignored the voice in her head. This was business tonight, albeit strange business that was more on the personal side, but she wasn’t delusional enough to think him taking her to dinner had any romantic connotations.

“Would you care for wine, Rachel?”

About to say no, she changed her mind. Maybe a glass of wine would help relax her.

“I would actually love a glass.”

His soft, knowing chuckle sent a shiver of awareness down her spine. When the waiter approached he ordered them a bottle of wine she’d never even heard of.

Soon she had a glass of red liquid courage before her, and she wasted little time in taking that first sip.

Don’t drink it all in one gulp, girl, this stuff probably costs three figures for the bottle
.

“Tell me, Rachel, do you have any plans for the long weekend?”

Besides watching a series of Audrey Hepburn movies and indulging in chocolate cake? Not a lot. But she could hardly admit that to her tremendously cultured boss.

She remembered the times when her brother and Damiano would watch action flicks as teenagers. She doubted Damiano had sat down and watched a movie in years. He was constantly in work mode. The only time she’d seen him out of it was no doubt when he slept, and when he’d take a woman out.

Like tonight, and somehow she’d become the woman he was entertaining. Sort of. Without the sexual attraction business to get in the way.

“No plans this weekend really,” she murmured, “Just to relax.”

A faint smile crossed his lips. “Hmm. I shall have to try this relaxation thing you speak of some day.”

As she took another sip of her wine, she watched him over the rim of her glass.

He cradled his glass in long, capable fingers, his gaze amused as he watched her. She felt a little bit like a bug under a microscope and just barely resisted the urge to squirm in her seat.

“You really should,” she agreed lightly, sliding her gaze away. “I bet you’d actually love it.”

He tilted his head, and then murmured, “Hmm. Or maybe you can teach me?”

“Teach you?” she parroted in disbelief. “How to relax?”

“But of course.”

She gave a nervous laugh, not sure what he’d meant by that remark. “No teaching necessary. I promise it’s self-explanatory.”

“Yes, of course you’re right.” He reached for the bottle of wine and refilled her half-empty glass.

Crap, had she really drunk that much already? She took another sip before burying her face in the menu.

She saw the prices, or lack there of, and felt the color drain from her face. Unlisted prices were never a good thing. Reaching again for her wine, she knew she’d need it to get through this evening.

Damiano watched in amusement, as his usually composed assistant seemed a little nervous at being alone with him.