Taught by the Tycoon (5 page)

His lips twitched in amusement. He’d certainly achieved the shocked reaction, though, without having to strip her of her robe, and just by showing up. Poor Rachel. Well, he’d make amends by bringing her delectable sweets and coffee.

The line for the bakery was out the door, but a call he’d placed on the drive over had ensured him bypassing it. When he pulled up to the curb, a blushing teenage employee with awe in her eyes rushed out to his car with his order in hand.

He tipped her well and gave her a broad smile that had her smiling and blushing further, before his driver pulled away from the curb moments later.

By the time he returned to Rachel’s apartment, a half hour had passed. While he hoped it would be an adequate amount of time to prepare herself for the day, his experience with women made him suspect she’d need double or triple that.

His knock on her door was answered quickly, and when she swung it inward, his brows lifted in surprise.

Not since she’d been a teenager had he seen her in jeans. For work she always came in dresses, skirts, or if she chose pants they were neatly pressed trousers.

The jeans left little to his imagination from her waist down. The denim hugged her long, lean legs, the small flare of her narrow hips, and the pert roundness of her bottom. The top she wore, however, was white and flowing with tiny flowers on the bodice area, reminding him of something you’d see in the sixties. Sadly it hid more than accented her waist and breasts.

Her damp hair was again in a braid down her back and her makeup was scarce. She was, in all appearances, fresh faced and relaxed. And refreshingly, naturally pretty.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, ushering him inside. “I suppose you could’ve just waited here.”

“Ah, but then I couldn’t have brought you these.” He lifted the bag in his hand and smiled.

She took the bag from him and peeked inside. Her eyes widened. “Are these what I think they are?”

“Yes, you’ve tried them then?” he murmured, thinking perhaps the novelty of the croissant doughnut hybrid might not be as impressive as he’d hoped.

“Of course, who hasn’t? They’re incredible.” She headed toward the kitchen, leaving him the view of her bottom swinging enticingly. “But there’s this place in Brooklyn that does them better.”

He gave a lopsided smile. “I am actually one who hasn’t tried any form of the sweet, which is why I’m amending this today.”

She laughed, and glanced at him over her shoulder. “I have to say, you’re making good progress on this relaxation thing.”

Relaxation thing? It took a moment before he remembered the discussion at dinner the night before. He’d only been half jesting when he said he didn’t know how to relax.

“So how on earth did you get there and back so fast? The line for that place on a Saturday morning can take an hour. And I’m shocked they weren’t already sold out.”

Before he could answer, she gave a knowing laugh.

“Oh wait, I almost forgot who I was talking to. You’re Damiano Mantovani.” She reached up to grab two plates from her cupboard. “You don’t have to wait in lines, and always get what you want.”

The movement of reaching for the plates had lifted her shirt up just enough to give him a glimpse of pale skin between her jeans and top.

The brief glimpse had something hot stirring inside him. He murmured, “Yes, I usually do get what I want.”

And right now, he wanted Rachel. It wasn’t a new discovery, but one that had been growing so stealthily he had nearly failed to acknowledge it.

Last night, it had taken everything within him not to back her up against her apartment door and sample the very mouth she’d complained about hating.

Maybe his words, or the tone he’d said them in, had come across as a warning, because there was a new tension in her body as she sat down at the table.

“Must be nice getting what you want all the time,” she said lightly, avoiding his gaze, “I wouldn’t know, being an everyday peasant and all.”

He couldn’t help but laugh as he sat down across from her and arched a brow. “Well, if you intend to, as you said, date someone like myself, you may be exposed to it more than you realize.”

He’d thrown the words out there lightly, seeing if she still kept up the little pretense of another man she wanted to impress. He was more than certain it was all a ruse now.

Her brows drew together and she looked somewhat disturbed. “I don’t think I’d be comfortable with special treatment in life.”

“I’m sure you would adjust. One usually does.”

She didn’t reply, but pulled the sweets from the bag and placed one on each plate.

“Your coffee.” He’d nearly forgotten to hand her hers. “Plenty of cream and a bit of sugar.”

“I’m surprised you know how I take mine.” She met his gaze briefly before taking the paper cup from him. “It’s my job to know how you take yours, but—”

“After a certain number of years working and traveling together, I imagine I’ve got you somewhat figured out.”

Or so he’d thought. That she would use this ‘teach me how to date a billionaire’ ruse was a bit surprising. Rachel was usually quite straightforward. Then again he couldn’t blame her for using the little ploy as a way of expressing her interest in him outside a professional level. She would see it as a huge gamble to her career.

Eyeing her over his coffee, he watched the delight on her face as she bit into her breakfast. Maybe it was a gamble, but no matter the outcome of what happened after they became lovers, her job as his P.A. would never be at risk.

Her gaze lifted just then and met his. “What do you think?”

“Of?”

“Your breakfast.”

He realized the first bite he’d taken had been while distracted, so he took another and gave a small nod.

“It’s delicious.”

Her lips twisted. “You’re indulging me. I know you don’t care for sweets in the morning. Which is why I was surprised you brought them for breakfast.”

“Which is why I make a terrible Italian. They love their baked goods for breakfast. But I’ve become too Americanized in demanding protein at the start of a day.” He smiled briefly. “But now and then I enjoy a sweet in the morning. Besides, it’s my apology for arriving without calling first.”

“Well then,” she said softly, watching him from beneath her lashes. “Apology accepted.”

When Damiano’s gaze narrowed on hers in a way that was almost scrutinizing, Rachel lowered her gaze back to her breakfast.

What on earth was she doing? That little comment she’d made had felt almost flirty. And she was
not
flirty with Damiano. But him showing up in her apartment, bringing her breakfast, it was upsetting their balance in the universe. She was entirely too comfortable with him right now.

This was Damiano Mantovani. The sexy, international, billionaire playboy, who also happened to be her boss. That last part she’d do really well to remember.

Rachel finished up her breakfast, deftly avoiding making eye contact now, and kept the conversation safe. As safe as it could be, at least.

“We should leave soon,” he murmured nearly a half hour later, while sliding his plate with the half-eaten treat aside. “If you’re ready?”

“I’m ready.” Ready for...what exactly? She still wasn’t certain. Trying on dresses at fancy stores, no doubt. Did she want to know how much fancy dresses cost? Likely not.

All too soon they were maneuvering down the streets of New York in the back of his sleek Rolls Royce.

With nerves bubbling in her stomach, she tried to compose herself.
I’ll just pretend this is just an average day at the office
, she thought silently.

Only it wasn’t. They were going dress shopping. Not for some woman in Damiano’s life, but for her.

The car came to a stop and Damiano whisked her out the door and into the front of a shop she didn’t recognize. Either the shop was purposely closed to the general public at the moment, or it was so early there weren’t any other customers.

Or very few people can afford the things here
. That last thought rang through her head, but she pushed it aside just as quickly.

“Mr. Mantovani.” A beautiful, slender blonde in a formfitting suit approached. “A pleasure to help you this morning.”

Damiano kept a hand on the small of Rachel’s back, and while a shiver of awareness slipped through her, she was grateful for his commanding presence.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us this morning, Madame Favreau.”

“But of course.” The French-accented woman turned to face Rachel, running a quick, unprejudiced glance over her. “Miss Edmunds, it is?”

Wishing she’d worn something a bit less bohemian, Rachel gave a brief smile and nod.

“If you would come with me, I’ve already chosen several dresses for your consideration.”

She only hesitated a moment before Damiano gave her a slight nudge to follow the woman.

“She will not bite you,” he teased. “Think of this as you trying on dresses for the dance back in school.”

She’d gone to thrift shops to find her dresses for the homecoming dance. And even then, she’d only gone to one of those dances before deciding it was complete nonsense.

“Right.” She gave what she hoped was a convincing nod.

She was shown into a room that was quite spacious, and must’ve been a sort of dressing room, but it was nothing like the ones you’d find at a department store.

It was nearly the size of bedroom, with mirrors all about, and a plush chair in the corner. Maybe the chair was for a friend or husband to help give opinions on the clothing tried on in here.

For a moment, she envisioned Damiano’s large frame curled into the chair, his gaze sliding over her as she changed. Her heart quickened and she moistened her lips.

Just as quickly the image vanished and her lips twisted in amusement. No, Damiano would certainly not be joining her in here. They weren’t lovers picking out a dress for a special occasion. This may as well have been business, whether it was on the clock or not.

There was a knock on the door before it opened and the French woman entered the room with several dresses in her arms.

As she began to hang them up, she said, “If you need any help changing into a dress, or a different size, I am here at your disposal. My name is Lillian.”

“Thank you, Lillian.”

The woman disappeared again a moment later, leaving Rachel alone with nearly a dozen dresses.

She reached for the first one, a black slinky number with no price tag anywhere to be found. Why were super expensive things always without a price? Total intimidation tactic, if you asked her.

She made a generous guess in her head at the cost, and then mentally calculated how much money she had on her credit card.

Pushing aside the burgeoning panic, she stripped out of her clothes and reached for the dress. It slid on easily enough, and lacked any sort of fastenings.

She stared at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that. It clung to her every slight curve. The style of dress was so completely out of her normal comfy casual clothing, or modest work attire. This dress...it held no secrets. It highlighted every bit of her body.

Was this what one would wear to a gala? Was it fancy enough? Too understated? Not flashy enough?

There was a tap on her door. “Rachel?”

Not Lillian, but Damiano.

Needing an opinion on the dress, she strode to the door and swung it open. Damiano and Lillian stood together, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“This is only the first one I’ve tried on,” she spoke before they could as she smoothed her hands down the front of the dress. “I don’t know what one wears to a gala exactly, or if this would be suitable.”

His gaze slid over her, if completely unreadable, then perhaps a bit clinically.

“Turn around.”

She did so without protest, allowing him to see the low-cut back of the dress.

“It would do for a gala,” he murmured impassively. “And Lillian has only brought a selection that would work well for such an event.” He gave a nod and then glanced at the other dresses on the wall. “I will see the others too, if you will.”

“Of course. I’ll go change.”

“Do you need assistance with a fastening?”

She shook her head. “There are none on this dress. Be back in a moment with the next one.”

Really, she might as well have been modeling garbage bags for how detached his reaction was. For a moment she’d felt a bit sexy, with everything feminine about her blatantly highlighted. Clearly, though, he viewed her as he might his sister.

Which had always been the case. She would always be the friend’s younger sister in his eyes. Or, now, his stable, workaholic employee. Whatever the situation, it was impersonal. It was not, and never would be, anything more.

And you would do well to remember that
, she admonished silently, before reaching for the next dress.

Damiano waited until the door to the room had closed before he let the air exhale between tightly clenched teeth.

Christ, but that dress had nearly seemed painted on her. When she’d stepped from the room, he’d found his tongue nearly glued to the roof of his mouth. He’d clenched his fists to avoid reaching out to touch the dress, to see for himself that it was indeed made of fabric.

Never had he seen Rachel’s body so clearly highlighted. And now that he knew of the slight, but delightful curves under her prim outfits she wore to the office, it would be difficult not to imagine them without layers of clothing.

He watched as she came out of the room modeling dress after dress, and kept a neutral dialog with the shop owner as they discussed each one. But no dress caught his attention the way the first one had.

When Rachel was finished trying on dresses and once again changing into the clothes she’d arrived in, he instructed Lillian to wrap the first dress up and to put it on his card.

Rachel left the room a moment later, her braided hair a bit looser and her brows drawn together.

She glanced up from where she had been digging in her purse. “So I was thinking about the purple one. What are your thoughts?”