Gianni's Pride

by Kim Lawrence

  ‘He was so ashamed that he didn’t tell a soul.’ A shadow crossed her face. It was still hard to speak about a time that had been really hard for the family. ‘It was as if his self-esteem was wrapped in what he did. When he lost his job I think he kind of lost his identity …’

  Not quite sure how to respond to this additional information, and wondering about the entire hidden-message thing she had going on, Gianni gave a non-committal grunt.

  ‘We didn’t have a clue. He got up every morning and put on his suit, kissed my mum goodbye and went, or so we all thought, to work as normal.’

  Gianni felt a stab of sympathy for the man he had never met. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He actually went to the library. Of course, it wasn’t quite the same for him. He was nearly pensionable age. It was not so much about loss of income as he felt he’d been put on the scrap heap. I suppose if something like that happens when you’re younger,’ she said, fixing him with a steady look, ‘and used to having … nice things, it must be hard to … readjust. But there’s no shame in being unemployed. You just have to remember it’s only temporary and children don’t care what car you drive—they care about the love and attention they receive.’

  It took a few seconds for Gianni to realise that this earnest little morality tale was aimed at him. She actually thought she was talking about him. His incredulity gave way to annoyance that almost immediately tipped over into amusement.

  The question of why she had suddenly thought it was a good idea for him to stay was solved—he was a charity case.

  ‘And you’re bound to make a few mistakes at first but look at all the things you’re doing right.’

  ‘There are things I am doing right?’ Coming clean was the right thing to do, but not the most convenient thing to do.

  ‘Well, you didn’t lose your temper when he was playing up. A lot of people would.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, watching as she pressed her knee into the bulging case on the bed.

  Perhaps, Gianni reflected, it was a question best directed to himself.

  What was he doing?

  He had a healthy libido, but he also had the ability to compartmentalise his life. The fact was he could not remember the last time he’d had such a strong physical reaction to a woman, though even had the circumstances been different he doubted he would have acted on the attraction. While he was not looking for a soul mate—if such a thing existed—in his bed, neither was he looking for the sort of challenge Miranda would provide.

  Gianni saved his energy for boardroom fights; in bed he preferred something involving less effort emotionally. But anyway it was all academic. She knew Liam; that put her off limits romantically speaking. After the Laura incident he made damn sure that his lovers and his son had no contact. It was the one unbreakable rule … The question was, would it be so bad to bend it a little … temporarily?

  His lips twisted into a grimace as he reminded himself of the mistakes he’d made in his first relationship as a single father—the first had been letting it last too long, the second had been letting his tiny son become attached to Laura.

  It had not even crossed Gianni’s mind to consider the potential impact having a girlfriend might have on his son. At the time he’d still been adjusting to his role as a single parent and proving himself in his new job at the time, as a political editor for a broadsheet. On both counts it had been a steep learning curve. Being embedded with the military in a war zone had been a stroll in the park by comparison. A high-maintenance girlfriend was the last thing he had needed, but he had also recognised he wasn’t equipped to live the life of a monk. Though there had been occasions since then he had wondered if the short-lived affair had been less about satisfying his sexual desires and more about a need to prove to himself that he was over Sam, while at the same time ridding himself of any lingering concern that making a total fool of yourself or standing there with a sign saying ‘rip out my heart then stamp on it’ were habit forming.

  It turned out they weren’t. At no time during the enjoyable interlude with Laura had he felt a return of the crazy compulsion to declare his undying love. But then neither had he begun a day by having his life saved by a helmet that took a bullet intended for his skull.

  In the euphoria that had followed this brush with death he had decided that life was too damned short. Why waste time on the formalities, the polite conventions of courtship, when it was obvious that he and Sam were meant to be together—it was inevitable.

  So, bottle of champagne in his hand, a lurid bruise beginning to develop on his forehead, spent bullet in his camouflage jacket pocket and not a thought of rejection in his head, Gianni had proposed to the woman he had been convinced was his soul mate only to have her look deeply embarrassed.

  Sam’s admission that she wasn’t looking for a relationship, let alone marriage—but the sex had been good—had not been intentionally cruel, but Gianni, who for the first time in his life had imagined himself in love, had still felt as though someone had kicked him hard in his most vulnerable region.

  Having experienced it once, only a fool would invite that sort of pain and humiliation again, so instead of looking for love he had invited Laura into his bed and it had been a mutually enjoyable interlude.

  When they were together he had enjoyed the sex and when they were not together he had not thought about her—perfect. The end of the arrangement a few months later when Laura had started dating a senior partner in the law firm where she worked had not left him bitter and twisted. He had not felt slighted when Laura had said she would miss Liam and not him. It was only when it became clear that Liam was missing the pretty woman who had entered his life and then left that he realised how selfish he had been.

  The solution was to his mind obvious: in future he would keep his lovers and his son separate. Some women didn’t like the boundaries he set, but no woman was to his mind indispensable—but this one was very desirable, he conceded as his hooded gaze slipped back to Miranda’s bottom before lifting to the outline of her small plump breasts.

  An image of her lying in the bed beside him formed in Gianni’s head; the warm scent of her body, the smooth, satiny skin. He found his firm resolve wavering … It would make being holed up here a lot less painful if he could find oblivion from the problems in his life in her soft body.

  Miranda turned her head and caught a look of raw male appreciation in the dark eyes trained on her.

  With no warning a blast of heat flowed through her body as she stood frozen like a feral creature caught in the headlights.

  A silence hummed in the still air as they stood, glances locked. Even the breeze, it seemed to her, had stopped blowing through the open window. The room was hot and heavy and every breath she drew was an effort.

  She had never considered herself any man’s idea of an erotic fantasy and she had never minded telling herself she would much prefer to be appreciated for her personality and mind. She might have to rethink that, she decided as she turned away, her body still gently thrumming with sexual awareness. There were decided plus points to being looked at like a sex object.

  ‘What does it look like? I’m moving to another room.’ The barn was suddenly looking like not a bad option either.

  Gianni shook his dark head and protested. ‘I can’t chuck you out of your room, cara.’

  The casual Latin endearment made the hairs on her nape prickle. ‘It makes sense for me to move,’ she retorted, thinking especially when the option was Gianni Fitzgerald going through her room at all hours to get to his son.

  ‘You need to be close to Liam.’

  Gianni conceded the practical point with a shrug.

  ‘And I would appreciate a little privacy. It’s bad enough sharing the house with you without sharing—’ She stopped mid sentence, feeling the gauche flush rise to her cheeks, and added gruffly, ‘Everything.’

  One dark brow moved in the direction of his hairline as he glanced towards the neatly made bed. ‘Don’t wor
ry—the next time I’ll wait until I’m invited.’

  The soft suggestive drawl caused her stomach muscles to take an unscheduled dive. She straightened briefly from her task and met his gaze, amazed that she could appear so calm when her heart was racing fast enough to set off cardiac monitors in the next county.

  ‘You’ll have a long wait.’

  The lines around his eyes deepened attractively as his glance dropped with slow deliberation to her mouth. ‘A challenge?’

  She lifted her chin. ‘A fact.’

  ‘Some things are worth waiting for.’ He repeated the well-known maxim and wondered if that was where he had been going wrong. Everything in his life came easily except for being a father, maintaining a good relationship with his son’s mother, sustaining a healthy work-home balance and … Actually, he realised, nothing in his life came easy except sex.

  His eyes trained on her soft mouth. It seemed a good juncture to remind himself that the last thing he needed was sex with a redhead who thought he was some sort of charity case, basically a homeless, jobless no-hoper.

  Miranda directed a frustrated glare at his golden-toned perfect profile. The man wouldn’t recognise rejection if it bit him. ‘Not me,’ she blurted without thinking.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’ Except you’re not going to, Gianni. You sleep with women guaranteed to run at the first hint of financial ruin.

  ‘It’s true,’ she began, then stopped, realising with horror that she’d been pushed to the brink of explaining to him that she simply didn’t have a passionate nature. She was actually surprised that a man who was clearly not exactly inexperienced with women had not picked up on that immediately.

  Oliver obviously had, and he wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination what you could call a ladies’ man. Or maybe, she speculated, it wasn’t so much what she gave off but what she didn’t. Oliver had talked to her almost every day for two years and then along had come Tam with her identical face and very similar body and Oliver had been totally smitten.

  Miranda’s chest lifted in a sad, silent sigh as she considered the mystery that was sexual attraction. Whatever it was, it wasn’t about looks alone. Of course, some people had both. She angled a resentful look at Gianni Fitzgerald’s face. He had the looks and then some. Their eyes connected and Miranda felt a flash of heat run through her body. Trying hard to ignore the places the heat pooled and lingered, she lifted her chin.

  ‘I’m not going to let you be anything!’ she exclaimed, then glancing to the connecting door and lowering her voice as she added, ‘Look, I can see that you can’t help flirting with anything with a pulse, but I’m here to do a job, not bolster your ego or be a … a … television substitute.’

  The fierce addition drew a startled rumble of laughter from Gianni’s chest. ‘I can honestly say that I have never thought of you in those terms. Aren’t you afraid that you’ll injure my already damaged fragile male ego with a rejection?’ Without waiting for a reply, he bent towards her open case and shook his head. ‘You know, it might have helped if you’d taken them off the hangers. You know what they say—more haste, less speed. Do you want a hand there?’

  Miranda squared her shoulders, uncomfortably aware of the trickle of moisture tracing a sticky path between her shoulder blades.

  ‘I’ve got things under control.’ Aware the statement was untrue on more levels than she wanted to analyse, she added a stiff polite, ‘Thank you.’

  If she was going to spend what was as yet an unspecified amount of time under the same roof as this provocative man she had to do something about the uncomfortable degree of self-consciousness she felt around him.

  She had to relax.

  Easier said than done when she felt tense and edgy just thinking about his dark eyes when they were fixed on her, one moment icy and aloof, the next gleaming in a way that suggested he was enjoying some private joke at her expense. She wanted to— She closed her eyes for a split second to compose herself and shook her head, annoyed with herself for wasting time and energy in trying to analyse the way he made her feel.

  Letting him get under her skin wasn’t helping.

  Bottom line—he was annoying; she didn’t like him. He was also wildly attractive and sexy and, boy, did he know it!

  To make this experience as painless as possible she had to chill out. There was no point being openly antagonistic, especially as she had the impression he liked getting a rise out of her. How hard could it be?

  She had loved Oliver and she had been able to control her actions and feelings around him; she had no feelings beyond irritation for Gianni Fitzgerald.

  ‘I feel bad making you move.’

  ‘You’re not making me do anything,’ she retorted, transferring her anger to the zip, which moved an inch before the overstressed teeth parted company and her clothes spilled out onto the bed in a tumble of textures and colour.

  Miranda swore through gritted teeth.

  ‘Not a word I particularly want to add to Liam’s vocabulary.’

  The dry rebuke brought a sting of hot embarrassment to her cheeks. ‘Sorry. I don’t normally—’ She stopped and bit her lip, aware that she was apologising a lot.

  Gianni watched her through his thick dark lashes, a smile playing around his lips, watching her ineffectual efforts to gather the clothes. She was easy to watch; there was, he decided, something almost feline about the way she moved.

  She angled an antagonistic glare over her shoulder. ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘You. Let me!’

  About to protest, Miranda, who had dropped to her knees beside the bed, stopped herself, and instead shrugged and sat back on her heels.

  ‘Feel free,’ she said, waving her arm in a gesture of irritable invitation.

  She stood there and watched while he separated the large items she had left on hangers, shook them and draped them across her arm.

  ‘You all right with those?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Stomping up the stairs, trying to peer over the top of the clothes, she could hear him coming up behind her. When she reached the bedroom door she paused and, disentangling one hand from the clothes folded over her arms, reached for the handle. Nudging the door with her hip, she stepped inside.

  ‘This is a lovely room.’ And, more importantly, an entire floor away from him.

  ‘It’s a cupboard,’ he contradicted, stepping in after her and causing the modestly sized room to contract even more with, not just his physical size, but his overpoweringly masculine presence.

  She watched through her lashes, feeling the heat rise inside her as he bent and placed her case on the bed, pressing it with his hand as he did so. He really did have the sort of physique that any athlete would envy.

  Caught in the act of ogling—yes, there was no other word for what she was doing, she acknowledged shamefully—Miranda felt her face turn a shamed pink.

  He arched a questioning brow and produced a lopsided sardonic smile that was sinfully attractive. Despite the smile his eyes glowed with something that had nothing to do with amusement, the expression in the dark depth, causing her stomach muscles to quiver frantically.

  Miranda lifted her chin. ‘What?’ she snapped belligerently.

  ‘This bed is like a rock.’

  Miranda blinked. ‘I like a firm mattress,’ she contended.

  ‘I’m curious—if I say black, will you say white?’

  Miranda rolled her eyes.

  ‘And while we’re talking reverse psychology …’

  ‘We’re not talking reverse anything. You’re talking rubbish.’

  ‘If I say don’t kiss me, will you?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MIRANDA glared at Gianni, opened her mouth to say, In your dreams, and found herself instead grabbing his shirt and pulling herself up on tiptoe to press her lips to his.

  For a moment he did nothing, then just as she was pulling away he returned the pressure, his lips moving with sensuous skill that made Miranda, who was c
onscious of the unleashed power in him, tremble.

  She was still trembling when he put her away from him, physically depositing her a few feet away before taking an extra step back. As though, she thought as she swallowed the hysterical laughter in her throat, I might leap at him again.

  ‘I don’t know why I did that.’ The embarrassment she felt was so oppressive she could hardly look at him.

  He did and he was ashamed that he had instigated it. ‘This situation is awkward. I’m not used to—’

  Not used to having his son and a woman he had wanted to sleep with under the same roof. His eyes slid to the delicious curve of her wilful mouth and he swallowed, unable to control the response of his body.

  ‘I keep my personal life and Liam totally separate.’ It had never been a problem previously. ‘No exceptions. It’s a … a …’

  ‘Rule?’

  The Fitzgeralds, it seemed, were big on rules, though Lucy, with her lists, had stopped short of regulating Miranda’s sex life. It was not a subject that up to this point had needed regulation. Miranda had never been a very sensual person and she was not sorry about it; she had seen where giving in to sexual impulses got a person.

  ‘Yes, if you like. Liam is the only permanent thing in my life.’ The women, they came and went.

  The warning was not exactly subtle—Don’t go getting any ideas. It was a message she realised he’d been sending all day. But, my God, had his messages been mixed, she thought, recalling with indignation all the hot and cold looks he’d been dishing out.

  She adopted an expression of mock dismay and batted her eyelashes Bambi-style.

  ‘Does that mean we’re not getting married?’

  His smile flickered. ‘You’re angry?’

  She widened her eyes in a show of shocked admiration. ‘My God, you’re psychic!’