Inside her glove her hand felt damp and she could feel beads of sweat running down her face beneath her mask. The element of surprise was crucial in fencing and Sophie’s sudden lunge and slashing attack with her sabre caught Nicolo off guard. He parried and drove forwards, but he was slightly off balance and stumbled. Seizing the advantage, Sophie drove forwards and pushed the blunt tip of her sabre into his chest.
For a few seconds he did not move as he stared in shocked silence at the blade touching his chest. Sophie could hardly believe it herself, but, as the realisation that she had beaten him sank in, she felt a wild sense of elation. Taking off her mask, she shook back her hair and grinned.
‘I probably should have mentioned that a couple of years ago I was ranked fourth in the British Fencing Association’s women’s sabre team and I’ve competed at an international level.’
Nicolo removed his mask and stared at her, his granite features revealing nothing of his thoughts. He shook his head in disbelief that he had lost the duel. To think he had taunted her about pride coming before a fall, he thought ruefully.
‘Miss Ashdown,’ he exhaled heavily, ‘you are something else.’
He had never met a woman like her. Dio, she was half his size. It was no excuse that he had not fenced for over a year and he was not as fit as he should be—the result of too many hours sitting at his computer, Nicolo acknowledged derisively. There was no denying that Sophie had beaten him fair and square.
His eyes narrowed on her face, flushed with triumph. ‘You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?’ he said drily.
She smiled sweetly, ‘Absolutely not. Are you a bad loser, Mr Chatsfield?’
Nicolo felt his lips twitch. He could not help it. ‘I hope not. Are you an insufferably smug winner, Miss Ashdown?’
‘I’ll try not to gloat too much.’
To Sophie’s astonishment he threw back his head and laughed.
‘Someone needs to take you in hand,’ he murmured, in a sexy, gravelly voice that sent a little quiver down her spine.
She handed him her sword and took off the fencing jacket. She was still catching her breath and the jerky rise and fall of her breasts beneath her tight-fitting tee shirt captured Nicolo’s attention. His body stirred. It had been a long time since he’d felt the honeyed throb of desire and he had almost forgotten how pleasurable sexual anticipation could be. Not that he was anticipating anything would happen with Sophie Ashdown, but he was aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere and he could tell from the sudden tautness of her body that she felt the prickle of sexual tension between them.
She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘So, it’s settled. I’ll be staying here at Chatsfield House for a few days—unless you have changed your mind about attending the shareholders meeting?’
‘I haven’t. And I warn you, you’ll be wasting your time,’ Nicolo growled. ‘I have no intention of being Christos Giatrakos’s puppet and doing what he wants.’
‘You agreed that I could try and persuade you,’ Sophie reminded him. ‘Anyway, Christos wants me to stay at Chatsfield House for a few days and sort through some of the files that your father kept here. Is there a particular bedroom you would like me to use?’
He was tempted to say mine, just to see what her reaction would be. No doubt her hazel eyes would flash with outrage, Nicolo mused. But what if her response was different?
For a few seconds he allowed himself to imagine a scenario in which he carried her upstairs to bed. The aggression between them during the fencing bout had simmered with an undercurrent of sexual awareness. The evidence pointed to her being a wildcat; she had, after all, challenged him to a duel.
He ran his eyes appraisingly over her, noting how her hair had come loose and tumbled around her shoulders in a mass of silky waves. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty rose-pink and her mouth was soft and temptingly kissable. He briefly wondered what it would be like to feel her lips beneath his.
Madonna, this was not a path he wanted to go down, Nicolo told himself sternly. He had no interest in Christos Giatrakos’s ultra-confident, ultra-irritating personal assistant. He would have to put up with her presence for a couple of days, but once she’d realised that he would not change his mind about the meeting she would presumably take herself back to London.
‘You can use the room at the far end of the second-floor landing,’ he told her abruptly. ‘It has a good view of the Chiltern hills from the window.’ He did not add that the guest room was at the opposite end of the house from his room.
Honeymoon postcards to Gene from Nicolo and Sophie
ISBN: 978-1-472-09591-6
BILLIONAIRE’S SECRET
© 2014 Chantelle Shaw
Published in Great Britain 2014
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited
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