Pregnant By The Commanding Greek. Natalie Anderson

      ‘You’ll need to bring the dog and all his accoutrements.’ He checked his watch and then glanced back at her.

      ‘Yes, of course.’ She lifted her chin.

      The action didn’t make her any taller. She remained a smidgeon shorter than the average woman and slight through the shoulders. Her dark blonde hair was swept off her face into a loose, messy ponytail and her wide green eyes offered unusually clear reflections of her feelings.

      She wasn’t the sleek automaton he’d envisaged when he’d been told about her. She wore barely any make-up—as far as he could tell, there was little more than a slick of lip gloss. Yet her skin was smooth, unblemished and glowing. The uniform black trousers and monogrammed T-shirt she wore did little to reveal much of her figure, but what they did show was slim and the suggestion of fit. His overall impression was of supple, fresh femininity. He’d been accosted by another of the more elderly residents in the lift this morning who’d been at pains to tell him that Antoinette Roberts was the only reason he’d remained at Cavendish House in recent years.

      One look at her and Leon understood why.

      But she wasn’t his type. She’d spoken to him in a way no one else dared to. Tearing strips off him with blunt, brutal honesty, not stopping to censor herself or having the slightest hesitation in telling him what she really thought. Her heart wasn’t just on her sleeve, she was waving it on a flag in front of him.

      It was extremely novel. In his life, communicating emotions had not only been discouraged, but also punished. As his parents had ruthlessly taught him, any kind of emotional display was a weak loss of self-control.

      Yet he didn’t want Antoinette to start picking her words with care now. He liked knowing, without any uncertainty, exactly what she was feeling. And it was her fierce protectiveness that riveted him. Like a lioness protecting a lone cub, she’d held her corner and not given an inch, no matter the possible personal cost to herself. She’d fully expected him to fire her. But Leon knew people made mistakes. He’d give her one chance to redeem herself.

      ‘Be on time. Always. I don’t like to be disturbed,’ he said roughly.

      ‘I can be discreet,’ she answered defiantly.

      He simply stared at her. As if she could come into his apartment unseen? Unheard? As if she could ever be anything but disruptive?

      A thread of wicked amusement trickled through him as she stilled in the face of his silence. He knew the exact moment she mentally replayed her words and realised an alternative innuendo. The same intimacy-drenched scenario he was imagining. A deep rose burnished her creamy skin—her cheeks, her neck, even the small hint of skin he could see at the vee of her high-collared T-shirt. But then he registered the rebellion in her gaze again—together with her less than subtle attempts to suppress it.

      He didn’t want her to suppress anything.

      The urge to haul this petite emotional tornado close and kiss her into a frenzy of desire almost felled him. Grimly he fought the need to provoke her into taking everything else she might want from him. He knew he could. He saw the awareness in her eyes. Women found him attractive and sex was a fun relaxant. But he’d bet that sex with Girl Friday here wouldn’t be as much fun as mind-blowing. If the incandescence of her anger was anything to go by, in bed she’d be unrestrained and utterly responsive.

      Sex of the best kind. The kind that was irresistible.

      He knew she felt the sparks. They were why she’d flushed over her choice of words. Why she’d trembled at his inadvertent touch before. Why she was looking at him with unrestrained rebellion now. Because she didn’t want this chemistry either. And that irritating rejection was precisely why he couldn’t resist making what he knew would be a massive mistake.

      He roughly pushed the request past the tightness in his throat. ‘I want you in my apartment in one hour.’