The Bride Fonseca Needs. Эбби Грин

of why it was so important—that it would bring him to a place of acceptance, both internally and externally, where he would finally be able to move on from the sense of exposure and humiliation that had dogged him his whole life. And, worse, the sense of being abandoned.

      Yet he couldn’t deny it. ‘Yes. It’s important to me.’

      She fixed her wide blue gaze on him but he could see how pinched her face was. Reluctance oozed from her every pore.

      ‘I’ll stay on—but only until the deal is done and only if what happened tonight doesn’t happen again.’

      She looked at him, waiting for a response. The truth was that if Max wanted something he got it. And he wanted Darcy. But for the first time in his life he had to recognise that perhaps he couldn’t always get what he wanted. That some things were more important than others. And this deal with Montgomery was more important than having Darcy in his bed, sating his clawing sense of frustration.

      Also, he didn’t want her to see that it was a struggle for him to back off. That would be far too exposing.

      So he said, with an easiness that belied every bone in his body that wanted to throw her onto the nearest flat surface, ‘It won’t happen again, Darcy. Go home. We’ve got another long day and evening ahead of us tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring a change of clothes for dinner tomorrow night. We’ll be going straight from the office.’

      Darcy didn’t say anything. She just turned and walked out of the room and the door closed with incongruous softness behind her.

      Max walked over to the window. After a few minutes’ delay he saw her emerge from the building in her coat, walking briskly away from the building, merging with Rome’s late-night pedestrian traffic.

      Something in his body eased slightly now that she was no longer in front of him, with those wide blue eyes looking so directly at him that he felt as if he were under a spotlight.

      No woman was worth messing up this deal and certainly not little Darcy Lennox, with her provocative curves. Max finally turned around again and sighed deeply when he saw the slew of papers strewn across his desk and floor.

      Instead of leaving himself, he went back to the bar, refilled his glass with whisky and then sat down and pulled the nearest sheaf of papers towards him. He put Darcy firmly out of his head.

      * * *

      Darcy tossed and turned in bed a little later, too wired to sleep. It was as if her body had been plugged into an electrical socket and she now had an excess of energy fizzing in her system.

       She’d been plugged into Max.

      Even though she was lying down, her limbs took on a jelly-like sensation when she recalled that moment of suspended tension just before he’d kissed her and everything had gone hazy and hot. She could still feel the imprint of his body against hers and between her legs she tingled. She clamped her thighs together.

      They’d taken a quantum leap away from boss/PA, and it had happened so fast it still felt unreal. Had she really threatened to leave her job? And had he more or less threatened her future employment prospects if she did? She shivered slightly. She could well imagine Max doing just that—she’d witnessed his ruthlessness when it came to business associates first-hand.

      The deal with Montgomery meant more to him than the potential awkwardness of having shared an intimate and highly inappropriate moment with his PA.

      No matter what Max said, Darcy had no doubts that what had happened had been borne out of insanity brought on by fatigue and the moment of intimacy that had sprung up when he’d told her about his past.

      She hadn’t expected to hear him reveal that he’d been homeless. Any other student from Boissy wouldn’t have lasted two days on the streets. But Max had lasted two years, and crawled his way out of it spectacularly.

      He’d mentioned a brother, and his father. His parents’ divorce. Questions resounded in Darcy’s head as the enigmatic figure of Maximiliano Fonseca Roselli suddenly took on a much deeper aspect.

      Unable to help herself, she leaned over and switched on the bedside light, picked up her tablet. She searched the internet for ‘Max Fonseca Roselli family’ and a clutch of pictures sprang up.

      Darcy’s breath was suspended as she scrolled through them. There was a picture of a very tall and darkly handsome man: Luca Fonseca, Brazilian industrialist and philanthropist. Max’s brother. His name rang a bell. And then more pictures popped up of the same man with a stunningly beautiful blonde woman. They were wedding photos. Darcy recalled that she’d read about the wedding between Luca Fonseca and the infamous Italian socialite Serena DePiero recently.

      Had Max gone to the wedding? Darcy was about to search for more information on his parents when she realised what she was doing and closed the cover of her tablet with force.

      She flipped off the light and lay down, angry with herself for giving in to curiosity about a man with whom she’d shared a very brief and ill-advised moment of pure unprofessional madness. A man she should have no further interest in beyond helping him to get this deal so that she could get the hell out of his orbit and get on with her life.