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rong>‘Now you need someone to satisfy your needs.’

      Emily turned her head and opened her eyes. His head was close, resting on the cushion right by hers. ‘What makes you think I haven’t got someone already?’

      ‘If you did, you wouldn’t be looking at me with those hungry eyes.’

      She lifted her head, a little on her dignity. ‘You don’t need to lay it on with a trowel, Luca. I’m not completely inexperienced.’

      ‘Only relatively—si?’ He laughed. ‘What was he? Some young fool who wouldn’t know how to give pleasure to a woman even if she gave him step-by-step instructions and a map showing the way?’

      She felt the blush covering her cheeks and neck, and she shut her eyes again to pretend it wasn’t happening. He’d been exactly like that.

      ‘Emily. I can offer you nothing but a memory.’ His voice was a little strained. ‘But I think it would be some memory.’

       Praise for Natalie Anderson:

      ‘Natalie Anderson is one of the most exciting voices in steamy romantic fiction writing today. Sassy, witty and emotional, her Modern Heats are in a class of their own…’

       —Cataromance

       BOUGHT: ONE NIGHT, ONE MARRIAGE

      ‘Natalie Anderson’s latest romance manages to be sexy and sassy, but also deeply emotional and highly poignant. BOUGHT: ONE NIGHT, ONE MARRIAGE is a wonderfully romantic story of unexpected romance that’s bursting with freshness and exuberance, but it will tug at your heartstrings and have you reaching for the tissues as well. Moving, well-written and utterly compelling, in BOUGHT: ONE NIGHT, ONE MARRIAGE, Natalie Anderson has outdone herself once again!’

       —Cataromance

      Possibly the only librarian who got told off herself for talking too much, Natalie Anderson decided writing books might be more fun than shelving them—and, boy, is it that! Especially writing romance— it’s the realisation of a lifetime dream, kick-started by many an afternoon spent devouring Grandma’s Mills & Boons^®… She lives in New Zealand, with her husband and four gorgeous-but-exhausting children. Swing by her website any time—she’d love to hear from you: www. natalie-anderson.com

       Recent titles by the same author:

      

      PLEASURED IN THE PLAYBOY’S PENTHOUSE

      BOUGHT: ONE NIGHT, ONE MARRIAGE

      PLEASURED BY THE SECRET MILLIONAIRE

      BETWEEN THE

      ITALIAN’S SHEETS

      BY

      NATALIE ANDERSON

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Rosie and Simon.

      You two have the most incredible generosity,

      kindness and sheer zest for life. Our holiday in London

      at Casa King-Currie was amazing—every moment fun

      and relaxing and memorable. Luca and Emily’s story

      would never have come out into the light if it hadn’t

      been for the break you enabled us to have,

      and for that I really, really thank you.

      CHAPTER ONE

      ARROGANCE personified. Emily stared at him, her temper going from sizzling to spitting hot. He stood right in front of her, with the height of a basketball star, and shoulders the breadth of a rugby prop. A man mountain, a mighty example of the male in physical prime. Totally obscuring her view. Totally commanding attention.

      Typical.

      Worse than that, he had one of those fancy phone gadgets that did everything—not merely phone calls, but music, web connection, camera—the works. And every time he pushed the buttons they beeped. Loudly. The overture was about to begin, Emily found the rapid succession of beeps incredibly annoying.

      Pointedly, she cleared her throat.

      She had not spent the last year working crazy hours, scrimping and saving every last cent to get her sister and herself all the way to Italy and to this fabulous opera only for the moment to be ruined by some selfish jerk who thought his social life was more important than the live performance about to unfold. More important than showing some respect to the other people there who wanted to appreciate the evening.

      She cleared her throat again.

      Fractionally he turned, threw a quick glance her way, but the beeping didn’t stop. Rather it was the cacophony of trills and fragments of well-known phrases that ceased as under the direction of the lead violinist the orchestra stilled. Then came the lone note from the oboe to which the other instruments would tune. But did that stop him? No. The purity of the sound was shattered by the relentless beeping.

      Any minute now the conductor would walk out and applause would greet him. Beeps didn’t constitute applause. Beeps were annoying. And she couldn’t see through him.

      She glared at his back now as well as clearing her throat once more. A tailored jacket hung from those doorframe-wide shoulders, one hand on his hip pulling the jacket back, emphasising the narrowing of his torso to a slim waist and hips. She knew there were serious muscles under the white shirt and dark trousers. She’d watched as he’d walked up from the super-expensive seats. He was hard not to notice, taller than almost all the people there. From the front she’d seen the way his shirt neatly tucked into his trousers with not an ounce of anything unnecessary—like fat—rippling the smooth, straight stretch of white cotton. Well dressed, good-looking, so sophisticated and cool in this hot and crowded space. She figured he’d come up so as not to disturb those in his own elite strata—no, he’d conduct his business and bother the plebs up in the cheap seats.

      One of the waiters came past, singing his way through the crowd for one final time before he’d quieten for the spectacle, tormenting her with his cry.

      ‘Bebite! Acqua! Cola! Vino bianca! Vino rosso! Bebite…’

      She’d go for all those drinks right now. She was hot. She was thirsty. She was irritated.

      This time she coughed.

      Where on earth was Kate? What was taking her so long? Only her little sister could need the bathroom right as the opera was about to start. And as far as Emily could tell, the toilets in the ancient arena were few and far between and had queues centuries long. Meanwhile her mouth was dry and she wanted the six-foot-plus pillar blocking her view of centre stage to move. And then he did, turning right round as he held the gadget up in front of him. The flash of his grin was more blinding than the sudden flash of bright light.

      ‘What—’ she asked tartly ‘—you’re taking photos now?’

      ‘Sì.’ He nodded, smiling like the Cheshire cat. ‘I need a new wallpaper photo for my phone. And this is such a spectacular view, don’t you think?’

      ‘I think the “view” is behind you. You know, the stage, the set, the orchestra.’

      ‘Oh, no, you’re wrong. The beauty of the night is right in front of me.’ As he put the phone thing in his pocket he held her gaze with a long, lazy, unmistakably challenging stare that she felt from the top of her head to her fingertips and all the way to her toes. And in all the secret spaces in between she burned. Spitting hot became unbearable—she was melting, literally melting at his feet. And stupidly she wished she were wearing something a little more glam than her cheap cotton skirt

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