One Passionate Night: Her Brooding Italian Boss / The Heiress's Secret Baby / Best Friend to Wife and Mother?

This wasn’t working out any better than New York would be. Though Italy offered her a way to raise her child in the sunny countryside, rather than being stifled in the kind of run-down New York City apartment she could afford, what good would it do to be raised in a home where people ignored him or her?

The kitchen door swung open. “Cara!” Constanzo boomed. Dressed in a lightweight suit, he strode over to her. “What are you doing here when your boss is in Spain?”

She shrugged. “He never asked me to go with him.”

“You are his assistant. He needs you.” He tapped her chair twice. “Go pack.”

She gaped at him. “Go pack? No way! Antonio will be really mad at me if I just pop up in Barcelona!”

“Then you will go as my guest. You can’t sit around here moping for days.”

She’d actually thought something similar sitting by the pool that afternoon.

“And since you’re in Europe, why not enjoy the sights? If you don’t want to find your boss, we’ll make a weekend of it. I will show you Barcelona, then take you to the gallery opening myself.”

Her heart thrummed with interest. She’d never seen Spain. Still, she was in Italy to work, not race around Europe with her boss’s dad. “I can’t. I’m supposed to be working.”

“And did my son leave you anything to do?”

She winced.

“I didn’t think so.”

The pragmatist in her just wouldn’t give up. “It really sounds like fun, and part of me would love to go, but I didn’t pack for vacation. I packed to work. I shipped most of my fun clothes home to my parents. I don’t think I have anything to wear.”

“You have...what you call it...a sundress? Something light and airy? Something pretty?”

“Won’t women be wearing gowns at the gallery opening?” She frowned. “Or at least cocktail dresses?”

Constanzo waved his hands. “Who cares? You will be with me. No one will dare comment. Besides, you will look lovely no matter what you wear. If they snipe or whisper, it will be out of jealousy.”

She didn’t believe a word of it, but in desperate need of that kind of encouragement, she laughed. “You’re good for my ego.”

“And you laugh at my jokes.” He turned her to the door. “We make a good pair. Go pack.”

She quickly threw two sundresses, jeans and tops, undergarments and toiletries into her shabby bag. Trepidation nipped at her brain, but she stopped it. Antonio had left her alone with nothing to do and a staff that was afraid of her. At least with Constanzo, she’d be doing something.

With her suitcase packed, she took a quick shower, put on her taupe trousers and a crisp peach-colored blouse and headed downstairs.

She walked to the foyer, suitcase in hand, and was met by Constanzo’s driver, who took her bag and led her to the limo. When she slid onto the seat, Constanzo was talking on the phone. “Yes. The Barcelona penthouse, Bernice. And don’t forget that other thing I told you.” He disconnected the call. “Ready?”

She laughed. “Sure. Why not?”

Traveling with Constanzo, Laura Beth quickly learned that Antonio was right—his dad was a pain in the butt. His plane left on his timing. Cars had to be waiting for him, drivers ready to open the door and speed off, and his favorite bourbon had to be stocked everywhere.

They arrived in Barcelona late and went directly to the penthouse—a vision of modern art itself with its glass walls, high ceilings and shiny steel beams and trim.

She gasped as she entered. “Holy cow.”

Constanzo laughed. “That’s another reason I like you. You remind me not to take my good fortune for granted.”

The limo driver set Laura Beth’s bag on the marble floor and silently left in the private elevator.

Constanzo reached for the handle of her bag. “I will take this to your room.”

“No. No! I’ll do it.” She picked it up. “See? It’s light.”

“Okay. Normally the gentleman in me wouldn’t let you, but for some reason or another I’m very tired tonight.” He plopped down on a white sofa. “Your room is the second door on the left. I’ll check to see if the cook is here yet. We’ll have a snack.”

She almost told him she was more sleepy than hungry, but she finally realized he’d invited her along on this jaunt because he liked company too. So she headed for her room, intending to wash her face and comb her hair, then spend some time with him while he snacked.

Corridors with steel beams, skylights and glass walls took her to the second door on the left. She opened it and stepped inside.

She loved her room in Antonio’s house, but this room was magnificent. Beiges, grays and whites flowed together to create a soothing space like a spa. She could almost hear the wind chimes and sitar music.

She put her suitcase on the bed and walked toward the bathroom, desperate to freshen up before her snack with Constanzo.

With a quick twist of the handle, she opened the door and there stood Antonio, wiping a white terry cloth towel down his chest, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower.

His eyes widened and he instantly rearranged the towel to cover as much of himself as possible.

But it was too late. She’d seen the dark swatches of hair covering his muscled chest, and—wrapped around the side of his neck—the black ink of the webbed wing of the rumored dragon tattoo.

He gaped at her. “What are you doing here!”

“Me?” Too shocked to monitor her responses, she yelled right back, “What are you doing here!”

“This is my dad’s penthouse. Why would I not use it when I’m in Barcelona?”

She couldn’t argue that, so she said, “Fine. Whatever.” Lifting her chin, she began backing out of the marble-and-travertine bathroom, embarrassed not just by the fact that she’d walked in on him naked, but also because her mouth watered for a look at his tattoo. From his muscled arms, broad shoulders and defined pecs, she knew his back was probably every bit as spectacular. The right tattoo would make it sexy as hell. “I’m only here because your dad said this was my room.”

“I always use this room when I stay here.”

“Great. Peachy.”

Her face hot, her mind reeling, she pivoted out of the bathroom and walked to the bed. Grabbing her suitcase, she headed for the main living area. Unfortunately, Antonio was right behind her.

Not about to be intimidated, she tossed her suitcase on a white sofa and made her way to the kitchen.

Constanzo sat on a stool at the center island, dipping bread into olive oil. “Come, cara. Eat.”

Then Antonio walked in behind her and Constanzo’s smile grew. “Antonio!”

He scowled at his dad. “What are you doing here?”

Constanzo laughed. “I live here.”

“You live in a country house in Italy! This is a spare house.”