Dreaming Of... Italy: Daring to Trust the Boss / Reunited with Her Italian Ex / The Forbidden Prince

He laughed.

Her chest loosened a bit. This wouldn’t be so bad. All she had to do was keep talking. “I think he was just distracting me with chitchat so I wouldn’t notice how badly he was beating me.”

Servants arrived with salad and bread and they dug in. For the next few minutes conversation revolved around how delicious the crusty bread was, then the table grew quiet.

She scoured her brain to think of something to say and couldn’t come up with anything. Seconds ticking off the clock felt like hours, reminding her yet again that she shouldn’t be attracted to a man with whom she had nothing in common.

The main course came. At the first bite they groaned in ecstasy and complimented the lasagna, but the conversation stopped again. The longer they were quiet, the more obvious it was that they had nothing to say to each other and that any attraction she felt for him was foolish.

When she finished her dessert, she looked at her watch. Not even nine o’clock.

Across the table, Tucker surreptitiously looked at his watch, too.

For two people with palpable chemistry, they were certainly eager to get away from each other.

Tucker rose from his seat, tossing his napkin to his empty dessert plate. “So how about if you and I play a few games of pool?”

Her head snapped up. “Really?”

“If we go to bed now, we’ll be up at four o’clock. Do you want to sit around with nothing to do for hours and hours?”

“I was kind of thinking if we went to bed now I’d sleep for hours and hours.”

He laughed. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I think your idea of staying up a few more hours might be better.”

“Great.”

They walked to the den in silence. As she chose her pool stick, Tucker racked the balls. With a nod toward the table, he let her break. She dropped one of the striped balls into the pocket but missed her second shot and Tucker took over. The den filled with the crack of his stick against the balls and the plop, plop, plop of ball after ball falling into a pocket.

In the face of the beating she was taking, she forgot all about the quiet. Why was it she could beat any group of guys in a bar, but not whip the butts of two billionaires?

“Okay. I wasn’t quite ready to play. Rack the balls again. This time I won’t be so easy.”

He laughed. “We’ll see.”

“Ah, smug, this time around?”

Tucker arranged the balls on the table. “Not smug. I just watched how you play. My technique is better.”

“Right.”

He motioned to the table as he walked behind the bar to pour himself a draft. “Go ahead. I’ll give you the advantage. Break again.”

She strolled up to the table, aimed her stick and broke with a resounding crack that echoed around them. Two solid balls dropped. She faced him with a grin. “I have you now.”

He leaned against the bar. “What? You think solid is going to be lucky for you?”

“Yes.” She walked around the table considering her next shot. When she found it, she bent across the table to take aim.

But Tucker shook his head. “Your form is all wrong.”

“My form is fine.”

“No. Look at your stick. It wobbles.” He walked behind her and leaned down with her so he could adjust her arm. “See? Isn’t that better?”

The feeling of his chest along her back sent waves of awareness flowing from her back to her toes. He stepped away, as if totally oblivious and, shell shocked, she took the shot.

Miraculously, the ball she aimed for fell. She jumped up with a whoop of joy. “I did it!”

He motioned at the table. “Keep going.”

She picked a shot and leaned over the table, but again he shook his head.

“Your stick still wobbles.” Positioning himself over her, he leaned down and straightened her arm. Then he froze.

The room grew quiet.

Warmth radiated from him into her and would have sent a shudder through her if she hadn’t ruthlessly stopped it. She turned her head slightly to catch his gaze. His green eyes smoldered.

Oh, boy. This wasn’t good.

* * *

Tucker stayed frozen. The woman was the softest thing he’d ever touched. Every hormone in his body awakened at the feel of her skin sliding against his. His hand itched to leave her pool stick and cruise along the curve of her waist, to turn her around, so he could kiss her.

The instinct was so strong, so natural that it shook him to his core and brought him back to planet earth. She was an employee. Smart executives did not kiss employees.

He stepped away and ambled back to the bar, pretending nothing had happened, confused that he couldn’t seem to get himself under control around her.

As he picked up his beer from the bar, Constanzo walked in.

“Great! I see I’m just in time! I’ll play the winner.”

Olivia took her next shot but missed this time. Without looking at him, she said, “Your shot.”

He licked his suddenly dry lips. Okay. That thing between them? He now had confirmation she felt it, too. But he could handle this. They could handle this. They’d just pretend it hadn’t happened.

He set down his beer, picked up his pool cue and walked to the table. He got two balls in then missed, surprising Olivia who quietly walked up to the table again. She hit the remainder of her balls into the pockets, beating him soundly.

“Looks like you and me, Vivi,” Constanzo said, happily rubbing his hands together.

But Olivia yawned. “You and Mr. Engle play. I think it’s time for me to go to bed.”

He didn’t know if she really was tired or trying to get away from him, but he breathed a sigh of relief.

Until Constanzo said, “Tucker will walk you to your room.”