"I have a very simple business
proposition for you, Mr. Salvatore." Penelope Wentworth made herself
comfortable in the chair across from her chosen target and adjusted a
pair of practical wire-rimmed glasses before fixing Stefano with her
most determined gaze. It could be quite determined, too, considering
she’d been using it to great effect since the tender age of ten. "I want
you to marry me."
If she’d startled him, he didn’t show it by so
much as a flicker of expression. Instead he kept his dark brown eyes
trained on her as though she were a unique specimen he’d never seen
before. She was used to that, too, often finding herself on the
receiving end of that type of look—also since the tender age of ten. The
looks didn’t bother her. At least they hadn’t since she’d turned twelve
and learned that the adults in her world were far more intimidated by
her than she was by them.
"Since when did marriage become a business
proposition?" he asked.
She almost smiled at the casual way he asked the
question, as though he were indulging idle curiosity. She might have
believed him if it weren’t for the deadly stillness that had seized him
the instant she’d popped her question. "Marriage is always a business
proposition. Most people cover up that fact by hiding behind an excess
of emotion. A foolish indulgence, if you ask me."
He surprised her with a quick, flashing smile
and she forced herself to conceal her reaction, though it was difficult.
She should have given more credence to Kim’s claim about the man,
instead of dismissing it as the sort of feminine exaggeration women
indulged in when attracted to a man. Kim hadn’t exaggerated. Not even a
little. It annoyed Penelope to discover that all the research and
computations she’d run on Stefano Salvatore had failed to take into
consideration the sheer presence of the man. It was quite a presence.
"Fallen angel" struck her as all too apt.
He was extraordinarily good looking, his
features arranged in a way guaranteed to turn most women into total
idiots. And yet, he still managed to retain an air of undeniable
masculinity. His arching cheekbones tempted a woman’s touch, while an
aggressive nose kept him from appearing too pretty. A bold, kissable
mouth sat at odds with his square, authoritative—and no doubt, stubborn—jawline.
Thick black hair tumbled across his brow above the most enticing earthy
brown eyes she’d ever seen. Calm. Knowing. Focused. And sharply
intelligent.
"I see. Thank you, Ms...?"
"Wentworth. Penelope Wentworth."
A hint of amusement drifted through his gaze—a
gaze almost as disconcerting as her own. "Thank you, Ms. Wentworth. But
I’m not interested in marriage, whether it’s a business proposition, a
romantic entanglement or at the end of a shotgun."
"I see," she said with a brisk nod. "I assume
that’s a direct result of your failed engagement and that unfortunate
incident that preceded it."
He surged to his feet and Penelope pressed her
spine tight against the back of her chair. Oh, dear. Maybe she should
have chosen a different angle. This had clearly been the wrong one with
which to initiate negotiations. He circled his desk with slow,
deliberate strides, coming to halt directly beside her chair. When he
reached for her, it took every ounce of self-possession not to flinch.
Not that her well-practiced self-possession helped. Grasping her arms,
he yanked her from the chair and towed her toward the door to his
office, her glasses bouncing on the tip of her nose with every step.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. My goodness!
She sounded downright breathless. That had never happened before.
"I’m throwing you out of my office, Ms.
Wentworth."
"Would you mind telling me why?"
"I don’t mind in the least." He wrapped a large
hand around the knob and yanked open the door. "I don’t marry nutcases.
Hell, Nellie. I don’t even talk to them." With that, he propelled her
from his office and slammed the door in her face.
Well! Penelope frowned at the
solid oak door as she straightened her glasses. How rude. He hadn’t even
listened to what she had to say. Not giving herself time to reconsider,
she turned the knob and reentered the room. He must not have been
accustomed to having people cross him. He’d returned to his desk and
buried himself in his work. It wasn’t until she slammed the door that he
looked up.
She caught her breath at the expression in his
eyes. Why had she thought they were calm? They were the most volatile
and impassioned she’d ever seen. Slowly he regained his feet, thrusting
back his chair with such force, it crashed against the wall behind him,
making the windows shimmer.
"What part of being thrown out don’t you
understand?"
