Nick swore. “Why are you doing this, Dad?”
Cesare looked at him, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “I’ve had one heart attack already. I want to see you married before I die.”
“It was a mild heart attack,” Nick rasped, remembering.
“And the next one may be fatal, figlio mio,” son of mine, he said, lapsing into Italian.
Nick felt an inward shudder at the thought and knew his father had him right where he wanted him. He could fight Cesare on everything but this. That heart attack had really shaken up the whole family, and he wasn’t about to be responsible for any further attacks.
Marrying to please his father may sound ridiculous in this day and age, but he’d been raised with strong family values. He’d do what was necessary.
But did it have to be Sasha Blake of all people he had to marry?
A shapely female bottom and matching long legs in white trousers greeted Nick when he opened the front door to his parents’ house the next morning. They belonged to a gorgeous female figure standing in strappy sandals on a chair near the staircase.
At least they were until the woman turned, saw him and gave a squeal of fright, then started to topple off. He raced forward and caught her as she fell back into his arms.
For a moment she stared up at him. “Nick?” she whispered, almost as if his name was a secret.
He looked down at the beautiful blonde and wanted to lie and say no, he wasn’t Nick. And he’d never kissed her either. Nor did he want to again.
She was Trouble.
And he had to ask her to marry him.
“Hello, Sasha.”
She continued to stare up at him with eyes good at robbing a man of his thoughts. He’d forgotten the impact of those long sweeping lashes featuring eyes the color of green satin. Even when she was growing up there was something about them that tried to pierce his defenses. It had taken a constant and concentrated effort not to let her succeed.
Their kiss had come close.
“What on earth were you doing up there?” he growled, setting her on her feet, fascinated despite himself at the visible pulse beating at her throat and a faint blush dusting her cheeks. She’d been a pretty teenager before, but now she’d grown into a very beautiful woman.
She pushed against him and stepped back. “I thought I saw a crack in the wall, so I was checking it out.”
The impact of her touch lingered. And so did the scent of her perfume—Valente’s Woman. Somehow he was glad she wore his family’s perfume.
“I hear you’re an interior designer now,” he said for something to say.
“Yes, I am.” She seemed to pull herself together, and an excited light entered her eyes. “And I’m so happy your father chose me to redecorate this place.”
Remembering, he shot her a dark look. “I don’t want this house redecorated. It’s fine how it is.”
Disappointment crossed her face before she gave a tiny smile that held a touch of defiance. “Then it’s as well this isn’t your house, or I wouldn’t have a job.”
Tension rocked his stomach. “Look, let’s go into the salon. I’ll get Iris to make us some coffee.”
Her expression grew wary. “I’m supposed to be working.”
“Then add an extra hour’s wages to the bill. My father can afford it.”
She tipped her head to one side, her straight blond hair swaying like a sheen of silk over her shoulders. “You’re very generous with your father’s money.”
“He wants me to talk to you.”
She tensed. “Oh. I see. He’s firing me, is he?”
“No, it’s not that at all.” But she was going to wish it was.
Relief fluttered across her face. “Then what can you possibly say to me that he can’t himself?”
Marry me.
He opened his mouth to say it but realized it would be a bit too much all in the space of a minute. No need to break a record with this.
He gestured toward the salon. “The coffee first.” He waited for her to precede him, then used the intercom to ask Iris to bring in some coffee.
When he turned to look at Sasha she was standing by the fireplace. Suddenly he couldn’t take his eyes off her. It was crazy but she looked so right standing there in tailored white pants and a soft-knit green top, slim and refined and such a contrast amongst all this heavy, ornate furniture.
“It’s not polite to stare.”
Her words broke through his thoughts. “You’re different from what I remember.” It was more than a physical difference, but he wasn’t sure what it was yet.
Her eyelids flickered. “What do you remember, Nick?”
“Our kiss.”
She gave a soft gasp. “It’s not gentlemanly of you to bring that up.”
“I was only being honest.”
“Ever heard of being too honest?”
“I don’t work like that.”
“True. You were nothing less than honest after that kiss, weren’t you?” she said, a wry twist coating her lips.
“If you mean that I didn’t profess everlasting love, then you’re right. I’d prefer not to sugarcoat things.” It had been a kiss—a stunner of a kiss—but that’s all it was. “Why, did I hurt your ego?”
“What? No way,” she said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “It was my first kiss by a man, that’s all. Up until then they’d all been boys.”
“No doubt you’ve been plenty kissed since then.”
“I’m not naive.”
“Yes, I remember Randall. You had a fling with him, didn’t you?”
Strangely, the thought of her with other men—with Randall Tremaine—had always unsettled him, but he forced himself to ignore it. She could kiss whomever she liked, make love to whomever she liked. And she had. It had nothing to do with him.
Until now.
She gave a shaky sigh. “I can’t believe the first thing we talk about after seven years is kissing.”
“I can.”
A blush rose up her cheeks but just then Iris appeared in the doorway with the tray of coffee, interrupting the moment. They exchanged a few pleasantries, then Iris put the tray down on the coffee table and left the room.
“Shall I pour?” Sasha said, taking a seat on the sofa.
“Thanks.” He sat down opposite, watching as she poured with an elegance that was innate. Once again he had the feeling she looked right in this setting. He grimaced to himself. Or perhaps it was just because his father had implanted the idea in him.