The Twelve Nights of Christmas by Sarah Morgan Page B

answer, she gave a humourless laugh. ‘Oh, forget it. I don’t know why I’m expecting you to care any more than Carlos cared. Why does it matter to you that one more woman’s reputation is shattered? I’m just another notch on your bedpost.’
    â€˜I do not make notches on my bedpost,’ he said thickly. ‘I am very choosy about my relationships.’
    And he wouldn’t be choosing a woman like her. Evie turned scarlet and stabbed the number for Housekeeping. ‘Hello? Margaret? I’m really sorry to bother you, but could you possibly deliver a fresh housekeeping uniform to the Penthouse, please. I’ve…spilled something…sorry?’ She blushed and turned her head away, lowering her voice. ‘Size twelve…I said size twelve…I’m not whispering—’ She gave a gasp as the phone was removed from her fingers.
    â€˜She said size twelve,’ Rio drawled, ‘and, while you’re at it, send some underwear and shoes. She takes a—’ his gaze slid to her cleavage ‘—thirty-four DD and her feet are—’ He lifted an eyebrow in Evie’s direction.
    â€˜Forty,’ she said faintly and he delivered that information in the same commanding tone and ended the call. Then he answered his mobile, which was buzzing in his pocket and spoke at length in Italian, leaving Evie standing with a scarlet face, still trying to work out how he’d been able to guess her bra size so accurately.
    He was still in mid-conversation when there was another buzzing sound and he drew his BlackBerry out of a different pocket without breaking conversation.
    Evie watched in disbelief as he talked into one phone while emailing from the other.
    â€˜Sì—Sì—Ciao.’ He ended the conversation and frowned at her. ‘Why are you staring?’
    â€˜How many phones do you have?’
    â€˜Three. It makes me more efficient.’
    â€˜What happens if they ring at the same time? Most men aren’t that good at multi-tasking.’
    He gave a cool smile. ‘I’m not most men. And I’m excellent at multi-tasking.’ As if to test that theory, two of his three phones rang simultaneously and Evie moved to the window as he dealt swiftly with one call and then the other.
    It was still dark outside, but the roads far beneath her were already busy as cars and taxis inched their way over snowy streets.
    She leaned her cheek against the glass, watching people carrying on with their lives, wishing she could swap with them. Or put the clock back. She wished she’d never spent the night in the Penthouse.
    Her eyes stung with tears and she blinked rapidly, determined not to cry. It was just because she was tired, she told herself fiercely.
    What should she do? She couldn’t decide whether it was better to ring her grandfather and warn him that he might see some very embarrassing pictures of her in the press, or say nothing and just hope that he didn’t read that page in the paper.
    But someone was bound to point it out, weren’t they? She never ceased to be depressed by the enjoyment some people took from watching another’s misfortune.
    â€˜Move away from the windows. Your clothes have arrived—you can change in the bedroom.’
    Evie turned, wondering how her colleagues in Housekeeping had managed to produce underwear and shoes so quickly. Then she looked at the elegant packaging on the boxes and realised they’d simply used the expensive store in the hotel foyer.
    â€˜I can’t afford to pay for those.’
    He looked at her with ill-disguised impatience. ‘The price tag on your bra is surely the least of our worries at the moment.’
    â€˜To you, maybe, but that’s because you don’t have to worry about money,’ Evie said stubbornly. ‘I do. Particularly as I appear to have just lost my job.’
    The phone rang in his pocket again but this time he ignored