White Heat by Cherry Adair Page B

large home for one man and his ego. Three floors of overdone, expensive furniture. As he searched for an intruder, or whatever the hell was poking his intuition, he imagined Emily at ease among all of the antiques and gilt. Personally, he liked plain comfortable furniture that he could put his feet on and relax without worrying about dropping the resale value.
    He wasn’t impressed with the villa.
    But he was impressed as hell with the state-of-the—art security system. Must’ve cost the bastard a pretty penny to keep his precious art inviolate. Hadn’t kept his killer out. Which meant the old man had known, had invited, his murderer inside.
    Satisfied that the building was secure, he jogged downstairs to find Emily exactly where he’d left her. She hadn’t even taken off her yellow coat, merely pushed the hood back off her face.
    She looked as exhausted as he felt, yet, as if she’d hostessed here a thousand times, she asked, “Would you like a cup of tea? Or something to eat?”
    No. What he’d like to do was take her up to one of the bedrooms upstairs and strip her naked, then bury himself in her soft warm body and fall asleep that way. “Sure.”
    “I’ll turn on the heat on the way. It’s freezing in here.” She started removing her coat, but a strand of dark hair got tangled on a button.
    “Here, let me’ Max said before she ripped her hair out at the root. Touching her could be a big mistake. Gritting his teeth, he reached out, freeing her hair of the button. The scent of roses and linseed oil, the most unlikely combination of seductive fragrances, made his body stiffen.
    He stepped away from her. “One cup and we’re going to bed.” He only noticed her shoulders tense because he was so acutely aware of her. “Five bedrooms upstairs, right?”
    They entered the vast kitchen, where he’d left all the lights on after his search.
    “There’s a bedroom down here, too.”
    Max knew. He’d been through the kitchen and bedroom and large walk—in pantry on his sweep. Emily tossed her yellow rain slicker over a chair at the big farmhouse table in the middle of the room and went to fill the kettle.
    Clearly she was familiar with the kitchen, as she took out cups a bowl of sugar. Watching her graceful movements, he pulled out a chair, sitting down cautiously. His balls still ached from her knee action.
    “I’ll take that one.”
    She glanced over her shoulder, eyes shadowed. “What one?”
    “Bedroom downstairs.”
    “Damn,” she muttered, obviously suddenly remembering something. “I have to make a phone call.”
    “At three—thirty in the morning?”
    “Oh.” She looked at her watch. Biting the corner of her lower , she shook her head. “I’ll call him later.”
    Her lips were beautifully shaped. He’d like to be the one doing e biting. “Him?”
    “My friend, Franco, is coming with me to Seattle.”
    “Taking him home to meet the folks?”
    She gave him a cool look from large, hot-chocolate-colored eyes. “None of your business.”
    Didn’t mean he couldn’t make it his fucking business, Max ought with unexpected savagery. What had he expected? That she’d wait for him to come back? Indefinitely? Hell, ever? And after he hadn’t bothered to call her?
    Since he’d had absolutely zero intention of returning—ever— wondered almost abstractly why the thought that she hadn’t waited pissed him off. He was a logical, rational man. His reaction this woman was anything but.
    Still, it pissed him off royally knowing that she’d found some other man to warm her bed. “Does Frank have a last name?” he asked as pleasantly as he could through gritted teeth.
    “Franco Bozzato.” She took a pack of cookies out of an enameled tin on the counter, then moved the kettle off the burner before it whistled. “You wouldn’t know him.”
    Max would know more about Signore Franco Bozzato by morning than Emily ever would. “Probably not,” he said agreeably as she filled their cups, added