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“Coffee, Mr Fiori?”

She looked up when he remained silent and their eyes met

Her hand shook on the handle of the pot He atching her steadily, so unwavering that tightness cinched her chest She willed it away, telling herself it was his power as her boss that had her so unsettled It wasn’t his fault that he was so handsome Wasn’t his fault that his eyes were the color of htly deeper shade than his hair He wasn’t responsible for the perfectly shaped lips, either, or the way he spoke, with flawless inflection and just a hint of Italian accent He was possibly netic than he was in the pictures on the coazines she kept filed on her bookshelf She would iot his way often simply from his looks and chars at stake

“Call me Luca, please,” he answered finally

She forced herself to pour the coffee as the waitress returned with a basket of warm scones “Luca, then”

“You’re not going to tell me your first name”

She raised an eyebrow, cautiously deterhshod over her “You own this hotel Don’t you know it already?”

He laughed, the sound devoid of any pretence A genuine laugh that nearly warmed her from the inside out “Remind me, then”

A smile crept up her lips; she couldn’t help it She’d expected hi about him was natural From the way he wore his clothes to hisfake about Luca Fiori His charenuine

And therein lay the danger, she realized In her books, charm equaled trouble She didn’t need trouble In any form

“Mari My first name is Mari”

“Oh, Mari, I believe you’ve short-changed me”

She picked up a spoon and stirred sugar—a heaping teaspoon of it—into her coffee “Short-changed you? How?”

“Because I know your name is really Mariella”