Her Brooding Italian Boss. Susan Meier
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“Before you knew I was pregnant you didn’t want me working for you. You said you don’t want a PA. But it’s clear you need one. So obviously there’s a reason you’re fighting having someone work for you.”
He sighed.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. Because I don’t care. What I do care about is earning my keep.”
He sighed again. “You are a pregnant woman who needs a rest. Just take the time here with me to have some fun.”
She raised her chin. “No. If you won’t let me work I won’t take your charity. I’m going home.”
“You don’t have a home to go back to.”
“Then let me stay here for two weeks as your assistant. If you don’t like what I do, or still feel you don’t need someone at the end of two weeks, I’ll take another two weeks to rest and then go home.”
When they’d first begun arguing, before he’d known she was pregnant, his eyes had been sharp. Glowing. She could have sworn he wanted to kiss her. It was as if he had been daring her to step closer—
Had he been daring her to step closer?
Her Brooding Italian Boss
Susan Meier
SUSAN MEIER is the author of over fifty books for Mills & Boon. The Tycoon’s Secret Daughter was a RITA® finalist and Nanny for the Millionaire’s Twins won the Book Buyers’ Best award and was a finalist in the National Readers’ Choice awards. She is married and has three children. One of eleven siblings, she loves to write about the complexity of families and totally believes in the power of love.
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Contents
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
LAURA BETH MATTHEWS sat on the rim of the old porcelain tub in the New York City apartment she had to vacate by the next morning. Her long brown hair had been swirled into a sophisticated French twist. Her lilac organza bridesmaid gown was an original Eloise Vaughn design. A pregnancy test shook in her right hand.
Tears pooled in her eyes. There was no question now. She was going to have a baby.
“Laura Beth! Come on!” Eloise called from the hall as she knocked on the bathroom door. “I’m the bride! I should at least get ten minutes in the bathroom to check my makeup.”
“Sorry!” She swiped at her tears and quickly examined her face in the medicine cabinet mirror. No real mascara smudges yet, but the day was young.
For the first time since she, Eloise and their third original roommate, Olivia Prentiss Engle, had decided to spend the night before Eloise’s wedding together and dress together, Laura Beth regretted it. She was pregnant. The father of her child, one of Olivia’s husband’s vice presidents, had called her a slut when she’d told him she was late and they might be parents. And now she didn’t just have to smile her way through a wedding; she had to hide a pregnancy test in a tiny bathroom.
She glanced around. “I’ll be two more seconds.” Out of time, she wrapped the stick in toilet paper and tossed it in the little wastebasket. Satisfied neither Olivia nor Eloise would rummage through the trash, she sucked in a breath, pasted on a happy smile and opened the door.
Eloise stood before her, glowing, a vision in her original Artie Best gown, designed specifically by her boss, the one and only Artie Best. Smooth silk rode Eloise’s feminine curves. Rhinestones sparkled across the sweetheart neckline. And real diamonds—enough to support the population of a third-world country for a decade—glittered at her throat.
Tears pooled in Laura Beth’s eyes again, but this time they were tears of joy for her friend. Eloise, Olivia and Laura Beth had moved to New York City with stars in their eyes. Now Olivia was a married mom. Eloise would be married in a few hours. And Laura Beth was pregnant, with a deadbeat for her child’s father and twenty-four hours to vacate her apartment.
She was in deep trouble.
* * *
Antonio Bartulocci studied his shoulder-length curly black hair in the mirror. He’d gotten it cut for Ricky and Eloise’s wedding, but he still debated tying it back, out of the way. He looked to the left, then the right, and decided he was worrying over nothing. Eloise and Ricky were his friends because they liked him just as he was. They didn’t care that he was a tad bohemian. Most artists were.
He straightened his silver tie one last time before he walked out of the bedroom of his suite in his father’s Park Avenue penthouse and headed for the main room.
Comfortable aqua sofas faced each other atop a pale gray area rug, flanked by white Queen Anne chairs. A gray stone fireplace took up the back wall, and a dark walnut wet bar sat in the corner. The view of the New York City skyline from the wall of windows in the back had taken Antonio’s breath