Through the open door I heard the clanking sound of pots and pans being hazardously moved around. Whoever was cooking had a hard time not breaking anything in the process. I gently knocked on the door, then pushed it open and froze to the spot as I took in the picture before me. Jett, dressed in blue jeans and a white tee, was standing in the middle of a cream-colored state of the art kitchen that looked like it cost more than I had made at Sunrise Properties in a year. The place was a mess—with dirty pots piling up in the sink, dishes, chopping boards, kitchen utensils, and flour littering the work surfaces.

“Hey.” He barely looked up as he dove his fingers into a pot of hot water and fished out a thin green Fettuccine band and popped it into his mouth. I stared at him as he chewed slowly, his brows furrowed as though he couldn’t decide whether the pasta was boiled to perfection or needed another minute. In the end he nodded, satisfied, and emptied the pot into a stainless steel colander.

“Need help?” I inched forward, then stopped in mid-stride, my breath catching in my throat as he turned to me with a dazzling smile that made me want to throw myself into his arms and beg him to do whatever he wanted to do to me. Moistening my lips, I took a step back but didn’t avert my gaze. His feet were bare; his blue jeans hung low on his hips. His hair was damp from the heat, and the muscles of his torso were clearly visible beneath the white snug cotton of his tee. But what drew my immediate attention was the tattoo covering his upper left arm. I hadn’t noticed it the morning I woke up with him in my room, maybe because his left side had been turned away from me and there were so many other things that had captured my attention, like his barely covered modesty.

I inched closer to peer at it, but didn’t dare touch him. The solid black curves ended in points and interlocked in a complex pattern that looked like your usual tribal tattoo, only there was something about it that seemed odd. Right in the middle of it, the swirls combined to resemble a face surrounded by tiny leaves. For some reason it seemed strange that Jett had a tattoo. Judging from his business reputation and the fact that he had no problem signing a sex contract, I figured him as your usual I-don’t-love-just-fuck type, but the tattoo made it seem as though he had a past people didn’t know about. I wondered whether his confidence was the result of once being a bad boy. Maybe his assertiveness wasn’t just cockiness. Maybe he dared take what he wanted because his past had taught him he could.

“Brooke?”

Jett’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts. I peered up into his deep eyes the color of green marble, only now realizing he had been speaking to me.

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked whether you liked seafood.”

“Seafood’s great, thanks.”

Something shimmered in his gaze. He regarded me in silence for a moment, his expression indecipherable. And then his mysterious mood shifted, and a lazy smile lit up his face. “I gave the chef the evening off.”

“Why?” I leaned against the counter and watched him decorate the plates by pouring a thin layer of cream sauce onto the white china and then drawing thin, concentric circles with a teaspoon.

“Why not?” He shrugged, as though no further explanation was necessary. “We’re in Italy.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “It smells amazing.”

Jett finished his concoction while I decked the table and steered the conversation toward the history of the house, which was the safest topic I could think of. Eventually Jett ordered me to sit down as he opened a bottle of white wine and poured two glasses, handing me one.

“Here’s to a new business venture.” Jett raised his glass to mine, and we chinked.

“And to a new job.” I took a sip. Although I couldn’t usually tell the difference between one wine brand and the other, even my inconsequential taste buds picked up a hint of gooseberry and apple. “This is good.” I took a generous sip and forced myself to put down the glass before I ended up drunk and generous, like the last time I mixed alcohol with Jett.

“It’s a Fume Blanc,” Jett said. “My favorite with fish. Dive right in.”

He gestured at the plate before me. I plunged my fork into the fish trimmings, tiny shrimps, scallops, and clams atop a pasta nest, and rolled a few bands with the help of my spoon, then pushed them into my mouth, chewing slowly. The aroma of fresh pesto spreading over my tongue almost made me moan with pleasure.

“It’s delicious,” I said, licking my lips.

Jett’s eyes wandered to my mouth and his gaze turned a shade darker. Self-consciously, I wiped my fingers across my lips, and then put my fork down, my appetite slowly dissipating at the lust in his eyes.

“Do you have any idea how hungry I am, Brooke?” he said so low I had difficulties hearing him. He wasn’t talking about the food and we both knew it. I swallowed hard and took a gulp of wine to moisten my dry mouth. It didn’t help.

“I—”

Holy cow, the guy knew how to turn up the heat. My whole body was on fire, and he hadn’t even touched me yet. Well, not physically. His eyes were doing all the work. I should be playing hard to get. But for once in my life I didn’t want to. I was in a different country, stuck in a beautiful villa with a bottle of wine and a hot guy who knew how to make a woman feel special. Sylvie always said a bit of danger never hurt anyone. Well, why not have it all? Life’s too short and I had nothing to lose anyway.

Jett’s gaze moved down my neck to my chest, then back up again, lingering on my mouth.

“More wine?” he asked hoarsely. At my nod, he stood to refill our glasses. His fingers touched my hand, sending delicious electric impulses down my spine. I gasped and bit my lip to stifle the sudden need pooling between my legs. In one swift motion Jett captured my face in his hands and pressed his mouth against mine. His lips melted into mine, and then his tongue slipped inside my mouth, pushing, probing, circling my tongue in a slow and erotic dance. Fire spread through my body and gathered in my abdomen, waiting to erupt like a volcano. I pressed my thighs together to intensify the aching sensation that could take me over the edge.

“Brooke,” Jett moaned into my mouth. The tone of his deep voice with the slightest hint of a sexy Southern accent vibrated inside of me, tugging at the right cords. His palm moved to my neck as our tongues entangled one more time before he let go. Leaving us both breathing heavy, he returned to his seat, his eyes fogged over with lust.

Don’t stop.

If there wasn’t a table between us, I would have clung to him, begging him to finish what he started. But there was the table. And reality.

Thank goodness for reality.

It kicked in pretty hard and fast. Drawing a long breath, I folded my shaky hands in my lap and gazed up at him. His burning eyes were shaded by long lashes that brushed his tan skin as he closed them for a second.

“We should eat. Dinner’s getting cold.” As though to demonstrate his point, he retrieved his fork. I watched him take a bite, and then wash it all down with half a glass of wine. “Aren’t you eating?” he asked, not looking at me. His voice seemed slightly detached, as though he didn’t know how to deal with the situation, which was strange coming from someone who had presented me with a no strings sex agreement.

I wasn’t hungry, at least not for food, and yet I nodded. It was rude to leave the food untouched when he had made the effort to prepare it.

Taking a bite I forced myself to chew slowly. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“You mean where did I learn to prepare more than the contents of a can?” He looked up with a strange glint in his eyes. “Let’s just say I wasn’t always who I am now.”

“You weren’t always rich?” The question slipped past my lips before I could hold it back. Luckily, my directness didn’t seem to irritate him.

“No, I wasn’t.”

Thinking he’d elaborate I waited a few seconds, but he remained silent. His reticence didn’t come as a surprise. There were only two types of guys: the ones who talked about their childhood to get sympathy and cheat their way into a woman’s panties, and the ones who bottled up because talking about the past, be it good or bad, required them to open up more than they wanted. While Jett didn’t look uncomfortable, he definitely belonged in the second category.

I thought back to everything I knew about Mayfield Realties. The company had been a major player in the real estate market for over fifty years, with a profit margin of several hundred million. Jett’s family had been rich long before he was even born, so his statement made no sense to me. But I knew enough about men not to press the issue. For one, it wasn’t really my place as Jett’s employee. And then there was also the fact that most men find questions prying. We hadn’t yet reached that particular level of intimacy that sanctions curiosity.

“Did you take a look at the contract?” Jett asked.

Oh, boy.

Heat immediately rushed to my cheeks. I put my fork down and drained my wine glass. He hurried to refill it. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“And what do you think?” His voice was nonchalant and his expression non-descript. If he felt the least bit embarrassed talking about a sex contract, he showed no signs of it.

Damn him and his overinflated confidence. I bet he got at least a dozen women to sign contracts like this. The thought sent a bolt of jealousy straight to my heart, which should have made me reconsider my decision. Yet it didn’t. I wanted this just as badly as he did, maybe even more.

“It looks well-drafted. You put much thought into it.” I gritted my teeth at my own words. Yep, he put much thought into it the first time around with the first woman he wanted. Now it had probably become nothing but standard procedure.

“Actually, my lawyers did all the work.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair with a devilish grin. “Will you sign?”

I laughed. No pressure there. “I don’t usually sleep with my boss.”

“I know. James is gay.”

“That’s not what—”

“Brooke,” he cut me off. “I’ll have to be honest. When I first saw you, I felt an instant attraction. I told you I wanted you and still do, more than ever.... but I can’t make mistakes. Not in my position.”

He was rich and successful, and that’s what rich and successful people do to protect themselves. “No need to explain.” I moistened my lips nervously, unable to peel my gaze off him as he continued.

“You can’t deny the attraction. And,” he paused briefly, as though to prepare his words, “I think we’re fooling ourselves in thinking we’ll be able to get over it. There’s no way this constant sexual tension won’t make working together hard, if not impossible.”

His eyes searched mine as his fingers slid over the table to caress my cheek. “I want to get to know you. You can stop any time; get out any time you want. I just don’t want things to be awkward between us just because we have those needs.”

He was right. Once more, I was reminded of the fact that desire would probably render us unable to work together. I was a grown woman with needs, living in a sexually liberated world. Guys do it all the time, so why not women too? Where’s the equality in that? Sylvie liked to mention the same argument whenever she engaged in sexual activity outside of a relationship.