Her Brooding Italian Boss by Susan Meier Read Free Book Online Page A

frozen with a new kind of fear. The last thing he needed in his life was someone who would remind him of the child he had lost. He might be able to keep her in his home for the four weeks of rest she needed, four weeks before her pregnancy showed...but he couldn’t handle watching another man’s baby grow when he knew his own child had been cast aside.
    She pointed behind her to the door. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the kitchen to make a sandwich.”
    “I’ll show you—”
    She waved a hand to stop him. “I’m fine. I really do need some time by myself.”
    She turned and walked out of the room, and he fell to the tall-backed chair behind the desk and rubbed his hands down his face. The man who loved peace and quiet now had a constantly hungry pregnant woman in his home. Pregnant. As in with child. Here was a single woman with no money who was willing to beg and sacrifice to figure out what to do with her life so she could keep her child—and his wealthy wife, who could have hired all the help in the world, had aborted his baby.
    He squeezed his eyes shut. He had to get her out of his house before her pregnancy showed, before the constant reminder drove him insane with sadness and anger.
    But he wouldn’t do it at the expense of her feelings. She’d left his office believing she’d done something wrong, when she had done nothing wrong. His jumbled emotions had caused him to react poorly.
    He should apologize tonight, before she went to bed, so she didn’t take the weight of this job loss on her shoulders like one more mistake.
    He bounced out of his chair and headed for the kitchen, but when he got there it was empty. And clean. Not even a bread crumb on a countertop.
    Regret tightened his stomach. He hoped to God he hadn’t upset her so much she’d decided not to eat. Thinking that she might have gone outside for some fresh air before making her snack, he waited in the kitchen for twenty minutes. But she never came in.
    Irritation with himself poured through him. Of course he’d upset her by telling her she couldn’t stay. She was pregnant and sensitive. Right now she was probably taking responsibility for everything that happened to her.
    Knowing he had to apologize and make her see it wasn’t her fault that he couldn’t keep her, he headed upstairs to her room. The strip of light below the white door to her bedroom indicated she was inside, and he knocked once.
    “Laura Beth?”
    There was no answer, but the light told him she was still awake, probably reading the science fiction novel she’d had on the plane.
    He knocked again. “Laura Beth?”
    This time when she didn’t answer, he sighed heavily. She might want her privacy, but he didn’t want a sleepless night, angry with himself for being the cause of her anxiety and going to bed hungry. And he didn’t want her upset with herself.
    He twisted the knob. “I’m coming in.”
    As soon as the door opened, he knew why she hadn’t answered. Sprawled across the bed, wrapped in the bath towel she’d used after showering, lay his houseguest. Her toes hung off the side. Her hair fell down her long, sleek back. The towel cruised across her round buttocks.
    The fact that she was angry with him disappeared from his brain like a puff of smoke as interest and curiosity fluttered inside him. He told himself to get out of her room. She was sleeping. Obviously exhausted. And tiptoeing closer was not a very gentlemanly thing to do.
    But right at that moment, he didn’t feel like a gentleman. The artist in him awoke and cautiously eyed the smooth lines of her back, the long sweep that spoke of classic femininity, the perfect milk-white skin interrupted by dark locks of hair that shimmered when she sniffed and shifted in her sleep.
    Longing to paint coiled through him. Swift and sharp, it stole his breath. His fingers twitched, yearning for the slim wooden handle of a paintbrush, and also pulling him out of his trance.
    Oh, dear God.
    He