Italian Boss, Housekeeper Bride
Natasha didn't have to see his face to know something was wrong. She could tell from the slamming of the door and the heavy footfalls in the hall. From the momentary hesitation which was not like Raffaele at all. The barely muffled curse; some Italian expletive, she thought. She listened while he hung his suit jacket up in the hall and heard him go into his study. Then silence—and something very much like fear stirred within her and she didn't understand why.
He had been away to America—where he owned real-estate on both the east and west coast—and whenever he returned from a trip he always came to find her. To ask her how she'd been. How Sam was.
Sometimes, if he was flying by commercial rather than private jet, he would even remember to bring the child some soft toy or game that he'd bought at the airport. Once she had seen him remove a shiny gold box of perfume from his briefcase, and her heart had begun to thud with a ridiculous excitement. But she had never seen it again.
The scent had not been destined for Natasha. Presumably it had gone to the leggy supermodel he had been seeing at the time—the one who'd always used ... read full excerpt from Italian Boss, Housekeeper Bride ebook
