Tightening the belt on her white terry-cloth robe, she peeked out into the penthouse’s dark hallway, telling herself that Cristiano was already asleep in his own bedroom. But when she crept into the kitchen, she saw him sitting on the white sofa in the great room, his handsome, intent face shadowed by the glow of his laptop.
Looking up, he saw her, and the smile that lit up his hard, handsome features made her heart skip a beat.
“Can’t you sleep?” Closing his laptop, he rose to his feet. He must have taken a shower, because his hair was wet. His chest was bare, revealing the defined curves of his muscled torso in the moonlight streaming through the windows. He wore only low-slung drawstring pajama pants. Very low-slung, clinging to edges of his hips, revealing the trail of dark hair on his taut belly.
Her mouth went dry. She had to force her eyes up.
“I’m, um, hungry,” she croaked, praying he couldn’t read her thoughts. Licking her lips, she gazed around the room, desperate to look anywhere but at his powerful bare chest, the flat plane of his stomach or the drawstring pants barely clinging to his hips.
“Did you call room service?”
What did room service have to do with anything? Oh, yes. She’d said she was hungry. Her eyes met his, and he gave her a sensual, heavy-lidded smile. She blushed to realize that he had caught her looking after all.
“It’s not necessary. I’ll just rummage in your fridge if that’s all right.”
Cristiano looked amused. “Go right ahead.”
But as she opened the door of his sleek, commercial-grade refrigerator, she was disappointed to see only an expensive bottle of vodka and some martini olives.
She turned back with a frown. “Where is your food?”
“I don’t cook.”
Peeking in his freezer, she saw ice cubes. That was it. No ice cream or even frozen broccoli past its sell-by date.
She’d known from her time cleaning the penthouse that Cristiano Moretti wasn’t exactly a chef, but the level of emptiness shocked her. Hallie looked through the cupboards with increasing desperation. They were empty except for a few items that belonged in a wet bar. Disappointed, she looked at him accusingly.
“Don’t you even snack?”
He shrugged. “I lead a busy life. Why own a hotel if I don’t use the amenities?”
“No one can hate cooking this much.”
He gave her a sudden grin. “I prefer to think of it as quality assurance. What can I say? I’m a workaholic.”
“I know,” she sighed.
“Get room service.”
She shook her head. “It’s the middle of the night. And do you know how much it costs?”
He looked amused again. “You do know I own this hotel?”
She tried not to stare at the curve of his sensual lips. Then she realized she’d just licked her own. Her blush deepened. She croaked, “That’s no excuse to—”
“I’ll order it for you.” He went to the kitchen phone on the marble counter. Picking it up, he looked at her in the shadowy kitchen. “What do you want?”
Want? What a suggestive question. Hallie’s gaze lingered on his broad shoulders, his powerful arms, his muscular chest dusted with dark hair. She could see the outline of his powerful thighs beneath the thin knit fabric of his drawstring pants. He gave her a wicked smile. She realized he’d caught her looking again.
Quick, say something intelligent to distract him! she told herself desperately.
“Um...what do you recommend?”
No!
His eyes gleamed. “Shall I tell you?”
Her heart was pounding in her throat. “I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries,” she said quickly. “And a strawberry shake.”