His eyes fell briefly to her mouth, then lifted back up. “It would perhaps help us to draw clear boundaries. So there’s no danger.”
“Danger,” she echoed. She felt it. Something about being close to him did strange things to her, body and soul.
Why? Because he was so darkly handsome? So rich and powerful? So sensual and wicked, with his cruel lips and husky voice, with its barest hint of Italian accent?
All that, and she was pregnant with his baby. It would be astonishing if she didn’t feel shivery every time he was near.
But she couldn’t believe he would call her beautiful. Even if she weren’t heavily pregnant, she wouldn’t be remotely in his league. His type of woman would be obviously more like Chiara—chic, pin thin, wickedly gorgeous, devastatingly clever.
While Rosalie was just an ordinary girl in a shapeless dress and waitress apron, who wore her heart on her sleeve. Of petite height and tending toward plumpness, she’d never cared much about fashion, either. She bought her clothes at the discount superstore and used coupons whenever she could.
She looked at Alex Falconeri. Whatever he might say about being tempted, there was no way he could be worried about losing control and seducing her.
There was only one explanation.
He’d seen how attracted Rosalie was to him, and was trying to let her down easy. How could he not see the impact he had on her, when her cheeks went red and her body trembled whenever he got close, whenever he even looked at her?
Gorgeous as he was, and a wealthy Italian count too, this type of thing probably happened to him all the time. Obviously, he was politely trying to warn her off.
Who could blame him when she’d just practically blurted out a marriage proposal? Her cheeks burned.
“So.” He looked down at her. “You wish to be the nanny?”
She stared at him, then stubbornly shook her head. “I don’t want to be your employee.”
“You won’t let me support you, you won’t let me hire you—” Muttering in Italian, Alex rubbed the back of his head, looking as irritated as a man that handsome and suave could look, when he had the face of a dark angel. He bit out, “So what is the solution?”
Taking a deep breath, Rosalie said, “How about I keep my job in San Francisco, take two months’ maternity leave, and we both chip in together and get a studio apartment there? Or if you prefer, you could get your own place, and I’ll let you visit the baby. Whenever you want,” she added generously.
Alex stared at her for a moment, then he snorted. “You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that.”
“I was just thinking the same about you.” She paused. “Guts is such an American word. And you barely have an accent.”
“My mother was American,” he said coldly. “Like you.”
“Oh, was she?” Rosalie opened her eyes wide in mock surprise. “Your mom was a farm girl who once took second place at the county fair for her pie crust? Or maybe you mean—” she tilted her head “—she, too, worked as a receptionist for minimum wage, and volunteered for Meals on Wheels in high school?”
His lips curved slightly as he considered her. “My mother was a debutante. A Cabot from Boston who attended Wellesley.”
“Of course,” Rosalie said, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Exactly like me.”
She’d had enough. Turning on her heel, she started down the steep stone steps from the rampart, back into the little village behind the walls.
“Where are you going?” he demanded. “Nothing is decided—”
“Wrong.” She looked back at him. “I’ve decided I’m going to bed. And don’t worry, that wasn’t an invitation.”
“Rosalie—”
“Good night,” she said firmly.
She went carefully down the steps back into the village, then went more quickly up the lane toward her great-aunt’s door. Away from his presence, she felt like she could breathe again.
But as she reached the restaurant, Alex was suddenly beside her. He’d easily caught up to her with his long strides.
“I told you, you’re not invited,” she said uneasily. His sensual lips curved.
“I’m coming to help you pack.”