Wow, wow, how interesting. Little Darcy Lennox in my office, looking for a job.

Darcy tried to hide her displeasure at the irritating, but not at all misguided, reference to her height. At the same time, she had to fight the assault on her senses provoked by the proximity of Maximiliano Fonseca Roselli, separated from her only by his impressive desk. But it wasn't easy because he was still as devastatingly attractive as ever. Even more so because he was a man, not the seventeen-year-old boy she remembered. He exuded sexuality like an invisible but intoxicating effluvium, foolishly making her think that beneath their civilized appearances, they were actually just animals.

He was half Brazilian, half Italian, with dark blond hair that was somewhat unruly and long enough to make it clear he didn't give a damn what anyone thought. Although he had cared enough to become one of Europe's youngest billionaires, according to a leading business magazine.

Darcy imagined that many women would be delighted to watch his every move, but he noticed something new in his almost perfect features and couldn't help but say it out loud:

—You have a scar.

It ran from his left temple to his chin, giving him an even more mysterious and gloomy look.

He arched a dark blond eyebrow.

—It seems you haven't lost your powers of observation.

Darcy blushed. Since when had she been so rude as to refer to another person's physical appearance?

Maximilian had stood up to greet her when she entered the palatial office, located in the center of Rome, and was beginning to feel
heat in the suit. He was burning under the amber gaze that had captivated her from the first time she saw him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, and despite herself, Darcy's eyes fell on his defined biceps, which looked ready to burst through his shirt. Although he was wearing elegant dark trousers, he didn't seem very civilized, and his gaze was too perceptive, too cynical, to be kind.

—And what is a student from Boissy le Château doing looking for work as a secretary?

Before she could answer, he added, in a contemptuous tone:

—I thought you would have married a European aristocrat and had a bunch of heirs, like the other girls in that anachronistic institution.

Motionless beneath the golden gaze, Darcy regretted having thought it would be a good idea to apply for the position, which was advertised in a select journal. And she hated to admit that, secretly, she had been curious to see Max Fonseca Roselli again.

"I was only at Boissy one year longer than you." Darcy hesitated, remembering Max punching another boy and the bright bloodstain against the white snow. "My father suffered severe losses during the recession, so I returned to England to finish my studies."

He didn't mention that he had attended a public school, which was more pleasant than the oppressive atmosphere of Boissy.

Max let out a sigh of commiseration.

—So Darcy didn't end up being the fairest at the ball in Paris, with the other high society girls?

The reference to the exclusive annual debutante ball made her grit her teeth. No, she hadn't been the fairest at any ball. She knew Max hadn't had a good time at Boissy, but she hadn't been his enemy—quite the opposite. Her heart sank as she remembered something that had happened at school. Darcy had seen two boys holding Max down while another punched him in the stomach. Without thinking, she'd lunged at them, shouting, "Stop right now!"

"No," she replied. "I didn't go to the ball in Paris because I was busy studying for a degree in Languages and Business at...