A curse flew threw him, shaking him back to reality. She was drunk. This couldn’t happen.
“I won’t allow this.” He stepped back as though she were a thousand flames, his palm warm from where he’d touched her, aching to reach forward and feel her soft flesh once more.
Her lips parted, and hurt slashed her features.
“It’s not right.”
She stared at him, lost for words, and he stared back, wanting, wishing he could ignore his moral code and act on these impulses, because hell, he wanted her with every cell in his body.
“Damn it, Bronte, it just isn’t right. You’ll regret it.”
He couldn’t get past without brushing against her and his whole body caught fire as he went, the feeling of her curves almost destroying his willpower but he had to get away from her before he gave into his impulses. He had to get away from her for both their sakes.
He shut the door to the bathroom with the feeling he’d just made a deal with the devil, and turned on the water. Just cold, only cold. He needed to douse himself out of his fantasies, and he needed to do it now.
4
EVERYTHING WAS FUZZY. Bronte’s eyes opened slowly; the fuzz didn’t recede. Her mouth tasted funny; her head hurt.
Where was she? She squinted, focussing on pretty floral wallpaper, scanning the unfamiliar room before she remembered. The wedding. And then, more memories. The cocktail party. Ashton. Oh, God. Her boss. Her heart began to throb as she shifted a little then froze, painfully aware of a wall of warm, naked flesh behind her. Not completely naked, she amended, as she felt cotton at the waist. But his shirt was off, and she knew if she turned around she’d see his bare chest.
The bed was too narrow – it couldn’t be helped. There was no way they could sleep without touching each other. But – another memory cut through her. One that had her gasping, lifting a hand to her mouth and squeezing her eyes shut.
It couldn’t be true.
Little shards of memory hovered in her mind, memories she couldn’t grasp clearly but that gave just enough excruciating information. Her towel dropping, her hands on her body, her plea for him to touch her, his reluctance to do so. His obvious desire to get away from her. The way she’d practically forced him to lift his hand to her breast.
Oh, god.
Shame and embarrassment curdled her belly. She lifted the sheet slowly, painstakingly slowly, no idea what time it was, just knowing she needed to shower, to drink a litre of water, to brush her teeth, to put make up on and do her hair, to feel like something approaching herself before she had to face Luca again.
She tiptoed to her suitcase and lifted out the first things she could lay her hand on - a singlet top and pair of jeans, then went to the bathroom, not daring to look over her shoulder to see if he’d woken up. He wasn’t saying anything, so that could mean one of two possibilities. Either he was awake and he’d chosen not to speak to her – which was worrying. Or he was still asleep and she’d been given a reprieve.
After showering, she dressed with fingertips that shook a little and applied her makeup as best she could, just a little foundation beneath her eyes and blush to her pale cheeks. Her hair she pulled into a ponytail before remembering his comment about liking it down. Judging herself, she finger-combed it over one shoulder then hesitated at the door. She couldn’t put this off indefinitely. He might still be sleeping. If so, she could just creep from their room, going in search of breakfast downstairs.
And downstairs in the restaurant she’d no doubt see Ashton and his girlfriend.
Her eyes sparkled with tears.
She was a mess. A complete, total mess.
Flashes of memories kept coming back to her.
She’d hit on her boss. No, she’d done more than hit on him. She’d clumsily attempted to seduce him. Her, Bronte Hill, an executive assistant in his London office, and he, Luca Montebello, tall, handsome, super-rich, suave, sexy Italian God.
She groaned, dropping her head against the door of the bathroom, no idea how she could ever face him again. There was a window in here. Maybe she could climb out? Even in her current mood, it brought a small smile to her face.
A knock at the door a second later startled her upright. Her heart pounded.
“Bronte?”
Oh, crap, oh, crap.
“Are you okay?”
Great, just what she needed. Concern.
She scrunched up her face, knowing she couldn’t really hide in here forever. She wrenched the door inwards, giving herself a scant few seconds to brace for the sight of Luca in his briefs or boxers – whatever he slept in.
Except he’d pulled on a shirt, so there was no naked chest for her to be confronted with. Disappointment was inevitable.
“Buongiorno,” he grinned, like they were old friends. Like nothing had happened the night before. Though, to be fair, nothing had happened, thanks to him and the fact he obviously found her completely undesirable.
“Morning,” she mumbled, flashing him what she hoped passed for a smile.
“How are you feeling?”
Mortified. Ashamed. Like she’d never drink again. “Fine. You?”
Another grin, this one lightly mocking. “Fine also. Did you sleep well?”
“Uh huh.” She had to get out of there. “Breakfast is in the restaurant downstairs. Did you want something?”
He scanned her face and then nodded. “Sure. Give me a few minutes to freshen up.”
Great. So he was coming with her to breakfast. She pressed her fingers into her chest when she was alone, gulping in a deep breath of air, but that didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse because she could taste him in the room, just the finest hint of his cologne, and his raw masculinity.
With a small groan she moved to the window, staring out, trying to switch her brain off, refusing to think, refusing to remember, even though she happened to be standing in almost the exact spot her attempted-seduction had taken place.
A second later, she realised something that had escaped her at first.
He’d made the bed.
Not just thrown the cover over it, either. It looked as though the housekeepers had been through. The duvet was wrinkle-free, the pillows fluffed and placed as they’d been the day before, cushions arranged neatly, his laptop and work papers were stacked on the bedside table and his shoes were tucked at the foot of the bed.
Now her smile came more easily. It was such a silly, small detail but she would never have thought Luca Montebello was a neat freak. True, he always looked immaculate and when he was in London he kept things in an orderly fashion but this was – not what she’d expected.
There was a narrow wardrobe in the corner and on a hunch she moved to it and opened the door. Sure enough, his suits were hanging up in their dry cleaning bags, his shirts too.
Of course they were – what else would he have done with his suits? But seeing them like that pulled at something in the region of her heart. It was such a small sign of normality and easy domesticity – it was something she definitely hadn’t expected.
The bathroom door creaked open and she jumped back from the wardrobe with a guilty expression, like a kid who’d been caught raiding the cookie jar.
“I didn’t leave you much room. Do you need me to take some things out?”
She shook her head.
“You don’t have a dress?”
“I can iron it.”
“For the wedding?”
“Oh,” she nodded. “My bridesmaid dress is in my sister’s room. It’s fine.” She moved away from the wardrobe, but there was nowhere in the room she could go that would give her enough space from him.
“Bronte?”
She lifted her eyes to his, gnawing on her lip.
“You were drunk. You don’t need to beat yourself up about last night.”
With eyes wide, she stared at him. “I’m – not.”
“Yes, you are. I can tell. Just forget about it. You’re not the first person who’s had too much to
drink and done something they then regretted.”
She nodded jerkily, telling herself she should be glad he was giving her such an easy way out. But she wasn’t glad. If anything, it was frustrating, and she couldn’t say why.
“I’m not offended by nudity,” he tacked on, his smile cheeky and charming, pulling at her, the casual flirtation making a bubble of hysteria burst silently beneath her ribs.
“Thank you.” What else could she say? He was letting her off the hook, forgiving her transgressions, acting as though it barely mattered that she’d thrown herself at him in the way she had.
He lifted his shoulders. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
She laughed at that. “You were starving last night, too.”
“That was hours ago.”
She lifted her hands in surrender, a wave of post-alcohol nausea making her uncertain she’d be able to eat anything at all.
The sprawling home had been converted a decade or so earlier into a wedding venue, the various wings at one time used for one family were now pressed into service as guest accommodation. The restaurant would have been, historically, a great hall, with high ceilings and views out over the lake, but now it was set up to cater for the hotel’s guests. Tables were spaced evenly, covered in white cloth, and at the wide doors, the woman they’d met the night before, Jane, greeted them with a smile.
“Good morning! Lovely to see you. I trust you slept well?”
“Like a log,” Luca responded, sliding a casual arm around Bronte’s waist and pulling her closer to him.
Her breath escaped on a rush and she jerked her face to his, surprise on her features.
“Would you like a table for two? Or are you joining another party?”
Bronte hadn’t even thought about that. If she were here on her own she’d have sat with her parents, or her sister. “I –,”
“We’ll sit with Bronte’s family,” Luca interjected, smiling at her encouragingly.
She supposed it should have been a relief. Sitting across from just Luca would have meant making conversation and despite the fact he’d allowed what had happened to be swept under the carpet, she still wasn’t sure she was up to small talk.
“Bronte!” Alice stood up as they approached, bustling towards her sister. “I barely saw you last night. Where did you disappear to?”
Bronte floundered.
“That was my fault, I’m sorry. I had something urgent to deal with.” Luca came to her rescue, dropping his hand from her hip and instead lacing their fingers together. “I’m useless without Bronte.”
“Oh.” Alice looked sideways, her smile infectious. “Mum mentioned you. How fascinating.” She held out a hand. “I’m Alice Hill.”
“Soon to be Alice Ashford,” Bronte reminded her.
“Yes, as of tomorrow.” Alice grinned. “And you’re Luca Montebello.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“You’re involved?”
Alice gestured from one to the other.
“Evidently,” Luca drawled, squeezing Bronte’s hand.
“Excellent.” Alice’s happiness was obviously genuine. “I’m thrilled to hear it. Come, come join us.”
It wasn’t as though Bronte had any doubts, but seeing Luca with her family during breakfast was a crash course in charm. He got on like a house on fire with Alice’s fiancé Edward and Bronte’s father Charles, and it was obvious Clara thought he was just about the best thing since sliced bread. It was Alice though who kept shooting Bronte little looks and kicking her under the table, teasing her in the time honoured tradition of older sisters everywhere. At one point, as the plates were being cleared, and Luca was explaining to Charles how to make perfect gnocchi so that Bronte was trying to get the image out of her head of Luca in an apron rolling tiny potato pasta parcels, Alice shifted in her seat, leaning closer to Bronte.
“He’s dreamy.”
Bronte’s heart lurched. She hated lying to her sister. Then again, Luca was dreamy. That was fact, not a lie, so she nodded. “I know.”
“How long has this been –,”
“Not long.” Bronte lifted her coffee cup so she could use it for cover, placing it in front of her face.
“Why haven’t you mentioned anything?” Alice pushed.
“Well, you’ve been so busy with the wedding…”
“Never too busy for news like this!” Alice responded with mock offence. Then, leaning even closer, and lowering her voice to a gentle whisper. “You’re my sister and I’ve been worried about you. I know Ashton did a number on you.”
Alice’s eyes slid across the restaurant and Bronte turned, following her sister’s gaze until it landed squarely on her ex. He was reading the newspaper, The Guardian, Bronte guessed, and his new girlfriend was sitting opposite him, slowly scrolling through the screen of her phone. It was just a small snapshot into their life but it brought a cynical smile to Bronte’s face, because there was nothing particularly exciting about their breakfast. In fact, it looked just as mundane and ordinary as the kinds of breakfasts they used to share, each taking turns with the various sections of the paper.
As Bronte turned back to her sister, her eyes collided with Luca’s. He’d been watching her, his expression – briefly – grim. But then he smiled and turned back to Charles and it was as though the moment had never happened, except for the tell tale way Bronte’s pulse hammered into overdrive.
“Yes, he did,” Bronte agreed slowly.
“I’m so sorry we had to invite him. Awful, hateful man.”
Bronte’s eyes flew wide. “He’s your friend.”
She recoiled. “He’s Edward’s friend, not mine. And I’m sure he’d have cut ties altogether if it weren’t for the awkward thing of mum and Ashton’s mum, and all that history. I’m just glad you have Luca here. What a way to rub his nose in it!”
Bronte’s cheeks glowed bright pink. She took a sip of coffee to save from answering, honing in on Luca’s conversation just as Charles and Edward were extending the invitation to him to join them in a round of golf.
“Oh, that’s kind, dad, but Luca’s got to work, I’m sure.”
Luca threw her a look that only she could have understood was lightly mocking. “That’s fine. I can take a day.”
“A day off?” She responded, surprised by that. Luca worked harder than just about anyone she knew, and given that she worked for the Montebellos, that was saying something.
“I’m partial to golf.”
With her family? Her heart sunk. “But –,”
“Stop worrying,” he chided, dipping his head forward so their lips almost – but didn’t quite – brush. That didn’t matter though. The proximity was enough. A tremor of awareness spread through her, lifting goose bumps on her arms and making her pupils huge.
She was worried. But why? It wasn’t as though Luca would wax lyrical about her, or dig a deeper hole for her than she’d dug for herself. And she was pretty sure her recent heartbreak meant her dad would go out of his way to be on his best behaviour – no dragging out all the old embarrassing Bronte stories for a laugh. But wasn’t this whole weekend scheme acceptable to Bronte only because she’d convinced herself it wouldn’t be an inconvenience to Luca? That he’d be able to work when there weren’t wedding-related functions? So far, that wasn’t turning out to be the case.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said sotto voce.
“I know,” he repeated, and beneath the table, his hand brushed her thigh, so her eyes flew wide and a kaleidoscope of butterflies burst through her tummy. The touch was fleeting and innocent, but its effect was long reaching. Bronte’s heart was hammering as though she’d run a marathon.
“Then it’s settled,” Edward lifted a hand, gesturing for a waiter to come over. A woman with curly dark hair and a symmetrical face appeared – Bronte remembered her from their inspection of the hotel a month or so earlier. She was the other woman’s sister – Beth – and they ran the hotel together.
A quick explanation
of the tab later and there was standing and moving, everyone saying ‘goodbye’ and preparing to leave. Bronte, Alice and Clara were going into the spa in town for a day of pampering – something Bronte had been looking forward to. But now, she felt a strange – ridiculous – reluctance to be parted from Luca. Was it worry that she thought he’d say something that would reveal the truth of their relationship? No. She trusted him completely. Luca didn’t make mistakes.
“Stop stressing,” he murmured, while everyone was busy with their own farewells and conversations regarding logistics.
She blinked up at him.
“Your ex is looking at us.”
Bronte frowned. She’d forgotten Ashton was even in the same restaurant.
“Oh.”
“What do you say we give him something to look at – and think about?’
She wasn’t sure what he meant, and that showed in her perplexed expression, but a second later his head dipped lower, and she guessed his intent, her mind flying into overdrive, her body screaming in fevered anticipation. One hand lifted to her face, his fingers splayed wide over her cheek, the other pressing to her hip. He smelled of his aftershave and orange juice and coffee. Her gut rolled. His breath was warm, his touch demanding and confident. She yielded completely, exhaling softly, pressing forward, lifting onto the tips of her toes.
His lips brushed hers. They were just as she’d imagined they would be – it was only now she could recognise that yes, she had been imagining this. Fantasising about it. She swayed further forward so her breasts brushed his chest, her nipples almost painful at the contact. His hand at her waist tightened, his thumb padded her cheek and moved towards her lips. Her eyes swept shut and then it was just the two of them, no one else in the room, just him, and her, and this kiss. It was only three seconds, but somehow, it was perfect. She made a small noise of satisfaction, a noise that also, somehow, begged for more.
His body tensed, his hand stilled. She felt him stiffen. Then he pulled away, his smile not like usual, false in some way. Forced.
Bronte’s lips felt as though they were on fire.
Her body too.
Her mouth was dry and inside, she was aching, yearning, for more. So much more. She’d woken up full of regrets but now she felt as though whatever madness had propelled her to undress for Luca the night before was running rampant inside her once more, demanding action.
It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5) Page 5
