It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5)

by Clare Connelly

  Their eyes met; her throat felt filled with sawdust. Her pulse was like a tsunami in her body, weakening her veins, making her aware of their spidery, pervasive network. She fidgeted her hands at her side, staring up at him, as if his eyes could provide answers to questions she couldn’t even voice.

  It was a moment – less than a second. A brief, searing look and then his smile was normal once more, his expression giving nothing away, showing only the billionaire tycoon the world saw when they opened their newspapers.

  “I’ll see you soon, Bronte.”

  She had to fight every impulse not to stare at him as he walked away.

  It had been a moment of weakness. No, it had been part of the plan – for surely at some point he would have needed to kiss her, given the ruse they were perpetuating. But he knew, deep down, that kissing Bronte after breakfast had less to do with her ex, and proving their relationship was real to her family, than it was the answering of a desire she’d sparked in him the night before.

  A chaste kiss – a brush of the lips, that was all. It was hardly the stuff of erotic dreams. So why the hell was he still, several hours later, thinking about the softness of her lips, the warmth of her breath, the sweetness of her smell, the addictive, husky little noise she’d made as he’d drawn her to him, the curve of her hip, the velvet of her cheek. He nodded at something Charles had said, reaching for his soda and taking a sip. He liked Bronte’s dad. He was funny, smart, hard-working, considerate. He could see how he’d raised a daughter like Bronte. Bronte’s soon-to-be brother-in-law to be seemed like a decent guy too, and Luca was glad for that. Glad that Bronte had a nice family who would fill the void left by her ex. She shouldn’t be single, but for as long as she was, she definitely shouldn’t be alone, and her family would stop her from feeling that.

  The kiss lingered on his lips and in his mind. The whole way around the pristine golf course, and over a late lunch back at the estate. It was some time in the afternoon when he finally admitted to himself that if Bronte was any other woman, he’d be working out how to get her into bed by now.

  And therein lay the problem because Bronte was already in his bed and he’d promised he wouldn’t touch her. He’d put her mind at ease by assuring her she wasn’t his type, that he could be trusted to sleep beside her without hitting on her.

  Besides which, she worked for him. Him, his brothers, his cousins. She worked at their family business and she was damned good at her job. And she was still getting over her messy break up with her ex.

  There were a thousand reasons he needed to stop thinking about the goddamned feeling of her mouth, wondering what it would have been like if he’d deepened the kiss, pressing his tongue inside and duelling with hers…

  Cristo. He took a long sip of his drink, wishing it would reach all the way through him and cool down his over-heated veins.

  This was one weekend. Three more nights and then they’d be back in the office and everything would return to normal. Right?

  5

  “YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE KISSED ME.”

  Okay, that wasn’t exactly smooth. She’d been fuming all morning, or maybe she’d just been steaming hot, she couldn’t say, but memories of the way he’d drawn her to his body and claimed her mouth had tormented her for hours and she wanted to put the blame for that squarely at someone’s feet. His made sense.

  “Che?” He shut his laptop with a small frown, placing it on the bed beside him.

  “Don’t ‘che’ me,” she muttered, pushing the door shut, trying to cool her temper even as emotions she didn’t understand roared through her. “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “You don’t think couples kiss each other goodbye?”

  “We’re not a couple!”

  “You want people to believe we are though, right?”

  She stayed where she was, staring at him, even more infuriated by the logic of his argument. “That’s beside the point.”

  “No, Bronte, that’s exactly the point.” He spoke with irritating calmness. “You want people to believe this is real? So we have to show them that.”

  Heat simmered in her veins. He made it sound as though he was going to kiss her again, when they were next with her family. Her heart burst through her.

  “They do believe it’s real. My family would never suspect I’d lie to them.” Guilt clamoured for space inside her.

  He stood up, immediately overpowering the space. She stayed where she was, her back pressed to the door. “What’s the problem?”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just a kiss. Barely even a kiss, in fact – hardly red-hot passion.”

  Great. Just when she thought she was done with mortification he made it clear that the brief interlude which stirred her body and mind to feverish heights had done no such thing to him.

  “Bronte?”

  Don’t be mad with him. He’s doing you a favour. This isn’t his fault.

  She blinked, every feeling she possessed going completely haywire.

  “What’s going on?”

  She opened her mouth, with no idea what she wanted to say. “I just –,”

  He scanned her face, his eyes intelligent and assessing, reading her as easily as if she were a large-print book.

  “Is it possible you liked it when I kissed you, Bronte Hill?”

  She shook her head, well aware her expression must make a liar of her.

  “It’s not – I –,” Great. Now she was bumbling like an idiot. Her fingers lifted to her lips – unnecessarily. The kiss was imprinted on her flesh, burned into her memory banks.

  “It was weird, that’s all.”

  His brows shot up. “What?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “Not you. Not that you kiss weirdly or anything.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Being kissed by anyone else. And in front of my family. I just felt –,”

  Hot. Turned on. Like she wanted to blot everyone else out and make love to him on the breakfast table.

  “Weird,” she whispered softly, dropping her eyes forward.

  “Ah.” He made his way around the bed, coming to stand in front of her, so she held her breath, waiting, hoping, ashamed of the contradiction between what her body was wishing for and what her mind knew she should prefer.

  “And did it feel weird when you undressed for me last night?”

  Heat bloomed in her cheeks. She groaned, not giving into the temptation to shake her head. Because it hadn’t felt weird at all. “I’d been drinking.”

  “I know.” A gruff admission. “Which is why I put a stop to it.”

  Her heart turned over in her chest. Not because he didn’t find her attractive? “I thought –,”

  He moved closer, just by a fraction, but enough that if she made the same movement, they’d be touching. “What did you think?”

  She swallowed. This was too much. She’d come in here preparing to draw some important lines in the sand and now she was losing herself to a whirlpool of physical need and impulses. No lines in the sand, as it turned out, just impulses she needed to tame.

  “Did you think I wasn’t interested, Bronte?”

  Her eyes flew wide. Was she that obvious?

  “Because if so, you’re wrong.”

  Her heart squeezed. This shouldn’t – couldn’t – be happening.

  “But you work for me.”

  Her spine flooded with ice. Her pulse trembled. She did work for him, he was right. And she loved her job – far too much to jeopardise it with some stupid, ill-conceived flirtation.

  “I know.”

  “And you’re in a vulnerable position right now, which is something I make a point of steering clear of.”

  Her mind couldn’t keep up. “What, exactly?”

  “Women with complicated emotional issues.”

  “I’m complicated?”

  “You’re…heartbroken.”

  She frowned at the description. It was a word she might have applied to herse
lf, but somehow it felt wrong. She shook her head infinitesimally.

  “I don’t do heartbreak.” He pressed a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face so that her eyes met his. “I don’t do heart.”

  It didn’t make sense.

  “Emotions.”

  She blinked. “You don’t do emotions?”

  He moved a whisker closer. She drew in a juddering breath. “Not in relationships, no.”

  “But we’re not in a relationship,” she said unevenly, acutely aware of his body, his breath, the size of the room, the light of the late afternoon sun streaming in through the window, the way his hand had felt when he’d cupped her breast.

  “No, and we can’t be,” he said, without moving away.

  She nodded, wondering at the strange dipping sense in her belly.

  “This is just pretend.”

  His words should have reassured her but they didn’t.

  “When you kissed me,” she said thoughtfully, not sure she was game to finish the sentence.

  “Go on.”

  To hell with it. “It didn’t feel pretend.”

  “No?”

  “But I have very limited experience.”

  “With being kissed?”

  “With other men.”

  “Ah.” Did he move closer or did she? “Meaning?”

  She squirmed inwardly. “Do I have to spell that out?”

  “If you want me to know what you’re saying.”

  “That Ashton was the first guy I was with.”

  “You’ve mentioned that. At twenty one he was your first romantic experience?”

  The way he asked the question had her stomach sinking. She nodded slowly.

  “And since him?”

  She took a small step back, colliding with the door. It was hard against her back; he was hard at her front, his arm shifting to brace at the right of her head, trapping her where she was, in a way that made her toes curl and her knees knock.

  “No one.”

  “Not even a night of red-hot revenge sex?”

  Her blood pressure sky-rocketed. She shook her head.

  “I see.”

  She doubted that. How could a man like Luca understand?

  “Not even a drunken kiss?”

  “A drunken strip-tease for my boss,” she reminded him huskily. “Does that count?”

  His lip twisted cynically. “Not when your idiot boss didn’t take advantage of it.”

  “Not idiot,” she demurred. “Chivalrous.”

  “Yes,” he grumbled. “Far too damned chivalrous.”

  She stared up at him, giving up on the silly idea of wanting to put a stop to this and admitting that she wanted, more than anything, for him to kiss her properly. Here, in the privacy of this bedroom, with no family watching, no ex boyfriend lingering nearby.

  “I’m not drunk now.”

  “No?”

  “I had a glass of champagne at the day spa.”

  “How long ago?”

  “More than an hour,” she said, hopefully.

  This was getting ridiculous. Why didn’t she just kiss him? God, she wanted to.

  There was no way he wouldn’t be able to hear her heart slamming into her ribs, right? Feel it, even, with how close they were standing.

  He nodded slowly, his eyes dropping to her lips. Everything groaned to a halt. The planet stopped spinning, the air stopped moving, even her heart froze.

  “But you still work for me.”

  Her heart twisted in the silent void.

  His head dropped lower, despite his words, his eyes probing hers, looking for direction.

  “And you’re still heartbroken.”

  “Not heartbroken,” she said quietly.

  He shifted, just the smallest amount but she knew, somehow, that he was going to step back from her, and she didn’t want that. She lifted her hand, twisting her fingers in the fabric of his shirt, holding him – or compelling him to stay – right where he was.

  “Not heartbroken,” she repeated, not sure why, but certain she wanted to make that point.

  He dropped his head lower again, so low that their lips were parted by only an inch and something inside of her flashed. Memories of their kiss that morning, certainty that it was about to be repeated. She made the softest noise and pushed up, but then his hand was on hers, neatly disentangling her fingers, guiding it to her side.

  “But still my assistant.” He continued to hold her hand though, his thumb padding over the soft flesh of her palm. “And still very much off-limits.”

  Off-limits!

  Isn’t that what she’d thought about him, only the day before?

  He was right, but God, off-limits had never seemed so essential.

  “You sleep with women all the time,” she heard herself say quietly.

  He stilled, his thumb pausing for a moment before resuming its trajectory, swiping across her soft skin in a way that was shooting arrows of desire through her body.

  “What’s your point?”

  She bit down on her lip. “I don’t know if I had one. I was just making conversation.”

  His smile was mocking. “No, you weren’t. You were trying to work something out. What?”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I don’t know. I can just tell.”

  She shook her head, the movement bringing her closer, her lips only a centimetre from his now. “I’ve only ever had sex with one man – someone I thought I loved. Someone I thought I was going to marry. You and I see sex very differently.”

  He shifted, his leg brushing hers, separating her legs a little. She bit back a moan.

  “Go on.” It was a husky command.

  She lifted her other hand to his shirtfront, pressing her fingertips to his chest. “I just wondered what it would be like to be you, I suppose. To have meaningless sex whenever you felt like it…”

  “Sex isn’t meaningless,” he said, and now he moved, closing the distance between them completely so his body pressed hers – hard – to the door, every inch of them in contact, the closeness bliss – utter, head-spinning bliss. “Even if it’s a one night thing. It’s still intimate, important, special. It’s still something you share with another human, bringing you as close as it’s possible to be, physically. That’s not meaningless.”

  A frisson of something like warmth ran the length of her spine.

  “This is ridiculous. I came in here to say –,”

  “You came in here angry that you’ve been thinking about that kiss all day.”

  Her eyes flew wide. “How do you –,”

  His lips twisted with muted anger. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it either, cara.”

  His hand moved to her side, separating her flimsy cotton shirt from the waistband of her jeans. She shivered when his fingertips connected to her bare hip.

  “If you were any other woman, I’d be making love to you right now.”

  She shivered, lifting her face to his. She should be running a mile from this conversation, but she couldn’t. Desire kept her right where she was.

  She tried to cling to common sense, to remember all the reasons he’d sensibly espoused as to why this was a very bad idea.

  “I’m not working for you this weekend.”

  His eyes speared hers, and then, he shook his head, taking a vital step backwards, dropping his hand away from her body at the same time.

  “There’s chemistry between us, but we’re not going to act on it, Bronte. Understood?”

  She was still fuming several hours later when they took their seats at the dinner table, hemmed in on one side by Bronte’s parents and on the other by Edward’s. Luca had left the room while she’d showered; she hadn’t seen him since the incredible moment pressed up against the door, his body pushing all thoughts from her mind except one – sex.

  And now the night stretched interminably before her, the prospect of making small talk with her parents and Edward’s parents like some form of torture.

/>   “You two work together, then?” Edward’s mother Gladys asked, her lipstick a shade of coral that perfectly matched her cardigan.

  “Not in close proximity,” Luca responded, leaning back, a study in relaxation as he lifted his arm and rested it along the back of Bronte’s chair. “Bronte’s in our London office, I tend to work out of Rome.”

  “I see, dear,” Gladys nodded, and Bronte wondered if Luca had ever been called ‘dear’ in his life. It made her smile when a moment ago she would have said nothing could. “So you don’t see each other much?”

  Bronte stiffened, the question one she hadn’t been prepared for.

  Luca however responded smoothly. “On the contrary; it’s a short flight, and I am happy to make it often.”

  Gladys seemed appeased by this. “Very nice.” Her eyes shifted to Bronte. “And I suppose you could transfer to the Rome office if things got serious.”

  “Easy going there, Gladys,” Charles Hill laughed but there was a note of surprise in his voice. “I’m losing one daughter this weekend; don’t start talking about the other one flying the coup.”

  “You’re not losing Alice, dad. She’s getting married. Technically, you’re gaining a son.”

  “And a darned fine one at that,” Edward’s dad said with a nod.

  Charles grinned. “Can’t disagree with you there.” Conversation swirled around them, focussed on Edward and Alice, giving Bronte a slight reprieve. She shifted in her chair – but that was a mistake. Her knees brushed Luca’s beneath the table, her shoulder catching his fingertips as she moved.

  Tension zipped through her. She wanted, more than anything, to lean into him. To feel his warmth, his touch. She needed more than a slight brushing of their knees beneath the table. She needed –

  Her eyes moved moodily around the room, looking for a distraction and landing squarely on Ashton. He was talking to his girlfriend, but a moment after her eyes had found him, he looked up, directly at her, as though he had foreknowledge of where she was sitting. As though he’d been looking at her already, waiting for her to acknowledge him.