Harlequin Presents: Once Upon A Temptation June 2020--Box Set 2 of 2

by Lynne Graham

  That particular evening, she’d confided in Javier that her heart just wasn’t in it anymore.

  The creep had mocked her. From there, their argument had spiraled into a complete destruction of their relationship, the only place it had left to go. Only then had she realized she didn’t want to be with Javier. He had become another crutch.

  And then she’d learned the appalling facts about the working conditions of the cosmetics company she represented. Horrified, Alex had scathingly criticized the company in an interview and quit the contract on the spot.

  It had been a hotheaded, more than reckless, move. Her agent had blasted her—she was gathering too much ill will in an industry where reputation meant everything. Even the warning hadn’t been enough to make her care.

  She’d had enough. So she had run off to Bali and ended up marrying the first man who’d shown an interest in her.

  Seen like that, the picture of her that emerged didn’t look good.

  Now, while she stood like a mannequin with her arms stretched out, her face upturned for a makeup artist to dab highlighter onto her cheeks, Alex looked at her reflection in the mirror under the overhead lights and smiled.

  Relief was a river gushing through her insides.

  God, she was so done with this.

  Only a few minutes to the show and backstage was packed with people, all to ensure a fabulous show. She was totally aware of the strange looks she’d been getting from all of them, ever since she’d arrived.

  Gossip was the backbone of the fashion industry, and she’d no doubt her stunt with the cosmetics company, her subsequent absence for the last few months and her sudden reappearance now were the hot topics of discussion.

  She felt free, as if a weight had been lifted, as she shrugged on a sheer, lacy, red cover-up and moved to join the line of models about to go on.

  Someone sidled up to the producer, Isha, who was one of Alex’s few friends in the industry, and a heated argument ensued. All heads turned to them as both women bent their head over a seating arrangement.

  Alex sidled up to her friend in the wings and enveloped her in a side hug, being extra careful as to not smudge her makeup or even breathe the wrong way. “Everything okay?”

  “Some big bajillionaire VIP has shown up, unannounced, at the last minute, and his team of assistants wants a front row seat for him, of course. Even the crazy genius that is Jean Benoit,” she said, mentioning the designer whose collection they were showing off, “doesn’t want to get on this man’s wrong side. They’re all turning themselves inside out figuring out where to put him.

  “Apparently, he’s here to see one of the models.”

  Alex felt a flutter of alarm in her chest. It had been a fortnight since Vincenzo and she had butted heads, then agreed to a plan. Since they both had super busy schedules, they’d barely seen each other since. It suited her just fine, even though she knew the logistics of their deal would come at her soon enough like a freight train.

  Suddenly, Alex understood how a hunted animal felt. “Any idea who it is?”

  Isha shook her head. “Focus on the show, Alex.”

  The flutter morphed into a full-blown panic attack. “Isha, just tell me.”

  “It’s the same Italian businessman—the reclusive owner of that international brokerage firm who’s been in the media spotlight the past week. It was leaked that he’s related to the Brunettis of Milan, which is why he’s been going after them. Apparently, he’s the secret illegitimate son of the old coot, Silvio. His name’s…”

  “Vincenzo Cavalli,” Alex added, her insides turning into spaghetti. Her heart thumped with a dizzying excitement, and it had nothing to do with the high she usually associated with doing a show.

  Alex squared her shoulders and strutted out onto the catwalk, wondering how apt the song blaring out of the speakers was.

  Something about bad girls living fast and burning out.

  She had to be if she wanted to change the mind of the man sitting in the middle seat of the front row, eating her alive with those penetrating gray eyes.

  Too late to back out now that she’d made a deal with the devil.

  * * *

  Vincenzo threw back the last bit of his whiskey and walked up the curving designer staircase onto the balcony that offered a bird’s-eye view of the latest nonstop party central that was the nightclub he’d launched recently.

  Seeing the final product tonight, when it had been the ruins of an old, abandoned train depot not long ago, filled him with an immense satisfaction.

  The secret nightclub—not so secret anymore now that the high fashion crowd of Milan had discovered it—was bustling with people from the show. Hip-hop music blared through the loudspeakers, while bartenders delighted the crowds with colorful cocktails.

  But even with purple strobe lights flashing on and off from crowd to crowd, he could still spot his dear little wife.

  His gaze unerringly returned to Alessandra again and again, desperate to drink in the sight of her after two weeks of drought.

  He’d always been a man who took risks. A man who played against the odds and won. Or else he wouldn’t have been in a position to challenge the Brunetti brothers, who’d been born with every conceivable advantage.

  His marriage had been a risk, just like this club had been, but not a strategic or financial risk like all the others. It had been a different kind. But in the end, it would pay out.

  Alessandra fluttered through the party like a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. Her toned, curvaceous body that she maintained with an iron-willed discipline showcased beautifully in the slinky black number that parted with a wide V-neck, displaying the sides of her breasts, and yet somehow remained tasteful, elegant. There was a slight ruffled hem that flirted around her upper thighs, again just about covering those round buttocks he’d cradled in his palms a few months ago.

  No such contact was forthcoming anytime soon, he realized with a self-deprecating smile. He’d just have to be patient. He’d have to win Alessandra like he did everything else in life.

  Knowing that the woman he’d married was an international supermodel that men fantasized over was one thing. Seeing it in person was another. It felt like every man here at the club had swarmed her.

  “Everyone adores Alessandra.”

  Here was proof. And yet she’d chosen to marry him after knowing him only for a few short weeks.

  “I’m not a prize, Vincenzo.”

  Her angry words reverberated inside his head, and he knew he was wrong for feeling this sense of pride whenever he saw her.

  An atavistic response, uncharacteristic and unworthy of him. Mine, something inside him insisted. Only mine.

  He frowned, as a particularly tenacious man followed her from group to group, an urgency to his swarthy features. A stocky Spaniard by the name of Javier Diaz, Vincenzo had no doubt.

  He kept an eye on them, ready to lend help if needed, but she dismissed her ex with a scathing remark that had her eyes flashing sparks. That made Vincenzo smile despite the tension stiffening his shoulders.

  Other than a brief tilt of her head in acknowledgment, she’d been avoiding Vincenzo all evening.

  He let her.

  She needed to decompress after the electrifying atmosphere of the show and the relentless demands it had placed on her, and he… He needed to get a better handle on his own emotions tonight before he approached her.

  While he’d intended to give them both a breathing space and the energy to finish their immediate obligations before the media ruckus the announcement of their marriage would cause—two fashion shows and one photoshoot in Alessandra’s case—and everything had gone to hell. Someone had leaked his relationship to the Brunettis to the press.

  He’d had to cut his Beijing trip short to deal with the media circus and the crisis it had caused with the BFI board.r />
  “Is it true that Silvio Brunetti seduced a hotel maid and you were the product?”

  “Are you the illegitimate son of Silvio Brunetti?”

  “What are your intentions for BFI?”

  The Brunetti Bastard one trashy tabloid had called him, choosing to go with the lowest denominator.

  Upon arriving at the HQ of BFI this morning, there had been further challenges to deal with. He wondered if it was Alessandra who’d leaked the news, causing him considerable damage.

  The fallout with the two board members he’d had in his pocket, had set him back almost two months of careful negotiations. Considerable speculation had been raised as to how and why he’d started taking over the board of BFI. Exactly how he had gained ownership of Silvio Brunetti’s stock.

  He’d arrived at the fashion show, temper frayed, determined to confront the woman whose loyalty should’ve been to him. Only him.

  Instead, seeing her strutting on the catwalk, challenge and confidence oozing from every pore, her body a finely honed machine, her eyes glowing with some inner zeal had completely undercut his anger.

  Alessandra in that bloodred bikini top—some sort of studded corset that propped up her already high breasts—and a thong in the same color, with light brown high heels that almost blended into her skin, and all that golden-brown hair pulled back into a tight bun that sharpened her already flawless bone structure, was never going to leave his memory bank even if he lived to be a hundred.

  Her red lipstick had made her pouty mouth a lesson in sensuality and sin.

  The woman had far too much power over him, moving him from anger to laughter to desire as if he were a windup toy she could turn on and off at her leisure.

  She looked up at that precise moment, the flashing purple lights lighting up her lithe body, her eyes shimmering with naked challenge.

  Something inside him awakened with a growl.

  Because this woman, who challenged him, who was making him work for her loyalty, whose surrender would be so delicious when he finally won it, she set his blood on fire. And he’d had enough of watching her from a distance, like those other besotted men. Enough of pussyfooting around her because of misplaced guilt about hurting her. Enough of trying to give her space and time to deal with her grief.

  The world needed to know that she belonged to him. That she had thrown her lot in with him. The explosive news that Alessandra Giovanni had married the Brunetti Bastard should be enough to gain him back some of the ground he’d lost this past week.

  It should have been all about damage control at this point. But the thought of winning his wife over fired his blood like nothing else.

  Leaning his forearms on the wrought iron balustrade, Vincenzo held her gaze. And beckoned her upstairs with his index finger. Laughter broke out of him at the dawning effrontery in her expression, a fire in his veins as he imagined those beautiful brown eyes clouding over with passion when she eventually surrendered to him.

  He was a man used to surrender, and he would accept nothing less from the woman he’d married.

  * * *

  Apparently, whatever reprieve she’d been offered over the last two weeks was finally over. Foolish of her to hope he’d disappear after the fashion show without seeking her out.

  He stood on the balcony, looking down upon her, his gray gaze perusing her with such an intense possessiveness that she felt owned.

  How dare he beckon her with a finger, as if she were his puppet!

  And yet, here she was, answering his summons. Their encounters in Bali had hinted at a depth of emotion that she didn’t see in most men.

  Greta had really lost it with Alex, calling her a naive, besotted fool for not realizing his true nature. But she’d been so sure about him. If there was one thing she’d had exposure to from the ripe age of sixteen, it was men.

  She’d been hit on, propositioned, come on to, even harassed, by everyone from a lowly lighting manager to a megarich designer, to a CEO of a multinational corporation.

  Most men were either intimidated by the idea of all that she was and tried to overcompensate for it in various ways. Others—usually rich investment types—thought that all it took to impress her was a bigger fortune than hers and a bigger ego.

  But Vincenzo hadn’t fallen into either camp. He had been different from that very first moment.

  There had been something very down-to-earth about him, an awareness of his place in the world and the power he could wield. Respect that he offered her immediately for the basic reason that she was another human being, a sense of reserve that she’d been itching to topple from the first time he’d walked her to her villa and then walked away without presuming anything.

  She hadn’t been wrong about the fact that here was a man who felt deeply about things. Who had more emotional bandwidth than anyone she’d ever been involved with.

  Only all that emotion had been deliberately channeled, for years and years, in a bitter quest for revenge, to destroy the people she loved most. And she meant to sway him from that path…

  No wonder Leo had thought she was in over her head. Massimo had simply smiled, winked and asked her to load herself up with dynamite for she was trying to move a mountain.

  She took the final step and immediately regretted leaving the safety of the crowd behind. The space beyond him was expansive but cut away from the prying eyes of others. Too much privacy. Too many secluded corners with dark leather couches that could swallow up a newly married couple who hadn’t touched each other in months.

  “You’re not my lord and master,” she said tartly. Drumming up her defenses.

  “And yet here you are.”

  “I didn’t think this was the time to engage in that particular battle.”

  “Ah…so you do know your limits.”

  “What limits?”

  “You know you’ve pushed me far enough already, si?” he asked huskily, stepping from the shadows into the light. “Do you want to sit?”

  “No, I don’t. I wouldn’t like to sit.” She lowered her voice, realizing he’d moved even closer. The lemony scent of him swept through her, evoking a piercing shaft of need. “I like standing. In fact, I haven’t done enough of it today. I—”

  “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Alessandra,” he said, his baritone voice going all deep and low and smoky, just the way it did when he was aroused. When he wrapped those skillful hands around her. When he moved inside of her.

  But there was something else too.

  Pulling in a deep breath, she finally let herself look at him. The dark leather jacket he’d worn to the show had been discarded. His gunmetal gray dress shirt was unbuttoned and uncuffed, giving her a glimpse of the chest hair that had the most incredible effect when rubbed against her own naked skin…

  A lazy smile split his mouth, crinkling at the edges of his eyes, shooting straight through to her heart. The damned man was laughing at her.

  “You look quite flushed, cara mia. Maybe a cold drink will help.”

  She did feel overheated, even the soft lace of her dress feeling far too tight. She clenched her hands around the cool metal of the balcony. “I’m fine. Stop being so…”

  So irresistible. So knee-meltingly gorgeous. So blatantly masculine.

  “So what?”

  “So…solicitous. As if—” She shook her head far too forcefully, and her hair tumbled down from the loose knot she’d put it in, the brown clip clinking against the cool marble floor. Swearing, she bent down, but he got there first. “Thanks,” she said, extending her hand, but he pulled away.

  “Leave it like that.”

  “I don’t want to—” she pulled the heavy weight away from her neck “—and it’s too—”

  “The entire world gets to see you strut down the catwalk in a bikini that’s been designed to fire up every red-blooded man�
�s fantasies, bella, and that’s fine with me.” His gaze took in the thrust of her breasts as she held up the swathe of her hair, the pulse hammering away at her throat, the swipe of her tongue against her trembling lower lip. His eyes met hers with a naked hunger that was a balm to her wounded ego. “But do not deny me my fantasies, Alessandra.

  “All I’ve wanted for the past two weeks is to see you sprawled on my bed, that hair spread out on my pillow, but clearly that’s not going to happen anytime soon, no? This is the least you can do to keep your poor husband going. Even as you thrust a knife into my back, Princess.”

  The feral possessiveness of his voice was like a thunderbolt filling her veins with an electric sizzle. “A knife into your back?” she said, her words breathy, distracted.

  “You have been a bad girl, bella. Helping out the defenseless Brunetti men.”

  The edge to his words made Alex frown. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He tilted his head, considering her thoughtfully. “You’re going to persuade me that it wasn’t you who leaked my dirty beginnings to the tabloids? That dented my reputation in the financial circles of Milan?”

  She stared at him, aghast. “The last thing I’d do now is lie to you. I think there’s been enough of that between us already, don’t you?”

  “You’re magnificent even when you attack me, Princess.”

  “You’re gorgeous even when you’re being Machiavellian, V.”

  He laughed and those crinkles appeared again. And it was damned impossible to hold herself at arm’s length when she badly wanted to melt into his broad frame and beg him to walk away from all this.

  To put their relationship first. To put their future first. To put her first.

  “I didn’t leak it, V. Whether you believe me or not is up to you. You might not think twice about hurting people but that’s not how I operate. Especially when I can understand how painful it must have been to be that innocent child.