“Don’t be smug, Matteo,” my father warns. “The partners aren’t exactly convinced that you’re a responsible person. You have to prove to them that you’ve grown, that you’re no longer the kid who screwed up so badly in California all those years ago.”
My jaw tightens. I hate it when my family holds that situation over my head. They all seem to forget that something beautiful came out of that whole debacle – Tilly.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say stiffly. “I’ve got it. I’ll prove to them that I’m the right person for the job. I promise.”
He eyes me sternly. “Don’t fuck this up, son.” Hearing my father swear only emphasizes the gravity of the situation. He never swears.
I expel a frustrated breath. “I won’t fuck this up, dad. I promise.”
He still looks skeptical. “What is this I hear about you getting into a bar fight with some executive from Hampton Fresh Juices?”
“Lester Buntlake?” I can’t help but roll my eyes at the mention of that loser. “We paid his medical bills and settled the matter. He won’t be pressing charges or filing a civil suit.”
My father looks like he’s about to press for further details, but just then, my office door swings open and my mother steps dramatically over the threshold. “Oh, there you are, Michaelo. You almost gave me a heart attack. I’ve been all over this place looking for you.”
“Mother.” I stand as she approaches the chair next to my father’s. I intercept her and give her a small kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely.” As usual, her dark hair is pulled into an impeccable bun. Her makeup is flawless. She wears an ivory-colored pantsuit, not a single wrinkle in the silken fabric. She exudes grace and class.
She smooths her hand over the silk of my tie. “Matteo, if you’re going to inherit the role of managing partner of this law firm, you need to carry yourself in a more…leader-like…manner.” She sinks elegantly into the empty seat next to my father.
“Whatever might you mean, mother?” I ask in a sugary, insincere voice that does nothing to hide my annoyance.
She looks at me with that judgmental glare that she’s all but perfected over the years. “That tie is just appalling,” she states dryly.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I smooth my hand over the strip of pale blue silk hanging from my neck. “I think it’s all right,” I say in a light tone. The last thing I need right now is to battle my mother over a goddamned tie.
She gives me a cutting stare. “It doesn’t match the blue of your suit. Did I not teach you to dress better than that?”
I pull in a tight breath and give her a taut smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, mother.”
“And when will I see my granddaughter?” she asks accusatorily. “You’d think that after all the money this family paid to get her, we’d get to see her more often.”
“Gabriella!” my father scolds sternly.
“Mother, my child is not your property. No matter how much money this family has spent on her.” The tension is seeping into my tone now. I rake a hand through my hair. This woman knows all the buttons to push.
She pouts. “All I’m saying is I’d like to see my grandchild more often.”
I’m going to change the subject before things get said that can’t be taken back. “So, mother, what brings you to the office today?”
A frown settles on her forehead. “We came to speak to Michael about your sister. She’s planning a wedding and these tabloids are ruining it for her with the lies they’ve been spreading.”
I sigh. “Why does Maddie let those gossip columns get to her? Can’t she just ignore it?” The Morettis are rich, we’re good-looking and we come from an influential family; of course the gossip rags are interested in us. But that can’t stop us from living our lives.
My mother disregards my dismissive comment. “You would think that being one of the country’s best entertainment lawyers, Michael would handle the situation without being told, but no – that’s too much to ask.”
I feel the need to defend my brother. “You know that Michael has offered his help to Madison, but she’s refused. She doesn’t want to seem weak.”
“Well, I won’t let these vultures steam-roll my daughter any longer. I’ve demanded that Michael deal with the situation immediately.”
I groan. Madison isn’t going to like this but when Gabriella Moretti gets going, there’s no stopping her.
Just then, Anna-Maria taps on the door and lets herself in. “Excuse me,” she says politely, addressing my parents before shifting her focus to me. “Charles DuBois is in conference room two. He’s a bit early for your 11:00 meeting.”
Perfect. At least now, I have an excuse to get away from my over-bearing parents. “Thanks, Anna-Maria. I’ll be there in a minute.”
My mother gathers herself and helps my father to his feet. Fussing over him is one of her newest hobbies. He lets her do it just to avoid confrontation although he is perfectly capable of caring for himself.
“Please consider what we talked about, son,” my father says as his wife ushers him to the door.
“I will,” I say suppressing a frustrated sigh. I watch him step into the hallway. “It was nice seeing you, mother,” I say forcing myself to sound pleasant.
“Yes, Matteo,” she says impatiently. She pauses at the door and glances over her shoulder at me. “And get a damn haircut.”
Chapter 18
From the moment I rolled out of bed this morning I knew that coming in to work today would be a waste of time.
Matteo Moretti is all I can think about.
I can still hear him whispering in my ear. I feel his breath against the curve of my neck. I become heady as I remember the scent and taste of his skin. The harsh, deep sound of his groans.
My attention is yanked in the direction of the door when I hear an eager rapping against the metal frame. Dove stands anxiously just beyond the frame.
“What is it?” I ask in a grating tone.
She doesn’t seem to notice my pissy mood. “One of my sources just spotted Madison Moretti and Domenic Gattusso leaving her doctor’s office, pregnancy pamphlets in hand. Looks like the soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. are expecting a baby!” Dove rushes into my office, tossing a stack of photographs printed on cheap printer paper onto my desk as she takes a seat in an empty chair opposite my desk.
I groan, rolling my eyes before picking up the photographs to study them. The last thing I need right now is to post a story about the Morettis, not when I just spent the weekend pinned down under Matteo’s wicked, heavenly body.
My conscience can only take so much.
Dove frowns at me. “What’s the matter? You don’t seem into it.”
I give a one-shouldered shrug as I shift my eyes to my computer screen to avert her baffled stare. “It’s just that – it’s the Morettis. Nobody cares about the Morettis.”
That’s not true.
Our analytics show that every time we post a story about that damn family, our readership engages. They read, they comment, they share. A lot. But my conscience just won’t let me do it. Not when I still have the smell of Matteo on my skin and the taste of him on my lips.
Dove laughs as her fingers pull on the ends of her thick dreadlocks. “Um, Ellie, do I have to remind you that our three most trafficked stories last year were Michael Moretti’s sex tape with Ruth Salvador, Madison Moretti’s engagement to Domenic Gattusso, and Michael senior’s stroke. In that order. The numbers don’t lie – people care about the Morettis.”
“Well, they shouldn’t,” I grunt under my breath.
“They shouldn’t?” Dove parrots back to me.
“What kind of vultures feed off of other people’s drama?” I ask dismissively.
“Ellie – we do. Other people’s drama literally puts food on the table of every single person working in this office. Have you forgotten that we run a gossip blog?”
I’m irritated now. Not because she’s being unreasonable. But because she’s right. My entire live
lihood depends on exploiting other people’s private lives and that has never been a problem for me until I acquired some secrets of my own.
It’s unsettling, to say the least – feeling entitled to my own privacy when I make a living invading the private lives of others.
“Look, we’re not posting the story, okay?” I say with finality in my tone.
“But Ellie – if we don’t, somebody else will. This story is huge. Imagine all the traffic we’d get. All the hits our site would get –“
I repeat myself as calmly as I can. “We’re not posting the story, Dove.” I know she can sense the irritation brewing right beneath the surface. To temper the blow, I say, “Didn’t we just post a story claiming that Domenic and Madison were about to break up?”
Dove looks even more excited. “Exactly – Maybe the baby caused them to reconcile. Pure gold! Everybody loves a second chance romance.”
I sigh. “We’re not posting it, okay?” To change the subject, I say, “Do we have anyone covering fashion week? Maybe you could go down there and see if you find a story or two.”
“Fashion week? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, right? You want me to cover fashion week when I just dropped the biggest story of the week right into your lap and you rejected it?”
“We’re not posting the story, Dove. This discussion is over!” My voice comes out way louder than I intended it to. Now, the whole office is staring at Dove and me through the glass wall.
I’ve never wished for an opaque wall more than I do in this moment. I really didn’t mean to embarrass Dove. She’s only doing her job – digging up the hottest gossip in the city. It’s not her fault that I’m right in the middle of one of the juiciest scandals of the moment and I’m trying to cover my ass.
I lower my voice considerably. “Look – I’m sorry for losing my temper, okay? But, we’re not covering that story. Can you please go dig something up at Fashion Week?”
Her expression is one of complete indignation. “Fine,” she says as she grabs the photographs off of my desk. She shoots me one final glare before she storms out of my office.
Chapter 19
Why the hell is my heart pounding?
I yank on the silk of my tie to loosen it a bit before I take a big swallow of the scotch in front of me. I push back the cuff of my sleeve and glance at my watch.
12:17.
She’s late.
But I’m not pissed like I would be if any of my other clients was late; I’m anxious. Trying to figure out if she’s coming at all. After the way we fucked in that hotel room all weekend, I just can’t be sure that if Ellie will show up today as planned. We’re supposed to meet and discuss my concerns surrounding the factory inspection and the other aspects of the due diligence.
I know I should have called her myself to set up this meeting, but like a fucking coward, I delegated the task to Anna-Maria. I just wanted to delay the awkwardness of having to act professional with her when, in reality, my insides aren’t burning up for her.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling.
I thought that all I needed was one night with her. But having sex with Ellie Parker did nothing to purge her from my mind. In fact, fucking her did just the opposite. This whole feelings thing is uncharted territory for me.
When we were in New Jersey, I promised her that we would put all of it behind us once we were back in the city. But now that we’re back, I’m feeling something for her and I don’t understand what the fuck it is.
Just when I grab my glass to pound back the rest of its contents, I see Ellie step through the doors of the Peacock Alley.
There she goes again with that dick-hardening strut of hers.
Goddammit.
And it’s obvious that this girl has no fucking clue what effect she has on a man.
“Matteo,” she says softly and my name has never sounded so good.
I watch as she sinks gracefully into the seat opposite me. “Hello Ellie.”
Her hair is slicked back into a glossy ponytail and her lips are a shiny, light pink. Her eyes look like bottomless pools of gray. She wears a black top that stretches just past her ribcage, revealing a delectable strip of her toned stomach, and a pale blue skirt that flows around her hips. She was sexy, hot as hell before I fucked her. But now…she’s beautiful.
Beautiful in a way that makes me want to put her up on a pedestal and idolize her. Worship her with my tongue and my hands and my cock. And I mean that in the sincerest, most genuine way. This woman is a fucking goddess. An Aphrodite. If I didn’t notice that before, the realization has hit me like a ton of bricks right now.
It takes her half a second under my gaze to start to feel self-conscious. Her pretty gray eyes fall to her lap in a bashful blush.
I vaguely register the sound of someone’s voice near our table. I look up to find a waiter smiling down at us. Ellie orders first and I’m so distracted by the sight of her that I simply ask the waiter to bring me whatever Ellie is having. Jeeze – I can’t even think straight when she’s in front of me. How the hell am I supposed to be her lawyer and represent her in her business dealings?
The woman is delicious. I had a sample of her before. I need more.
That’s the only way to satisfy my craving and get her out of my head once and for all. Right? I sure as hell hope so because I liked being able to function like a normal human being. The way I did before I met her. Now, I’m just a shell of a man bumbling by on autopilot?
The food eventually arrives and we pour over the report prepared by the technician who guided us on the factory inspection. Then, we work on formulating a list of requested repairs and changes to be completed in advance of closing. But I’m distracted the whole time. By the way her lips move when she chews. The way her brows squint when she comes across a legal term she doesn’t understand. The way her eyes flutter each time she catches me staring at her in a way that suggests I want to have her again.
By the time the waiter comes by with the bill, I’m as hard as a brick. As I slide my credit card into the leather card-holder the waiter left at our table, I sit and watch her, enjoying the sight of her. In just a few moments, this lunch meeting will be over and we will go our separate ways for the afternoon. So, I just want to absorb her beauty while I still can.
Her gaze flits across mine and her eyes shift away quickly. My heart thuds at the possibility that her thoughts may be wandering in the same neighborhood as mine. I can’t just ignore that feeling and let the moment pass. We have to address the elephant in the room.
And besides, I’m aching to see her smile.
I lean back in my chair, swipe my glass off the table and stare at her. She squirms a bit in her seat as her gaze darts away from mine. “I deserve a fucking medal, y’know?”
She eyes me suspiciously with a jerk of her perfectly groomed eyebrow. “For what?”
“For making it through lunch without knocking everything off this table and flipping you on your hands and knees.”
She tries to look offended, but she bursts out laughing, her giggles shaking her narrow shoulders. Her fingers fly to her mouth to temper her laughter. “Is that so?”
And the tension that has loomed over the table since the moment she sat her pretty ass down dissipates. I lean in towards her and drop my voice to a whisper. “In all seriousness, you look gorgeous…as always.”
Something passes between us and her cheeks redden subtly. “Thank you,” she says modestly. “You look good, too.”
Fuck – I want her so bad right now. “Hey…” I place my hand on hers. I feel the buzz instantly. It’s still there, that electricity between us. My voice trails off.
“What?” She eyes me shyly.
I don’t want to press the issue and come across as a creep, but I need to know if she’s thinking what I’m thinking, wanting what I’m wanting. I pause, searching for the right words.
“You want to fuck me...” She says the words low and decidedly, the flush on her cheeks deepening.
A slow smile pulls across her face and bashfulness fills her eyes. “Yes…” She says the word quietly. And it’s laced with hesitation.
“What?” Confusion ruffles my brow.
“Yes.” She’s more confident the second time she says the word.
And, as eager as my cock is, I still can’t believe my ears.
“That sex – the Jersey sex – that was the best sex I’ve ever had…I want it again.” She gives me a dreamy stare.
Matteo Page 8
