by Jane Porter
“Why is that, Miss Bern?”
She stared up into his face, her gaze locking with his. There was nothing icy about his eyes now. No, they glowed with intelligence and heat and power. There was a physicality about him that stole her breath, knocking her off balance. She tried to gather her thoughts but his energy was so strong she felt it hum through her, lighting her up, making her feel as if he’d somehow stripped her bare.
Gulping for air, she looked down at his strong straight nose and the brackets on either side of his mouth. His face was not a boy’s but a man’s, with creases and lines, and if she didn’t dislike him so much, she would have found the creases beautiful. “You are giving the paparazzi quite a show, you know,” she whispered.
His strong black brows pulled.
“All the manhandling won’t look well in tomorrow’s papers. I’m afraid there are too many incriminating photos.”
“Incriminating photos—” He broke off abruptly, understanding dawning.
His hand dropped even as his gaze scanned the wide canal and the narrow pavement fronting the water and old buildings. She saw the moment he spotted the first of the cameras, and then others. His dark head turned, his gaze raking her, the blue fire blistering her. “What have you done?”
His voice was deep and rough, his accent more pronounced. Her pulse drummed and her insides churned. She’d scored her first hit, and it scared her. She wasn’t accustomed to battling anyone, much less a powerful man. In her work, she assisted, providing support and information. She didn’t challenge or contradict.
“I did what needed to be done,” she said hoarsely. “You refused to acknowledge your nephew. Your family falls in step with whatever you say, and so I’ve pressed the issue. Now the whole world knows that your brother’s son has been returned to your family.”
* * *
Giovanni Marcello drew a slow deep breath and then another. He was shocked as well as livid. He’d been played. Played. By a manipulative, money-hungry American no less. He despised gold diggers. Greedy, selfish, soulless. “You contacted the media, inviting them here today?”
“I did.”
Rachel was no different from her sister. His fingers curled a little, the only sign that he was seething inwardly. “You’re pleased with yourself.”
“I’m pleased that you’ve been forced out of hiding—”
“I was never hiding. Everyone knows this is my home. It’s common knowledge that I work here, as well.”
“Then why is this the first time I’ve had a conversation with you? I’ve reached out to your company staff again and again, and you’ve never bothered to respond to anything!”
Who was she to demand anything from him? From the start her family had only wanted one thing: to milk the Marcellos. Her sister, Juliet Bern, wasn’t in love with his brother, rather she wanted Antonio’s money. And once she could no longer blackmail Antonio, Juliet turned on his family, and then once Juliet was gone, it was Rachel’s turn. Disgusting. “I owe you nothing, and my family owes you nothing. Your sister is gone. Well, my brother is gone, too. Such is life—”
“Juliet said you had a heart of ice.”
“Do you really think you’re the first woman to try to entrap Antonio?” Or me? Gio silently added, as he’d been played for a fool once, but he’d learned. He knew better than to trust a pretty face.
“I didn’t entrap anyone. I didn’t sleep with anyone. I find no pleasure in this, Signor Marcello. If anything, I’m horrified. I am not reckless. I do not fall in love with strangers, or make love to handsome wealthy Italian men. I have scruples and morals, and you are not someone I admire, and your wealth doesn’t make you appealing. Your wealth, though, can help a little boy who needs support.”
“So I’m to applaud you?”
“No. Just have a conscience, please.”
From the corner of his eye, Giovanni saw a photographer move, crouching as he crept forward, snapping away. His gut tightened, his chest hot with barely leashed anger.
He couldn’t believe she’d managed to draw him out of the palazzo and into this scene, a very public scene with witnesses everywhere.
With his position at the helm of the family business, he’d worked hard to keep personal affairs out of the news. It’d taken nearly a decade to restore his family’s fortune and his family’s reputation, but finally the Marcellos were a name to be proud of and a brand that garnered respect. It hadn’t been easy to redeem their name, but he’d managed it through consistent, focused effort. Now, in one reckless moment, this American was about to turn the Marcellos into tabloid fodder once more.
He wasn’t ready. He was still struggling to come to terms with his brother’s death and refused to have Antonio’s memory darkened, his name besmirched, by those consumed with greed. “This isn’t a conversation I intend to continue on the streets of Venice,” he ground out. He was usually so good at avoiding confrontations. He knew how to manage conflict. And yet here they were, staging an epic soap opera, just a block off the Grand Canal. It couldn’t be more public. “Nor am I about to let you abuse my family. If there is to be a story, I shall provide the story, not you.”
“It’s a little late for that, Signor Marcello. The story has been captured on a half-dozen different cameras. I guarantee within the hour you’ll find those images online. Tabloids pay—”
“I’m fully aware of how the paparazzi works.”
“Then you’re also aware of what they have to work with—me handing the baby to your employee, you chasing after me and now us arguing in front of my water taxi.” She paused. “Wouldn’t it have been so much easier to have just taken my phone call?”
His gaze swept her face. He felt an uneasy memory of another woman who looked very much like this American Rachel Bern...
Another beautiful brunette who had been exquisitely confident...
He pushed the memory of his fiancée, Adelisa, from mind, but her memory served a purpose. It reminded him of his vow that he’d never let a woman have the upper hand again. Fortunately, he knew that stories could be massaged, and facts weren’t always objective. Rachel had come to give the photographers a fantastic shot, something they could take to every newspaper and magazine, and Gio could help her with that. He could ensure the paparazzi photographers with their telephoto lenses had something significant to capture, something that would derail her strategy.
Giovanni pulled her to him, one arm locking around her waist, the other hand free to lift her face. Holding her captive, he cupped her chin and jaw, angling her face up to his. He saw a flare of panic in her eyes, the brown irises shot with flecks of green and gold, before he dropped his head, capturing her mouth with his.
She stiffened, her lips still, her breath bottling. He could feel her fear and tension and he instantly gentled the kiss. Although he’d reached for her in anger, he wasn’t in the habit of kissing a woman in anger.
Her mouth was soft and warm. Despite her tension, she was soft and warm and he pulled her closer, tipping her head farther back to tease her lips. He stroked the seam with the tip of his tongue, her mouth generous and pliant. A quiver raced through her, her body shuddering against him and he stroked the seam again, playing with the full upper lip, catching the bow gently in his teeth.
She made a hoarse sound, not in pain, but pleasure, and a lance of hot desire streaked through him, making him hard all over.
He deepened the kiss, her lips parting for him, giving him access to the sweet heat of her mouth. It had been months since he’d enjoyed a kiss half so much, and he took his time, the kiss an exploration of taste and texture and response. His tongue traced the edge of her upper lip and he felt her shudder, her mouth opening wider.
She tasted sweet and hot, but also surprisingly innocent, and his body throbbed, blood drumming in his veins. With his arm in the small of her back, he pulled her even closer, stroking her mouth, over her lower lip, and then finding her tongue, making her shiver again.
Her breathless sighs and little s
hivers whetted his appetite. It’d been a long time since he felt hunger like this. It had been a year and a half since he’d broken things off with his last mistress, and he’d spent evenings with different women since, but he hadn’t slept with any of them. How could he when there was no desire? Antonio’s death had numbed him to everything, until now.
Abruptly Gio released Rachel and took a step back, his pulse thudding hard and heavy, echoing the hot ache in his groin. She stood dazed and motionless, her brown eyes cloudy and bemused.
“That should give your photographer friends something intriguing to sell.” His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears. “It will be interesting to see what story the papers run with the addition of these news shots. Is it really about the baby? Or is this more? A lover’s quarrel, their passionate encounter, an emotional goodbye?”
She exhaled, her cheeks flushed with color, her eyes overly bright. “Why?” she choked.
“Because this is my city and my home, and you are the outsider here. If there is to be a story, it’s going to be my story, not yours.”
“And what is that story, Signor Marcello?”
“Let’s make this easier. It’s always best to keep the story simple. I am Giovanni—close friends and family call me Gio, and you may call me Gio—and I shall call you Rachel.”
“I prefer the formal.”
“But it rings false,” he answered, reaching out to lift a dark glossy tendril of hair from her cheek and carefully smooth it back from her face. Her skin was soft and so very warm and he was reminded of the kiss, and the heat and the sweetness of her mouth. Such a mouth. The things he could do to her mouth. He still felt carnal and hungry. Desire still ran hot in his veins. It was a novelty after so many months of grief and emptiness. “We are no longer strangers. We have a history. A story. And the media, I think, will be enamored with our story.”
“The only story is the truth. You have a nephew you refuse to acknowledge, never mind support.”
“But is he my nephew?”
“Yes, you know he is. I’ve sent you the birth certificate and we can do a DNA test while I’m here—”
“Proving what?” he retorted. Before she could answer, he reached for her again, his hand coiling in her long dark hair, tilting her head back to take her mouth in a long, searing kiss.
She didn’t stiffen or resist. If anything, she leaned into him and he wrapped an arm around her slender frame holding her against him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping her mouth, tasting her, weakening her defenses. By the time he lifted his head, she was silent, no fight left in her. Her wide brown eyes looked up into his.
“You should never underestimate your opponent, Rachel,” he said quietly, running his thumb lightly across her soft flushed cheek. “And you most definitely shouldn’t have underestimated me.”
CHAPTER TWO
RACHEL COULDN’T THINK. Her brain was foggy, and her body had gone to mush. She could barely control her limbs much less her wild emotions. What had just happened? And how had she lost power so quickly?
It was the kiss. The kiss had been her undoing. It was that good. He was that good. And if Antonio had kissed Juliet this way, Rachel almost understood why Juliet lost her head.
“Now you’re going to wrap your arm about my waist,” Giovanni said, his hand settling low on her back, hand warm against the base of her spine, “and we’re going to retrace our steps and we’ll return to my house together.”
“I’m not going to—”
He captured her face, kissing her again, deeply, teasing, stroking her lips and the inside of her mouth, setting her body on fire, destroying her resistance. She reached for his sweater, clinging to the softness, needing support, but the cashmere stretched, yielding, and she leaned against his chest, unable to stand.
“Stop fighting me, and put your arm around me,” he murmured, his deep voice in her ear. “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”
Her hand turned into a fist and she pressed it against his torso, pushing back at him, angry and off balance, not sure how he’d flipped everything around, seizing control from her. His body was so warm, heat emanated from him, making her want to step closer, not farther away. It was so confusing. She pressed her fist into him, pressing against the lean, hard muscle of his torso. “You’re the one playing a game, Giovanni.”
“Oh, yes, and it is my game.”
She licked the swollen fullness of her upper lip. Her mouth still tingled and throbbed from the kisses. “The rules don’t make sense.”
“That’s because you’re not thinking clearly. Later it will be clear to you.”
“But that could be too late.”
He stroked her hot cheek. “Very true.”
That light caress made her pulse jump. Her legs still weren’t steady. “You need to stop touching me.”
His head dipped, his lips against her brow, and then another light kiss high on her cheekbone, his deep voice humming through her. “You shouldn’t have started this.”
She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her earlobe, the touch warm and light, making her skin tingle. “Stop. This is about Michael, and only Michael,” she protested, but her voice was weak and she didn’t sound convincing, not even to herself.
He knew, too. She could tell by the glint in his eyes, a bright fierce flash of triumph. He thought he’d won, and maybe he had won this one battle, but it was an isolated battle and he hadn’t won the war. At the same time, she couldn’t secure Michael’s future by remaining outside, bickering.
Or kissing. Because she didn’t kiss strangers. She wasn’t free with her affections. If anything, she was a little nervous around men, not having a lot of confidence in herself as a woman. It’d been years since she’d been out on a proper date, and Juliet used to say that men would like her better if she’d just relax and not take herself so seriously.
It wasn’t that Rachel took herself so seriously, but she didn’t know how to flirt, and she wasn’t about to resort to flattery just to make a man feel good. Fortunately, in her job she didn’t have to flatter and charm, she just needed to know her aircraft, and she did. It was easy to be enthusiastic about luxury planes and all the different ways one could customize an AeroDynamics jet interior.
“Ready to go in?” Giovanni asked, placing a kiss on the top of her head. “Or do we need to give our photographer friends another passionate embrace?”
“No!” Reluctantly she slid her arm around his waist, shuddering as he drew her close to his hip, and then they were walking, but she couldn’t even feel her legs.
This was crazy. She couldn’t wrap her head around everything that had just happened. Perhaps he was crazy. Perhaps she’d just thrown herself from the fire into the frying pan. Was that the expression? In her dazed state, she couldn’t be sure of anything right now. His kisses... They’d wrecked her. His touch absolutely baffled her.
No one touched her. No one wanted to kiss her. And she knew he didn’t really want to kiss her, but he’d done it to shift the power, seize control. It had been a shocking move but surprisingly effective. That’s the part she didn’t understand. When had kissing someone become the way to handle a situation? And why had it worked so well on her? She should have been able to resist him. She should have been outraged and offended and not melted.
And she had melted. Into a puddle of boneless, spineless sensation.
But now she needed to gather herself and focus and think. Think. She needed a new plan, and quickly.
They were crossing the pavement, approaching the palazzo, and while she dreaded entering Giovanni’s home, she’d at least have Michael back.
Rachel suddenly stumbled, tripping over her own feet. His arm tightened around her, and he drew her firmly against his side. “Too close,” she protested.
“I can feel you trembling. If I let you go, you’ll fall.”
“Blame yourself. You had no business kissing me.”
“Has it been that long since you’ve been pro
perly kissed?”
“I wouldn’t call it a proper kiss. In America we don’t manhandle women.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that American men don’t know how to handle women. Such a shame.” They paused several feet from the door. He tilted her face up, stared into her eyes. “You look better now that you’ve been kissed, though. Less pale and pinched.” He smiled into her eyes but there was a predatory gleam in the blue depths. “Do you want to thank me now, or later?”
She knew what he was doing, striking a pose, giving the photographers more pictures with different angles for a wide variety of shots, but it infuriated her that he’d taken her big moment and turned it into his. “This is going to end badly,” she said tightly.
The corner of his mouth lifted, and he stared down into her face for a long, tense moment, before laughing shortly. “Are you just now figuring that out?”
The front door suddenly swung open, and he kept her close as they entered the palazzo, passing through the high wooden doors and into the cavernous central hall lit by an enormous Murano chandelier, at least seven feet tall, a masterpiece of sparkling glass leaves, flowers and fruits all set amongst intricate, delicate glass rods and fanciful, fragile arabesques.
A member of his staff had obviously been at the front door watching and waiting for them, as the front door opened before Giovanni could touch it, and then closed quietly behind them. Rachel turned her head, craning to see if it was the old man who’d answered the door earlier, but Giovanni was urging her forward, moving her toward the stairs.
Think, she told herself. She needed to clear her head and follow a thought all the way through instead of this—this capitulation of reason and control.
“You can let me go now,” she said, shrugging to free herself. “There are no cameras here.”
