A Weekend of Misbehaving

by Carmen Falcone

  Her heart skipped a beat. She always thought she sacrificed for her family, whether she enjoyed it or not. But what he would go through if news of his father got out, to have his entire career diminished because of his father’s links, was beyond cruel. “That’s why you won’t sell them. You don’t want anyone snooping into his life. Or yours. Why didn’t you tell me that in the beginning?”

  “This isn’t the type of story I’m proud to share.”

  No kidding. “You didn’t trust me.”

  He jammed his hands into his pockets. “You are my kid’s nanny.”

  Yes, she was. And she had to repeat that as a mantra so she wouldn’t let herself fall head over heels for the jerk. “Thanks.”

  With a couple strides, he erased the distance between them. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  She pushed him away. “I get it,” she said, and hated how defensive she sounded. “Did your wife know?”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I told her one day. After we were married.”

  “Not before?”

  “I thought this didn’t matter?”

  “Not to me, but obviously it does to you.” Mattered enough to him that he didn’t share it with his fiancée before their wedding. Why not? Alice got that it put him in a vulnerable spot, but how could he commit to marry someone and be her spouse with secrets?

  “Right.” He ran his hand down his face. “I tricked her, I guess. That was one of the many things I did wrong, according to her.”

  “Why did you stay? If marriage sucked so badly?”

  “Because of Cara. I wanted her to have stability. I still do. My father loved me growing up, but having him in and out of my life was painful. I knew if I divorced Kristin, I wouldn’t be there for her as much as I wanted to be.”

  Stability. The word threw a punch to her gut. She was part of the current stability, wasn’t she? He trusted her to take care of Cara while he worked to grow his art empire. That was why he wanted her to move with him, so that there wouldn’t be more changes for Cara—on top of the different school and friends. Her heart squeezed for the little girl. She would miss her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t go with them, not when her responsibilities at home were much greater than the little he offered, emotionally at least. “If someone really loves you, they won’t care.”

  He ran his hand down her cheek, and a shiver went through her. “I was wrong when I said Bad Alice was my favorite. Good Alice…that’s the one I have to watch out for.”

  Cutting through the rich, luxurious fabric was like twisting a knife into her heart. Lorenzo had trusted her, albeit under duress, and shared his secret. He had also shown faith that she would do a good job with the dress. He believed in her, didn’t he? Not that it mattered. Her shoulders sagged a notch. Maybe it did.

  “Did you get everything you need?” Lorenzo asked, fixing his collar.

  “Yes. Rogerio brought me a sewing machine and a box filled with the necessary supplies. I’m set.” The butler had also sent Viola’s assistant to come help her with whatever she needed. But Alice was hopeful once she opened the stitches on the side, it would be a piece of cake.

  “Good.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’m off for a chess game in the library. One of Paul Smythe’s brilliant ideas. See you later.”

  She locked the door behind him. The urge to text Georgia crept in, and she was reaching for her cell when a knock startled her.

  “You forget something?” she said when she opened the door.

  “Hey.” Joan flashed her a smile. “May I come in?”

  “Sure.” She gestured for the tall, leggy blonde to enter. A cloud of jasmine leaves blended with cinnamon swirled around Joan. Her signature perfume. “I was altering a dress for the party. Sorry, I don’t have much time to chat,” she said. Although Lorenzo didn’t like Joan, she found no reason to avoid her like he probably wanted.

  Joan raised an eyebrow. “I understand. I just came to ask you something.”

  Alice motioned for her to sit at one of the tufted settees, but Joan remained standing. Maybe this was going to be short. “Sure.”

  “For how long have you worked for Lorenzo?”

  Blood froze in her veins. Alice stepped back, as if the rug was being swept from under her. Because, judging by the serious contours on Joan’s face, it was. Shit. “Why would you think that?” she asked, managing to sound fifty percent less nervous than she really was.

  “So it’s true.” Joan lifted her chin, hands perched at her waist. A triumphant smile formed on her pink lips. “I knew there was something off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t fit the profile a man like him would date. That’s a given. But, not only that, you don’t wear a lot of designer clothes, which means he didn’t have time to buy you things. Besides, I checked with a friend who lives in Austin, and she had never heard of an Alice Sommers dating Lorenzo Baldi. Or of you at all.”

  “Wow, your spiel sends me straight to a shrink’s couch,” Alice fired back, squaring her shoulders. Her stomach was knotted, though she would die before admitting to it. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  Joan assessed her from head to toe, as if this was their first meeting. “Maybe not, but the look on your face did. Why are you deceiving Viola? Lorenzo doesn’t need to have a date to be able to buy the paintings.”

  Alice, drumming her fingers on her waist, said, “Was that why you were nice to me? Because you wanted to get the dirt? That’s sick.”

  “I like you, Alice, even though you might not believe it.” A flicker of tenderness zipped through Joan’s green eyes. “You are just in way over your head. And if we’re going to compete as equals, it’s wrong for you to fake a relationship.”

  Like it’s wrong for you to ambush me? “I’m not competing. I’m only here to support him. Just as you are to your husband.”

  Joan paced the room, perhaps in hopes of finding something incriminating. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. “You are Lorenzo’s weapon. Viola likes you. Therefore, yes, you are competition.

  “Tell him to do the right thing and drop out of the race. Otherwise it will be worse for him. We can tell Viola he faked a relationship with you. As you know, Viola hates liars. Especially when they’re men. We expect him to withdraw at the party,” she said before she left. “Arrivederci.”

  Shit. Shit, shit. Alice slapped her forehead. What to do? Lorenzo would be crushed, and not only that, he would hate her. She knew she said way too much when they had their spa day.

  She turned on the sewing machine. She would have to find a way to make things better—and she would look fabulous while doing it.

  Lorenzo twisted the door handle. Smythe played a good game, but he still beat him. He opened the door to the bedroom, and a breeze of seductive perfume enthralled him. A smile tipped at the corner of his lips, and his pulse spiked. It had been too long since he had pumped inside her and kissed her soft skin. Too damn long.

  He searched for her in the suite and found Alice applying makeup. And wearing a dress that cast all sorts of sinful intentions. Dio Mio. The woman was an artist. He was no expert, and usually didn’t spare but a glance at dresses in general, but it was obvious Alice was gifted. The burgundy fabric fit like a glove on her, outlining her full breasts, marking her waist without suffocating it, then falling down with a slit on her legs. “Alice,” he said in such a coarse tone, he doubted there was much question about his thoughts.

  She awakened a primeval desire in him, and the clock was ticking. Tomorrow, they would go back to Texas, and if he convinced her to move with them to New York or not—which he would—things would never be like they were now. No more sex. No more getting handsy. No more—

  His trousers tightened.

  She chewed on her lower lip. “We need to talk.”

  Maybe dirty talk. He pulled off his shirt, and it flew across the room. Then he pulled down his pants, getting undressed with the eagerness of a marathon runner nearing the finish line. “You kn
ow what I was thinking when I was playing chess?”

  “With Paul Smythe? Tell me.” She stepped toward him, and the slit on her dress showed her smooth shapely legs. Was she wearing underwear? He quickly skimmed her dress. No lines. His cock jumped. If anti-garment was a social movement, she would be the face of it. Not that he’d want millions of men to know it, too. “Tell me all about it.”

  “Tonight is our last night together. Tomorrow we are heading back home after lunch. And we haven’t been making the best use of our time here.”

  She tilted her head, and he could tell by the rise of her chest that she was having a damn hard time breathing. “Is that all that went down when you were with Smythe?”

  He slammed her against the sturdy antique vanity table and shoved the contents to the sides. A lot of them fell on the carpet. She lifted her chin, a gleam of pure excitement in her eyes. Yes. She wanted this, too—wanted him. And he had no idea what he had done to deserve that unbridled passion, but he would take it. He would enjoy every last drop until their time was up.

  He nudged her legs apart with his own, wrestling the desire to rip her dress off. She had worked hard on it, and shredding it wasn’t right. Carefully, he pulled up the hem and bunched it at her waist. “I’ve been dreaming about touching you.” He palmed her sex, already warm for him. “Like this.” Unable to wait, he thrust two fingers into her, and her sweet wetness made a rumble go through his body.

  “What else?” she asked, arching toward him. Her voice heaved with want, which only enticed him even more.

  “About feasting on you until you come in my mouth. Hard.”

  She moaned—a long, sexy, tortured moan. “T-talk is cheap. I say you back up your promises with action, mister.”

  “I can’t think of a better plan.” He nipped her neck, and she curved against the mirror. He kissed her taut nipples over her dress. Kneeling one knee on the ottoman for balance, he positioned himself between her legs, and the scent of her arousal drew him in further. Like a singer to lyrics and a poet to words, he was captivated. Entranced. Hooked. Wasting no time, he buried his head in her sex. Stroking his tongue on her folds, soaking wet only for him, he rejoiced at her addicting honey taste. She was gorgeous, in all kinds of ways.

  He slid his hand under her hips, bringing her into him. And with his free hand, he teased her clit—thrumming over the swollen nub at first, warming the metal piercing with the touch of his deft finger and flicking the intimate jewel without mercy. She tangled her hands in his hair, ruffling it, and he intensified the rhythm of his sucking.

  She called his name, each time her voice coarser, followed by a string of moans. Never in his life had he been so into the moment—sensing every bit of her climax. Spasms claimed her, but instead of letting go he licked her, pinched her thighs, grazed his teeth over her folds. Made it clear he was there for her.

  Only when her breath eased and her body no longer shook as much, he straightened and stood up. His cock throbbed, the tip already creamy. “I also kept thinking about fucking you. Quick and hard.”

  She snatched him closer, her hands hovering over his biceps. “Do it. Fuck me.”

  It took him a lifetime of control to not come right there. But he did it. He thrust into her, probably a lot rougher than he should have, but there were no complaints. She choked out a whimper, and he was about to ask her if she was okay, when she wrapped her legs around his waist and clenched her inner muscles.

  How could he resist her? Resisting wasn’t a part of the weekend.

  He would deal with that later. For Christ’s sake, he was a man whose poker face was a trademark on silent auctions throughout the world. Millions hadn’t appeared in his bank account out of nowhere—he had relied on control and hard work.

  He thrust into her, in and out, encouraged by her sexy whimpers. Each time he delved deeper, stronger, harder—like he was hitting a hidden part of her. She kissed him, and he plundered her mouth. It didn’t take long for her to reach climax, and his body ripped in amazing shockwaves.

  “Joan Smythe knows I work for you,” she blurted.

  In a quick move, he pulled out and sat upright. “What?”

  Chewing on her lower lip, she sat up, too. Thankfully, she crossed her arms over her breasts so he didn’t have to be distracted. “She found out.”

  “How?”

  She rubbed her temples. “Probably my bad. She asked for my last name yesterday when we were talking fashion. And today when she accused me of working for you, I was so shocked that she saw it in my face. I’m sorry.”

  A different kind of heat flooded his bloodstream. He let out a sigh. Shit. “It’s not your fault,” he said, and squeezed her shoulder. “She would have gone the distance to find out. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “You didn’t take your cell with you when you went to play chess with Paul. And when you walked in, I was going to tell you, but then you were all horny like a man who was just released from prison. I lost my train of thought…” She smiled. “Hey, I’m only human.”

  If he hadn’t been so upset, he would have smiled, too. “Smythe had the opportunity to tell me about it. Yet he didn’t make any comments. Now I know why he wanted to play chess so badly. To get me away from you.”

  She gnawed her bottom lip. “So Joan could corner me?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  “Why didn’t he mention anything to you?”

  An invisible lightbulb shone above him. “Because he wants to bring it up at the party. In front of Viola.” Yes, it was obvious. Smythe wanted to take him out of the game, to tarnish his reputation, and to get rid of him. Maybe the man was still mad at him for outbidding him in the past.

  She covered her mouth. “Crap.”

  “Let’s get ready. And find Viola before he does.”

  Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Lorenzo…you’re going to tell her?”

  He ran his hand down his hair and nodded. “That’s the only way. I’ll tell her I lied about the engagement because I didn’t want the incident at the pool to give her the wrong idea of me.”

  “Right,” she said in a low voice. Without as much eagerness as he, she recomposed and adjusted her dress, smoothing her hands over the fabric. Did he say something wrong? Alice reapplied her cherry-colored lipstick, eyes focused on the task, watching the result in the mirror. Her usual facial expression, soft and warm like she was about to smile at any time, was gone.

  Maybe she’s just worried. Worried he would back out from their deal, despite the outcome. “I will still give you your money, Alice. No matter what,” he heard himself saying.

  She tossed him a glance over her shoulder. “Of course. Thanks.”

  Maybe he was imagining things. Shaking his head, he decided he didn’t have time to worry about it. He dashed to the walk-in closet, retrieved the tuxedo, and put it on as fast as he could. When he finished slipping on his fine leather shoes, she stood at the door, somehow even more alluring than before.

  A small smile played at her mouth. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Truth was, he wasn’t ready. How could he be? There was a big chance Viola would simply write him off after discovering he lied to her. And that Alice was the nanny he banged. Oh great. What if Viola got even madder at him, and not only refused to sell to him but gave his story to Paul? He bet the bastard would like that—and the possibility of exposure would become more real than ever.

  Omission had been a part of his existence for too long. It was time to come clean, at least to one person.

  By the time they reached the gardens decorated in much different fashion than the French-inspired Marie Antoinette party, his heart was thumping like crazy. No sign of Viola yet. He’d spotted dozens of locals who had come, all of them dressed mostly in red. Even some men had on scarlet-colored jackets and ties. A few of them had gone all out, and in the mix, he spotted Paul Smythe. The dark red shiny suit was as ridiculous as the man wearing it.

  “I don’t s
ee her,” Alice pointed out. “Do you?”

  Viola always enjoyed a grand entrance, and he doubted this time would be different.

  “Maybe she’s still inside the house,” he said and turned around. Alice followed him, her stride almost as fast as his. But other than a number of waitresses and staff members sauntering to and from the kitchen, he didn’t see her. Going up her room to plea for a chance to talk was far too desperate, even for him.

  They checked in the library, since she had used the room for one-on-ones with guests over the weekend. Maybe he could catch her and pull her to the side. A lump thickened in his throat, and he tried to swallow a couple of times to push it down.

  “Looking for someone?” Paul’s voice sounded behind him.

  Shaking his head, stung by annoyance rather than apprehension, he assessed his opponent. The man he would enjoy crushing.

  “Sending your wife to harass Alice was a low blow, Smythe. Even for you.”

  “Yeah. Besides, where did you find this get-up? Did you raid the set from an Austin Powers movie?” Alice asked, hands perched at her waist.

  Unfazed, Paul walked inside the library with a stupid grin on his face. “This is vintage Versace. Although I’m sure the concept would be lost on someone as modest as yourself. A nanny?”

  Lorenzo curled his fists. “Leave her out of this, Smythe.”

  “I was thinking, Lorenzo. For some reason I haven’t figured out, you want those bloody paintings more than you wish to save your reputation.”

  If he only knew…

  “Which brings me to the point. Why can’t you have both? If you pay me what the paintings are worth—will be worth when I get my hands on them—I won’t tell Viola about your dirty little secret with the sexy nanny.” Paul pointed at Alice.

  Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. “You will withdraw from the race?”

  Paul grinned. “If you make me a good offer, yes.”

  Damn it. He hated being vulnerable. Kristin had threatened to expose him so many times, whenever he threw the word divorce at her. Even Alice had blackmailed him into giving her money, though he had no idea at the time why she needed it so badly. And now, he had the chance to write a check or make a wire transfer, and with a click of a button, Paul Smythe would be out of his life. Or would he?