by Kate Hewitt
‘It seems you are doing your best to convince me,’ he said, and her gaze widened, pupils flaring.
‘I’m not trying to...’
‘You don’t need to try, bella.’ He slipped off the sofa and came to kneel before her. ‘It just is.’ He slid his hands along her legs, over her knees and across her thighs. Laurel shuddered in response. ‘This thing between us—it just is. Why should either of us fight it?’
She stared at him, her pupils dilated, her breathing ragged. ‘So two weeks of...of being together? That’s what you want?’ She breathed.
‘It’s very simple, isn’t it? We enjoy each other and we both walk away satisfied.’ He stroked her inner thighs lightly. ‘Very satisfied.’
She stared at him, transfixed, a rosy flush sweeping over her whole body. Cristiano slid his hands higher, splaying his palms across the tops of her thighs, keeping her in place. Laurel let out a breathy little sigh, the sound of acceptance. Of victory.
Cristiano leaned in. ‘We both want this, Laurel.’
Her eyes fluttered closed, her body trembling under his light touch. ‘I... I know.’
‘There’s nothing to fear or regret here,’ he added, compelled to reassure her even now. ‘Nothing but pleasure for both of us.’
She nodded, the movement jerky, and Cristiano closed the space between their mouths. The kiss was deep and endless, branding them both. His hands tightened on her thighs, and hers gripped his shoulders, both of them steadying and anchoring each other.
Eventually, breathless and wanting, Cristiano broke the kiss. ‘Yes?’ he demanded, his voice raw with need.
Laurel opened her eyes and gazed at him, her expression both dazed and resolute. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LAUREL WOKE UP to dazzling sunlight and an empty bed. She stretched, muscles aching that had never ached before. Hours later and she still felt sated and boneless. One thing was inarguable—Cristiano was an attentive, thorough and excellent lover.
Not, of course, that she had any way to measure his performance besides her own breathless satisfaction. She rolled onto her side, tucking her knees up to her chest and fought the expected rush of guilt and doubt. She’d made a decision last night, a foolhardy and potentially dangerous decision. Cristiano Ferrero was way, way out of her league. She didn’t have any experience with dating, with men, with relationships.
But this wasn’t a relationship.
A timely reminder, and one she would have to give herself constantly over the forthcoming days. No matter what she’d assured Cristiano last night, it would be all too easy to fall in love with him, or at least believe that she had. Because she might have told Cristiano she didn’t want to fall in love with anyone, but that wasn’t strictly true. It was simply that she hadn’t yet found anyone to fall in love with. Anyone to take that almighty risk for—the risk of offering herself wholly with the possibility of being pushed away. People left. It was the one truth she’d learned over and over, yet she still kept hoping there was someone out there who wouldn’t. Someone who would think she was worth staying for. She believed it because she wanted to believe she was lovable.
But she knew Cristiano wasn’t the man who would convince her of that. So she’d take these two weeks and get out of them what she could. Because fighting Cristiano was a lost cause, especially when she was fighting herself as well, her own impossible desires and dreams. Far easier, and far, far more enjoyable, to give in.
And what a sweet surrender it had been.
Sighing, she stretched and then sat up in bed. She didn’t know what the day held, or what Cristiano would act like now she truly was his lover. His mistress.
The door to the bedroom opened and Laurel stilled, before drawing the sheet up to cover herself. Cristiano stood in the doorway freshly showered and dressed with two cups of coffee.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ Laurel took the cup of coffee he handed her, cradling the warm mug between her palms.
‘We leave for Paris in a couple of hours.’
‘So soon?’
‘I need to meet with my manager before the gala tonight.’
Laurel nodded slowly and took a sip of coffee. ‘All right.’ She was excited to go to France, to escape the confines of Rome and its recently made memories. She wanted to be somewhere new with Cristiano.
He turned away, his eyes narrowed as he gazed out at the bright sunshine of a summer’s morning, at the light glinting off the windows and roofs of Rome; he looked so impossibly beautiful, the stark lines of his body and face gilded in sunlight.
‘Cristiano.’ Laurel’s voice wavered and he turned, dark eyebrows raised in query. ‘Thank you.’
A tiny smile quirked his mouth. ‘Now, that was unexpected.’
‘I know I haven’t been particularly grateful for your intervention,’ Laurel allowed with a small, answering smile. ‘But I am. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t stepped in.’
Something flashed across Cristiano’s face, an emotion Laurel couldn’t gauge, and then he gave a little nod. ‘You should get dressed,’ he said, and walked from the room.
An hour later Laurel stepped into the lift that would bring them to the lobby and the waiting limo to take them to the airport. She wore a shift dress in aquamarine linen and a pair of taupe open-heeled sandals, her hair caught back with a sapphire clip—and Laurel suspected the sapphires were real. It had come with a drawerful of jewellery that she was afraid to touch. Was this how Cristiano treated all his mistresses—with jewels, clothes and careless expense? She’d been telling herself all morning just to go with it, enjoy the over-the-top craziness, but she still found it hard.
She’d paid her own way since she was eighteen years old, working her way through her nursing degree with part-time jobs, insisting on paying rent—admittedly, a minimal one—to her grandfather. She didn’t like feeling bought.
And yet she couldn’t keep a warm glow from spreading through her when Cristiano saw her, a slow smile stealing over his features as his gaze swept over her. ‘You look lovely.’
‘Thank you,’ Laurel murmured.
They now had a relationship of sorts and, while it felt far better than the constant battling, it was still...odd. Considering she’d never even had a boyfriend, Laurel was not at all sure how to navigate a love affair, and a temporary one at that.
Cristiano helped her into the limo and Laurel slid into the sumptuous leather luxury, amazed all over again at the turn her life had taken. In Illinois she drove an old pick-up truck.
‘You look so surprised,’ Cristiano remarked as he sat next to her, sliding out his phone and thumbing a few buttons.
‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a limo.’
He looked up, arching an eyebrow. ‘How long?’
‘Since our parents were married,’ Laurel admitted. ‘Those three years were like a dream to both of us. I think we knew it couldn’t last.’
‘Because your mother got greedy.’
‘Let’s not rehash this, Cristiano,’ Laurel said on a sigh. ‘I know what she did was wrong, okay?’
She couldn’t help but wonder about the what ifs, though—what if he hadn’t said anything about that bank account; what if Lorenzo and Elizabeth had stayed married... It beggared belief how different her life might have been now.
Except here she was in Italy, in a limo, living a life of luxury, if only for a short time,. So it seemed she had that life, albeit temporarily, after all.
* * *
‘So what exactly are we doing in Paris?’ she asked once they were settled in the first-class section on the plane, their seats forming a private nook.
‘As I told you, I have a business meeting this afternoon, and then the charity gala tonight. After that...’ His slow smile was like a burn, the wicked glint in his eyes a hiss. ‘After that we can do what we like,’ he murmured, his gaze lowering to sweep meaningfully over her.
And even though part of h
er felt she should resist the innuendo, the expectation, Laurel couldn’t keep from reacting. Heat flared, need tightening inside her into sharp, aching points.
She smiled and looked away, trying to regain her composure. A flight attendant brought them both glasses of fizzing champagne, and Laurel took a much-needed sip. She wasn’t much of a one for alcohol, but right now she needed the distraction.
‘Relax,’ Cristiano murmured as he lounged back in his seat and sipped his drink. ‘Bavasso has been dealt with.’
But it wasn’t Bavasso making her feel as if everything inside her was on edge. It was this man right here, his silvery gaze slipping inside her, stirring things up, making her restless, wanting and afraid. After years of living a small, calm life, it felt like too much. Maybe, Laurel reflected wistfully, she just wasn’t mistress material.
* * *
Cristiano watched Laurel fidget out of the corner of his eye and wondered why she was so nervous. It couldn’t be Bavasso, so it had to be him and the new status of their relationship—although he used that word with caution.
Still, the last twelve hours had been some of the most enjoyable of his life. Not just the sex, which had been as incredible as before, but—dared he even think of it?—the company. He was starting to like Laurel—her feistiness, her sense of humour, her easy-to-read emotions and limitless compassion—something he’d never felt for any of his other mistresses, whose personalities had been of zero interest to him.
‘What is the gala tonight in aid of?’ Laurel asked. ‘Which charity?’
‘A children’s hospice, I believe.’
‘Really?’ Interest sparked in her eyes. ‘I’m a hospice nurse. Palliative care.’ Which meant she helped people in the last days and weeks, even hours, of their lives.
‘That must be difficult sometimes,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, it can be. Sad, of course.’ She gave a sorrowful smile. ‘But it’s often an overlooked part of the medical profession. People are so focused on getting better, they don’t want to think about what happens when you can’t.’
‘Of course,’ Cristiano murmured. He was disconcertingly moved by the thought of her helping people at such a hard time in their lives. The selflessness of it, when there was so little reward. The patients she dealt with were never going to get better. ‘So how did you choose that particular field of nursing?’ he asked, even though his gut was telling him to stop asking questions. Stop being interested; stop caring, for heaven’s sake.
‘My grandfather.’ Laurel was quiet for a moment, her expression pensive and a little shadowed. ‘He was diagnosed with dementia while I was doing my degree. I was living with him, working during the day and taking classes at night. My grandad really wanted to be able to stay at home as long as he could, and so I went even more part-time to make that happen. After all he’d done for me over the years...’ She pressed her lips together, her gaze distant. ‘It was the very least I could do.’
The very least, and yet so much. And, Cristiano reflected, the opposite of what he’d assumed. When she’d walked into the casino he’d decided right then that she was a shallow, mercenary, experienced gold-digger like her mother. Instead he was discovering how innocent she was, how pure. A woman who’d been willing to put her own ambitions aside to care for an elderly man; to dedicate her life to easing the burdens and sorrows for others.
It was an uncomfortable realisation.
‘And you said your grandfather died three months ago?’ he asked after a moment.
Laurel nodded. ‘Yes, in the hospice where I work, so I could see him every day. That was a great blessing.’ She let out a soft, sad sigh. ‘And it was a great loss. The last year of his illness, he was very confused. And the last few months, he didn’t even know who I was.’ Grief flashed across her face and then was gone.
Cristiano felt a tightening in his chest, an overflow of emotion. He was discovering depths to Laurel that amazed and humbled him. And, damn it, he still wanted her to be shallow. He needed her to be, because that was so much simpler. So much easier.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, the words heartfelt, but feeling useless.
‘Thank you. I still miss him. I suppose I always will.’ She turned to him with a small smile. ‘Enough of my sob story,’ Laurel said, injecting a note of brightness into her voice. ‘What about you?’
What about him? What could he say? He was a sinner to her saint. At that moment, he felt he’d done nothing of note in his life whatsoever. Cristiano shifted in his seat and took a sip of champagne. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How did you get started in the hotel business? Your father is in finance, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he was. He’s retired now.’
‘So why hotels instead of the family business?’
‘Because I wanted to be my own man, on my own terms, not just follow in my father’s footsteps.’ He hadn’t wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps in any way—not the business, not the three marriages, not the endless loop of love and heartbreak that had left his father alone and wistful in his villa in Capri, still hoping for some kind of silver years romance.
‘Fair enough,’ Laurel answered. ‘So why hotels?’
Cristiano shrugged. ‘I got my start by buying up a run-down pensione and turning it into an exclusive boutique hotel.’ He shrugged. ‘A combination of luck, risk and a small amount of skill.’
‘I’m sure it was more than a small amount,’ Laurel said, smiling, and Cristiano looked away.
‘Maybe.’ The truth was he’d been in the right place at the right time, and had been willing to take a risk on a big vision no one else had shared. It didn’t feel like that much, all of a sudden.
‘And from that one little pensione you now have how many hotels?’ Laurel asked, and Cristiano turned back to her.
‘An even dozen. Most are in Europe, but I’m expanding into North American and Asia.’
‘With one in New York and one in Hong Kong.’
Cristiano arched an eyebrow. ‘You’re well informed.’
Laurel blushed and ducked her head. ‘I read about it in the papers.’
‘Did you?’ That was interesting. Had she been keeping tabs on him? That schoolgirl crush from ten years ago had perhaps lain dormant. Once that information might have alarmed him, but now he felt strangely pleased by the thought.
‘You are in the tabloids a lot, you know,’ Laurel said, clearly trying to recover. ‘With whatever supermodel or actress you’re with at that nanosecond.’
‘Nanosecond?’ Cristiano leaned forward. ‘That’s insulting to my sexual prowess.’
Laurel’s blush, which had faded to a lovely, dusky pink, now returned to red. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘I know you didn’t. You couldn’t possibly have.’ He leaned a little closer, so his leg nudged hers and his breath fanned her ear. ‘But perhaps I need to remind you of it anyway.’
Laurel’s lips parted soundlessly and her gaze darted around the first-class area. Their seats formed a private alcove, but it wasn’t that private. Not private enough to do what Cristiano was now aching to do.
And yet... He trailed one hand up Laurel’s bare leg, skimming the sensitive skin under her knee before sliding his fingers under the hem of her dress.
‘Cristiano.’ Laurel looked scandalised but also excited. He saw it in the flared pupils, the parted lips, heard it in her uneven breathing. And felt it in himself. He was barely touching her, yet it felt like the most wildly exciting thing he’d ever done.
He stroked the silky-smooth skin of her inner thigh, listening to her breathing hitch and feeling his own painfully intense reaction as lust arrowed through him.
‘Someone will see,’ Laurel whispered, her breath hitching, but she didn’t move.
‘See what?’ Cristiano stroked her thigh again, letting his fingers slide just that little bit higher. Her skin felt like cool silk. ‘We’re just sitting here, chatting.’ And, from the outside, that indeed looked like a
ll they were doing. Their bodies blocked the view of Cristiano’s hand where it was inching inexorably higher.
‘Maybe, but...’ Laurel shifted, giving him greater access—intentionally or not? Cristiano didn’t know and he wondered if Laurel even knew. This was new territory for her and, he was realising more and more, new territory for him. Which made him all the more determined to put their relationship back onto familiar footing. Incredible sex and nothing more.
‘But what?’ Cristiano prompted softly. His fingers climbed higher, to the warm apex of her thighs, and Laurel let out a shuddering gasp as he stroked her knowingly.
‘But...’ Her voice trailed away as her eyes fluttered closed and she slouched in her seat, helpless to do anything but respond to his touch. Desire and triumph roared through him in a primal, possessive wave.
‘But nothing,’ Cristiano murmured as he continued to stroke. ‘Nothing but this.’
‘May I refresh your champagne?’
The bright, chirpy voice of the flight attendant had Laurel freezing, her eyes snapping open as she stared at the woman in shock, sprawled in her seat, her legs parted.
Cristiano withdrew his hand and straightened, giving the woman a smile as he reached for his glass. ‘Why not?’ he said. They could finish what they’d started when they reached Paris. Although his body ached with the need to slake himself with Laurel, he knew the few hours of delaying satisfaction would be a delicious torment for them both.
Laurel straightened, pulling her dress down, then taking a sip of her champagne, clearly trying to restore her composure. ‘Do you do that kind of thing very often?’ she asked unsteadily, and Cristiano hesitated.
Was she going to be jealous about the other women he’d had, insecure because of his experience and the lack of her own? But if he admitted that he hadn’t done this before—that he never did anything that threatened his control of a situation, that she was the only one who made him act in a way he never would have expected—would she then assume that she was different from all the rest? That he would be different with her?
‘Not very often,’ he answered with a wicked smile and took a sip of champagne. Laurel nodded and sipped her own champagne, and Cristiano could tell his answer disappointed her, if just a little.
