by Lisa Childs
“Francesca,” Matteo said again. “You must stop being rude.”
“You were rude to bring along someone when I specifically told you to come alone,” she admonished him.
“Actually, you’re both being rude,” she informed them—in Italian, and she turned on her heel to head back toward the front of the building. Hopefully she could hire one of the cars bringing guests to take her away from the gallery. If not, she was angry enough to walk to the airport hangar where she’d stowed the plane she’d flown to Milan earlier that day. She hadn’t known then, when just flying in for lunch with Miranda, that she would be staying. And now she wished like hell that she hadn’t agreed to the date Miranda had already set up for her.
She didn’t make it far before a long arm snaked around her waist and stopped her—the rear of her body pressed up against the front of his. The long, muscular front of his...
Heat rushed through her—the heat of desire and of anger. She warned him, “You better let me go!”
He was lucky that she hadn’t reacted as defensively as she normally would have and elbowed him in the ribs before turning to plant her knee in his crotch. If she did that now, she could seriously hurt him. His body had reacted to the closeness of hers.
As if concerned that she might start physically defending herself, he loosened his grasp and stepped back. But with his hand on her waist, he turned her to face him. Before he could say anything, though, she lashed out at him.
“You lied to me,” she said. “You claimed you don’t play games, but that’s obviously what this is.”
“What?” he asked—all innocence.
“You’re using me to make your girlfriend jealous,” she said. “And I want no part of it.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Francesca.”
He chuckled. “Francesca is my sister.”
The last of her anger drained away with a soft sigh of relief. But that relief was short-lived when his sister appeared behind them. She wasn’t alone. Another woman accompanied her—one nearly as beautiful as she was. Both of the women glared at her, making it clear to Blair that neither of them wanted her there.
“I should go,” she said, and not just because she wasn’t welcome, but also because she was much too attracted to a man whose life was too complicated for her.
* * *
Teo wasn’t used to a woman trying to ditch him. Usually women fawned all over him instead, especially when they realized how much money he had. Not that Savannah knew.
Until someone exclaimed, “Francesca, introduce me to our benefactor! I cannot believe how generous he was to finance the entire gallery for you!”
He glanced over his shoulder to find his sister standing behind him with another woman. That woman looked at him the way women usually looked at him, the way he’d probably looked at Savannah earlier—hungrily. He turned his attention to his manipulative little sister and shook his head.
“Now is not the time,” he warned her.
Francesca was one of the reasons he hated games and manipulation, but she’d learned from the best—their mother. This was the reason he’d brought along a date, because he’d known his sister didn’t want him to bring one. Because she’d hatched some damn plan that he wanted no part of...
Of course she would excuse her actions as just trying to help him, as if he couldn’t find his own damn date. That was another reason he’d joined the service, to prove to his sister that he could find somebody on his own.
Now if only he could keep her.
He turned back to find Savannah walking away from him again. She’d done that entirely too often since he’d met her just a short time ago.
“Please,” he implored her. And he wasn’t used to having to ask anyone for anything anymore, not since he’d been a kid. And he’d learned then that it had done no good to ask; he’d had to make his own way in the world. “Please, stay.”
She stopped, her long body tense.
“I’m not playing games,” he promised.
She turned her head and looked over her sexy bare shoulder at him, one golden brow arched in skepticism. “Really?”
“Not with you,” he vowed. He glanced over his shoulder now, and he was relieved to find his sister walking away from him, towing the other woman along with her. “And I didn’t want to play her game,” he said. “That’s why I chose not to come here alone.”
Her lips curved into a knowing smile. “You were scared to come here alone.”
He wanted to argue with her but found a chuckle slipping out instead. “Touché.”
She chuckled, too. “I understand.”
He suspected that she did; after all, she knew a matchmaker, too, and a professional one at that.
“Yes, you do,” he said. “If you’ll give me a chance, we can still have a fun evening. I’ll call for the driver and—”
“You need to go back inside the gallery,” she said.
He shook his head. “No.”
“You’re the benefactor,” she reminded him, and of the fact that she spoke more than a few words of Italian.
How amazing was she?
She continued, “You’re the one who financed the entire gallery. You need to be here for the opening.”
He shrugged. “I wrote the check, so my part is done. I can leave.”
“You came here for a reason,” she said. “Was it to support your sister or to check on your investment?”
“Both,” he acknowledged, albeit begrudgingly.
“Then do that,” she urged.
He groaned and reluctantly admitted, “I don’t want to go in there alone.”
She turned fully toward him then and linked her arm with his. “You don’t have to be afraid,” she told him. “I’ll protect you.”
His body immediately reacted to the closeness of hers, as it had earlier when he’d jerked her against him. Tensing and hardening with desire...
He needed protection from her—not by her. Because it wasn’t just his body reacting to her. His mind was engaged as well. She was smart and funny and fascinating.
And even though she’d told him not to be, he was afraid.
Of her.
CHAPTER FOUR
BLAIR HAD NEVER taken the easy way out. That was why she’d stopped herself from walking away, why she’d turned around and gone inside that gallery with Matteo. It hadn’t been because she had any interest in art, although a few of the pieces actually affected her, more because of what they reminded her of than because of what they were.
Just twisted pieces of metal.
She shuddered as she stared at one of the larger installments. She’d given in to the reaction because, for the first time since coming inside the gallery, she’d thought she was alone.
But a female voice asked, “Is it that bad?”
Blair glanced up from the mangled steel and copper. “You speak English,” she remarked to Matteo’s sister.
“Yes,” she said. “And I should have earlier. Teo will never forgive me my rudeness. Will you?”
“I don’t hold grudges,” Blair assured her. If she did, she probably would have stopped talking to Miranda long ago. Hell, maybe she should have; then she wouldn’t have been in this predicament. Although at the thought of never having met Matteo Rinaldi, a pang of disappointment struck her heart rather than any relief.
“Then perhaps you and I can be friends,” Francesca suggested hopefully.
She was probably thirty, Blair’s age, but she seemed younger, much younger. But then she probably hadn’t lived through the things that Blair had. Or her big brother had protected her even more than Blair’s big brother had.
While Blair didn’t hold grudges long, she wasn’t too quick to forgive, either, especially when she wasn’t certain if the request for forgiveness was sincere or a manipulation.
�
�I doubt you and I have very much in common,” she told Francesca.
“What about my brother?”
Matteo had wanted a date for the night—not forever. Blair had no illusions that she would see him or his sister again. But she’d promised to protect him from Francesca’s matchmaking, so she forced a smile. “I doubt we see him the same way,” Blair replied.
She suspected his sister saw him as an ATM to finance her whims. Some might have accused her of using her brother for financing, too, though.
“I hope we don’t see him the same way,” Francesca said with a laugh. “I hope you don’t see him the way other women have, either.”
“How is that?” she asked.
“As a meal ticket,” Francesca said.
“I pay my own way,” Blair assured her.
While Teo had financed the entire gallery for Francesca which included studios for artists in resident, Blair and Grant had invested equally in their business. Blair would never be less than an equal partner with any man—even her own brother.
“Francesca,” Teo said, his deep voice full of warning. “Are you harassing my date?”
His sister chuckled. “We are just getting to know each other. She was admiring my masterpiece.”
Blair glanced again at the twisted and tangled metal. “This is your work?”
Francesca nodded. “Maybe Teo will buy it for you.”
“I’ll buy it myself,” Blair said, “if I decide I can live with it.” But she was afraid that it would just continue to evoke bad memories—of her past and of this meeting with Matteo’s sister. “What is it called?”
“Chaos,” Francesca replied with an almost apologetic smile, as if she knew how badly the piece bothered Blair. As if it had bothered her that much as well.
Maybe they had more in common than Blair had suspected. “It’s definitely evocative,” she praised her.
“That’s definitely Francesca,” her brother agreed, but then he turned away from his sister and focused on her. “I called for the car. Alfred is waiting out front for us.”
He’d told her he was stepping outside to make that call, so she wasn’t surprised. His sister was, though, as she wailed in protest, “You can’t leave already!”
Matteo buzzed a kiss near Francesca’s cheek and stepped back. “We can’t monopolize the hostess. Go, charm all your patrons.”
“I don’t think I’ve charmed your friend,” Francesca said.
She hadn’t, but Blair didn’t need both Rinaldis charming her. Teo was enough.
He was more than enough. The minute they had stepped inside the gallery, he had been so very attentive despite the other guests and artists trying hard to capture his attention. He’d waved over waiters to keep Blair supplied with champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
She would have liked to blame the champagne for making her light-headed, but she knew it was him. He was so handsome, so charming that he was nearly making her dizzy. Or worse yet, giddy...
“I’ll make up for what you’ve lacked,” Teo assured his sister as he slid his arm around Blair’s waist and steered her toward the door. People tried to stop him, but he brushed past them all as if he couldn’t even see them. He saw the car, though, and guided her right to the door the chauffeur held open for them. After helping her inside, Matteo slid onto the seat beside her.
“Grazie, Alfred,” he told the chauffeur who closed the door, leaving them alone in the enclosed space. Then Matteo turned to her and said, “Thank you.”
She chuckled. “For what? For protecting you?”
She had seen that he hadn’t needed any protection, not with how easily he had been able to move through the crowd. Matteo Rinaldi could obviously take care of himself and apparently everyone who mattered to him as well. For a second, just a split second, she allowed herself to wonder what it might be like to matter to him, to really matter, not just as an act to fool his meddling sister.
But Blair didn’t need anyone to take care of her; she’d been taking care of herself for far too long to rely on anyone else. In fact she moved a little distance away from him, so that she didn’t brush up against his body with each turn of the vehicle along the winding road.
“Your chauffeur can drop me at my hotel,” she said. The partition between the front and back seats was closed, or she would have given the driver the address herself.
“We have a dinner reservation,” he said, and he slid closer.
She couldn’t be certain if he’d done it purposely or if the car’s movement had caused him to slide over the seat. She knew his closeness affected her, making her pulse quicken and her skin tingle. His muscular thigh pushed against hers, the heat of his flesh penetrating the thin material of his tuxedo trousers and the silk of her dress.
“You don’t have to feed me,” she said. “I had plenty of hors d’oeuvres.”
“Those were just appetizers,” he said, his dark gaze on her mouth like he considered it the main course.
She shook her head. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this,” she said. “I know that you just signed up for the service so you would have someone to show to your sister, so that you could get her to stop trying to set you up on dates of her choosing.”
He chuckled. “You would be very hard on my ego—with the way you keep trying to get away from me,” he said. “But you were walking away from my room before I even opened the door, so I don’t think it’s because you find me so unattractive.”
In fact, it was quite the opposite. She found him entirely too attractive and too charming.
He continued, “So it makes me wonder...why did you sign up for the service? Was it only to appease your meddling friend?”
She would have thought so, but she’d had a revelation over what he’d told her earlier that evening. “I don’t think I would have let her talk me into becoming a member of the service if it was something I absolutely didn’t want to do.”
“So you really do want to meet someone?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’m not looking for my—” she could barely choke out the word “—soul mate or anything.”
He chuckled. “Did she make you that promise as well?”
“I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid, did you?” she asked.
“Kool-Aid?”
“Guess that reference didn’t translate,” she murmured. “I don’t believe in soul mates.” She doubted that Miranda believed, either; it was just part of her company’s new marketing campaign.
“That is something else we have in common,” he said.
“Something else?” she asked. “I wasn’t aware that we have anything in common.” While she was financially secure, or as financially secure as one could be when one’s business partner was a professional gambler, she certainly wasn’t on the level that she suspected Matteo Rinaldi was. Too many people had bowed down to him at the gallery—like he was royalty or extremely rich and influential.
“We have something very important in common,” he said, sliding his fingers along the edge of her jaw to the place on her neck where her pulse pounded madly. “Attraction...”
She could have denied it, but it was palpable, vibrating on the air all around them. Her skin tingled with it; her heart beat with it. She couldn’t remember the last time—if ever—that she’d been this attracted to anyone. She wanted him. Wanted to close the distance between his mouth and hers. His handsome face was so close—all she had to do was lean a little more toward him.
Brush her lips across his...
She could feel the heat of his breath whisper across her skin as his mouth opened. Before she could touch it, he spoke, “We’re here.”
The car braked, and she lurched that little bit forward. Their mouths touched—for just a second—not in a kiss but more of a collision. She felt a jolt, too, not of pain but of passion. It surged through her, stunning her.
But t
hen the back door opened, and they pulled away from each other, chuckling. Matteo stepped out first, then extended his hand to her, to assist her from the back.
She stepped onto the sidewalk, which she expected to be outside his hotel. But it was an exclusive restaurant instead. The place had a Michelin rating, so getting a reservation had proved impossible—at least for her.
“Are we really eating here?” she asked in surprise. But then, given the way he’d been treated at the gallery, she shouldn’t have been surprised.
“I told you the hors d’oeuvres at the opening were truly just appetizers,” he said. “We will enjoy our main course here.”
“But if you don’t have a reservation...”
The front door opened before he reached it, and a maître d’ stepped onto the sidewalk. “Mr. Rinaldi!” he exclaimed. “I did not know you were in town.”
“I should have called,” Matteo began.
But the older man waved his hand. “Of course you do not need to phone ahead,” he said. “Your table always awaits you. And you...” He took Blair’s hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.
At the gallery everyone had treated Matteo like royalty while ignoring her. That was not the case at the restaurant. The maître d’ showed them to the table in the back that looked, just as he’d said, as if it were always held open explicitly for Matteo. A waiter rushed to fill their water glasses while a sommelier brought out a few bottles of wine.
Food appeared before they even ordered. Blair’s taste buds were treated like royalty, too. Focaccia served with ribollita was the first course, followed with the region’s specialty, osso buco alla Milanese. The veal shank, served atop a mound of creamy risotto, was so tender she didn’t even have to chew; it dissolved in her mouth. A moan of pleasure slipped out of her lips.
A spark ignited in Teo’s dark eyes. It might have been just a reflection of the candle burning on the table before them, but then he leaned closer and murmured, “This meal is just an appetizer, too,” he said, his deep voice gruff.
With desire?
