Bought by Her Italian Boss

by Dani Collins

  In that second, they could have both lost it, but he had forced himself to release her, his grip on his control far too tenuous for his liking.

  He was unsurprised by the hatred she flashed at him as she took a staggering step away from him. She looked stricken. Shocked by her own reaction. He was unnerved himself. They would tear the skin from each other’s bones if they gave in to this thing between them.

  That hatred was good, though. It armed him against making love to her. He was driven, not despicable.

  She hadn’t spoken to him again, moving to the car like an airman with jump orders, sitting stiffly, keeping her stoic expression averted.

  Everything in him itched to knock through that wall of hostility with another sample of their amazing chemistry, but he needed time to get hold of himself first.

  The driver slowed to a crawl behind the line releasing rock stars, socialites, minor royalty and major league players onto the red carpet.

  Vito wasn’t on the list, but he knew the American actor hosting the cruise, so he had seized the opportunity to “come out” with Gwyn here. It was a precursor to an international film festival. The guest list was not only small and exclusive, but worldly enough that leaked sex tapes and mug shots were dismissed as “publicity.” Nude photos were barely worth mentioning, as common to a portfolio as head shots.

  He heard Gwyn’s breath switch to measured hisses as she tried to control an attack of nerves. As the car stopped, he took her limp, clammy hand in his—and experienced a thrill of excitement from the contact despite the terror in the gaze she flashed at him.

  “Chin up,” he reminded her with a patronizing smile, sensing that kindness in this moment would be her downfall. She seemed to find her strength in anger, so he provoked it.

  She said something under her breath that wasn’t very ladylike, making him want to smile, but that wouldn’t do for their purposes.

  “Let them know how much you hate them,” he said as the door beside him opened. He stood, bringing Gwyn with him, not giving her a chance to chicken out. Then he paused, giving the paparazzi the moment they needed to realize who they had.

  The girl from the photos.

  With Vittorio Donatelli.

  His hand possessively slid so he had his arm around her and drew her closer, dipping his chin to look into her withdrawn expression with just the right level of concern before he lifted a hostile, contemptuous glare to the wall of cameras, silently messaging Kevin Jensen that he had messed with the wrong man’s woman.

  A buzz of gasps went through the crowd and the bursts of light intensified into a wall of exploding lights. The shouts became a rabid din.

  Gwyn swallowed and revealed the barest moment of anguish before she leveled her shoulders and sent a haughty, dismissive glance toward the cameras that was gloriously effective in its disparagement. Her upward glance at Vito was not only a cold, silent demand that he remove her from this place, but a wonderful expression of trust that he would and could save her from it. He doubted she realized how revealing it was, but he saw it, knew the cameras caught it and was deeply satisfied.

  She kept her spine iron straight beneath his hand as he steered her through the blinding lights to where the purser stood at the top of the steps to the gated marina.

  “I’m not on the list,” Vittorio told the uniformed young man. “But I’m on the list.”

  The purser didn’t even relay his name, only glanced at the wild reaction they’d provoked and recognized the value they added to the event. “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your evening.”

  Vittorio started toward the steps, then turned back. “If Kevin Jensen is on the list, he’s not on the list. Understand?”

  “Absolutely.” The purser nodded and flipped a page, striking through a name.

  * * *

  This morning, life had been normal.

  Somehow, in roughly twelve hours, Gwyn had gone from mousy banking representative to notorious internet sensation. Thanks to Vittorio secluding her today, the full reality of her situation hadn’t hit her until that moment outside the limo. Then strangers had called her name, clamoring for her to turn, shouting disgustingly invasive questions in a dozen languages.

  When did you pose for those nude photos?

  How did Mrs. Jensen find out about your affair?

  Is Vittorio Donatelli your lover?

  She stepped onto the yacht and a murmur rippled through the crowd. Heads tipped together and a few people pointed.

  She instinctively edged closer to her date and his fingertips dug into her hip, oddly reassuring.

  The last thing she ought to count on Vittorio for was protection. He’d behaved like a bastard earlier, using her own reaction against her like that. She was sick with herself for rubbing into his groin like she ached for his penetration—which she did. She was even sicker that finding him hard had excited her to the point she would have let him have her right there at the top of the stairs if he’d wanted.

  Men were simple creatures, she reminded herself. Comedians were always complaining about erections popping up like dandelions at inconvenient times. As much as it would soothe her ego to believe Vittorio was attracted to her, she knew he couldn’t possibly feel the same lust that had cut into her like a knife. His reaction had been about as personal as shivering from the cold.

  They were united in one thing: pretending they were in a sexual relationship to defuse Jensen’s allegations.

  So she slithered closer to him, ignoring the fact that she drew genuine comfort from his strength. If he stiffened in a kind of surprise before tightening his arm around her, well, she wasn’t a masochist who wanted another mean-spirited lesson in how incapable she was of resisting him. She stood close; she didn’t soften and invite.

  “Vito!” A gorgeous blonde approached them, tugging a legendary, award-winning, big-screen star in her wake. They turned out to be the host and hostess.

  Gwyn silently laughed at herself. If the crowd was goggling at her, she goggled right back. The yacht was full to the gunwales of faces she’d seen in movies and on TV. Hugely famous people. It added a fresh layer of surreal to her already bizarro day.

  “Thank you for coming,” the tall, stunning supermodel said in a New York accent, kissing Vittorio on the mouth. “We’ll have so much more exposure for the premiere now. I didn’t see the photos,” she said to Gwyn with an offhand shrug. “But my agent represents five of the top underwear models in the world. Judging from your figure, he would love to be your first call if you want to make lemonade out of this. Don’t put it off. Attention like this doesn’t last. Vito has my number.”

  “Vito,” Gwyn repeated a moment later, when they were alone.

  “My friends and family call me that. You should, too.”

  “Should I call her agent, is the real question,” Gwyn said, taking a deeper drink of her champagne than was probably wise, but the impulse to get legless drunk was very strong.

  “I would prefer you didn’t,” he said in a tone that was oddly lethal.

  “Call her agent? Why? What other kind of work can I get? Even Nadine thought I wasn’t good enough at my job to earn this promotion without falling onto my back. Maybe it’s time I gave in to what the world has told me all my life and allow myself to be objectified. Make money on God’s gift.” She waved down her front.

  An arc of dangerous fire flashed in his gaze again. “Have you come up against a lot of sexism in your life?”

  “Is there an amount that’s reasonable and acceptable?”

  They were approached by someone else, stealing her moment of possibly taking him aback. They spent the next hour mingling. It wasn’t awful, but she was tongue-tied and Vito kept stealing her champagne, setting the flutes out of her reach and giving her sparkling water or fruit juice in exchange.

  “If you don’t let me drink,” she said at one point, fake smile pinned to her face, “people are going to think I’m pregnant. Surely I’ve hit the redline on scandal for one day?”

  “I
’m letting you drink. I’m just not letting you get drunk. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

  “I highly doubt you’ll ever hear those words out of these lips,” she assured him.

  “We’ll see,” he said, catching at the hand she reached to the passing tray and tugging her in the opposite direction. “Come.”

  “Where?”

  He only drew her from the main deck where glass panels provided a windbreak, keeping the laughing, dancing crowd contained in a pool of colorful light off a rotating mirror ball. A musician who had risen to fame three decades ago was going strong, shredding the piano, playing with a band of indie rockers on guitars and drums.

  Vito tugged her down a narrow flight of stairs to where a cool gust raced along the lower deck, making her cross her arms as the chill hit her in the face.

  “It did get windy,” she said, hanging back in the alcove at the bottom of the stairs.

  He removed his taupe linen jacket and draped it over her shoulders, enveloping her in a scent that was both his and something else. His cousin’s aftershave, maybe, because he’d also raided the closets in the master bedroom. “We have work to do, now that you’ve relaxed.”

  “What kind?”

  He drew her toward the stern where foam kicked up in a widening trail behind the yacht. The rush of wind and churning water filled the air. Pinprick lights from distant houses danced against the black silhouettes of the mountain-backed shoreline.

  And a handful of smaller boats paced this big one, bouncing on its wake, buzzing like mosquitos. Something flashed. A camera.

  “Oh.”

  “Sì,” he confirmed. “We are stealing a kiss, mia bella.”

  “You can try,” she said stiffly, turning her head to glare at him with antagonism, hands on the rail. “I’ve about had it with being robbed of things I’m not willing to give up. This cruise could get very rough indeed.”

  He leaned his back into the rail and set his feet wide, then indicated she should come into the space. “I’m offering a kiss,” he cajoled, surprising her with his tender tone. “Would it be such a chore for you to accept it?”

  A spasm of pain went through her, increasing when she saw another flash and suspected her moment of torment had just been caught and would be fed to the online trolls.

  She found herself ducking her head, letting him draw her into his chest in an embrace that she knew he staged to look tender, but it felt tender. Like a place of shelter. She was on her very last nerve and desperately wanted to believe she was safe with him, but she couldn’t. Not by a long shot.

  “I don’t kiss strangers,” she muttered into his chest.

  He smoothed her hair behind her ear and his breath warmed her cheek as he spoke. “We’re lovers, mia bella.”

  In her periphery, more flashes were sparking, but maybe that was the electric reaction he provoked in her.

  “You don’t even find me attractive. Can you imagine how it feels to kiss someone you know feels nothing for you? Actually it’s worse than that. You feel contempt. This is not a nice place to be. I can’t pretend to be okay with it.”

  His hands stilled on her. “Have you had many lovers, Gwyn? You keep surprising me with what sounds like naivety.”

  “How is it naive to know that all these seduction moves of yours are motivated by a desire to protect the bank, that you’re actually overcoming disgust to touch me?” She lifted her face to glare at him, unable to read his face in the dark. “Are you going to tell me next that I’m being too cynical?” She nearly choked on her own words. She was growing weak just standing against his body heat, reacting to him even though she knew he felt nothing toward her. This was so unequal.

  “You’re a very beautiful woman. You must know that.” He rested the heel of his hand on her shoulder, fingertips toying at her nape beneath the fall of her hair.

  The caress was so beguiling, the words so throaty, her whole body responded. Her knees weakened, her skin tightened and her nipples prickled. Deep between her thighs, damp heat gathered. Her breath hitched.

  At the same time she heard the levelness in his tone and understood that his body might be growing hard, but his mind was still not affected.

  “I suppose this is an affair then,” she said, feeling him give a small start of surprise.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s not a relationship with a future. It’s going to serve a purpose then end with neither of us calling or texting. You’re right. I haven’t had a lot of lovers and they’ve mostly been hit and runs. That’s why I don’t date much. I hate the part when I’m left feeling used. That’s why I don’t want to kiss you right now. I’ll just feel dirty after.”

  “Ah, cara, you are very naive,” he said with a gentle laugh. “You’re in a position to use me. Stop being so nice and do it. You’ll feel terrific.”

  She gave him her profile, staring into the dark, angry that he made being nice sound like a character flaw. Angry that her life had been destroyed. Angry that there was no substance to what was going on between them. She was an object. Nothing real or important. This was how her mother had felt all the time.

  A self-destructive impulse rose and she tossed her hair as she looked up at him.

  “Fine. We’ll kiss.”

  It was too dark to tell whether his brief hesitation was surprise or something else, but his hand moved to cup her cheek and he bent, capturing her mouth in a firm, hungry possession without a lead-up. No delay.

  Because they were lovers, she reminded herself as excitement tore through her veins. According to the illusion they were projecting, they were familiar enough with each other to throw themselves into a passionate kiss without preamble.

  Heart pounding, she returned his kiss with all the emotions roiling in her. Fury, mostly. She let her hand go to the short hairs at the back of his neck and increased the pressure, drawing him down to her, hurting herself with the way she mashed her mouth against his, liable to leave both of them bruised as she scraped her teeth against his lips in punishment for all that he’d done to her. For all that the world was doing to her.

  He grunted and his hand went low on her back, pressing into her bottom to pull her tighter into him, fingertips flagrantly tracing the line between her cheeks.

  She didn’t protest. She shuffled closer, shoving herself aggressively into his frame, like they were combatants. She moved her hand to take a fistful of his hair, hoping his scalp stung while she moved her lips under his, mouth burning with avid, angry friction.

  With another gruff noise, he lifted his head, let her catch one breath, then closed his arms more tightly around her, swooping into a deep, dominant kiss, tongue spearing boldly into her mouth.

  Her reaction might have been frightening to her if she wasn’t so close to exploding. She needed this outlet, this contained space of banded arms keeping her from flying apart. She fought letting him take over as long as she could, flicking at his tongue with hers, trying to make him break, but he was too strong willed. Way stronger than her.

  With a little sob, she finally capitulated, softening and letting him take control.

  Her reward was a wash of delirious pleasure. Suddenly she felt what this kiss was doing to her. Her blood was hot, her erogenous zones sensitized and singing. His body seemed to envelop hers in sexual need. She was so steeped in desire, her knees folded.

  She would have gone anywhere with him in that moment. Would have let him do anything. She wanted him to cover her and push inside her and take her to a place where nothing could touch her.

  His assertiveness eased. His hand moved soothingly over her back. His damp lips tenderly caressed hers until they broke apart to gasp for air. He tucked her head under his jaw and held her ear against his pounding heart.

  She rested there, trying to catch her breath, listening to his heart slam, feeling like she’d been running and now the ache of exertion was catching up to her.

  He was hard, she realized, and she panged again with longing for this to be
real, for them to make love so she could lose herself in mindless pleasure. She ought to find his desire threatening, she thought. Or offensive maybe. She didn’t move away from pressing against him, though, liking that evidence of his reaction even if it was strictly physiological. She stayed in that little cave of safety his arms provided, face pressed to his shirt, body sheltered from the wind by his broader one.

  And she started to cry.

  There was no stopping it this time. It wasn’t a grand storm, just a slow leak of tears that grew into a steady, unstoppable flow. Her control surrendered to exhaustion, like a drowning victim letting go and sinking beneath the surface. She clung with limp arms and leaned her weight into him as pulsing waves of suffering rocked her.

  He didn’t tell her to shush. He held her, rubbed her back and didn’t say a word.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  VITO SAT IN the armchair of the hotel room, feet on the ottoman, wearing only his pants. He was pretending to read emails, but sat angled so he could watch Gwyn sleep.

  A full-out rainstorm had manifested while she’d been fixing her face in the head, after their kiss. The yacht had raced to moor at the nearest marina and, while most of the guests scrambled through sheets of rain for taxis to take them to their hotels, he had walked into the yacht club and paid a fortune for a top-floor room. He hadn’t been interested in leading the paparazzi back to the mansion and Gwyn had been at the end of her rope.

  He could have taken a suite, he supposed, but he didn’t want anyone counting how many beds had been slept in. He had shared this one with her—until he’d given up trying to sleep. She’d been emotionally drained and slightly drunk, looking disturbingly vulnerable and wary after she’d washed her face and put on his shirt to sleep in it. She had threaded her bare legs under the covers and kept firmly to her side of the bed.

  He’d kept his pants on, since he never wore shorts, and tried not to touch her once he had put out the lights and crawled in beside her. At least until he’d realized she was curled into a ball, shivering from the chill of getting soaked by the rain. He could have risen to turn off the air-conditioning, but he’d spooned her instead.