Angry with both of us, I roll over onto my other side and burrow under the covers.
In a moment the mattress dips. Then I get his strong hands on my shoulders, kneading my aching muscles. It feels so good I groan.
He works his fingers between my shoulder blades, coaxing the knots until they relax. Then he squeezes my neck and rubs the base of my skull with his thumbs. I groan again, more faintly.
“Feel good?”
“I hate you,” I mutter into the pillow.
He says softly, “I know.”
His fingers work their way down my spine. His touch isn’t sexual, only soothing, but of course my reproductive tract engages in an elaborate mating dance complete with drums and chanting. My head throbs in time with the pounding of the drums.
“How did I get here?”
“I carried you.”
I try to picture that but can’t. He doesn’t appear to have any major muscle strains, so maybe when he says “carried” he means “dragged.” Maybe he had one of the nice kitchen ladies bring up a cart so he could take me to . . .
Wait. Oh no. “Is this your bed?”
He must feel the sudden tension in my muscles because he chuckles. “I’ll say no if it makes you feel better.”
Oh my God. I’m in my stepbrother’s bed. Ex-stepbrother. Bastard ex-stepbrother. Smoking hot, insanely sexy, arrogant, THIEF ex-stepbrother.
Shit.
I should’ve known. The pillow smells like him. Stupid pillow.
I bury my face into it and suck in a deep breath. Delicious.
The bed dips again. An arm slides under my neck. A broad chest warms my back, and a pair of strong thighs pulls up behind mine.
“Don’t freak out,” he says as I start to freak out. “I don’t take advantage of incapacitated women. I just need to rest my eyes for a minute. I was up most of the night watching to make sure you weren’t dying.”
He stayed up to watch over me? That’s either the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard or a fabulous line of bullshit.
I get distracted from my contemplation of which one it might be due to the strong, steady thudding of his heartbeat between my shoulder blades. Then his other arm winds around my middle, and he pulls me gently against his body, fitting us perfectly together like a pair of Russian nesting dolls.
My swallow must be audible because he chuckles again.
“Bella. You think too much.”
“I’m trying to decide how weird this is.”
“On a scale of one to ten, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Zero,” he says confidently.
“But I’m mad at you.”
His sigh is a big gust of warm air down the back of my neck. It gives me goose bumps.
“You’re not mad. You’re hurt. There’s a difference.”
“Believe me, Count Egotistico, I’m mad.”
He starts to gently massage my neck again. The bastard.
When I grumble into the pillow, he says quietly, “It’s all going to work out. I promise.”
“Don’t ever say the P word to me again. The next man who says the P word to me is gonna get a major beatdown.”
“So violent,” he whispers. I can hear the smile in his voice.
“You should believe me. I’m super scary.”
“Oh I know. I saw what you did to blondie’s face.” His voice darkens. “It’s an improvement.”
We’re quiet for a while. When he doesn’t do anything alarming, I slowly begin to relax. It’s deeply strange to be cuddling with Matteo, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is I’m determined he’s my enemy. I never would’ve given him my sketch pad at the airport if I’d known who he was. And now he’s blackmailing me to get it back, for the love of all that’s holy.
My uterus decides this is a good time to interject an opposing viewpoint: But look how supportive he was at the funeral! And how protective he was when Brad showed up!
My ovaries chime in: And he watched you while you were sleeping so you wouldn’t die!
“That was a very sad-sounding sigh. Care to share?”
I pick at the blanket, which feels like a cross between silk, velvet, and a newborn’s bottom. I’ve never felt anything as soft. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a breath for courage. “So this offer of yours about getting my sketch pad back.”
Matteo’s hand falls still on my shoulder. I feel a new tension in him, then I feel him suppress it and force himself to relax. He waits patiently, seemingly calm, but his body betrays him. Between my shoulder blades, his heartbeat has started to pound like mad.
I think he really, really wants me to take him up on his offer. A flush of heat creeps into my cheeks.
When I’m quiet too long, he prompts, “What about it?”
There’s a hint of impatience in his tone, and now the flush in my cheeks spreads to other parts of my body, far away from my face.
I clear my throat. “How do I know you won’t use the designs even if I do agree to your . . . terms?”
Twenty-four kisses. Hot-as-fuck, panty-melting, toe-curling kisses. I try not to shiver at the thought.
“I’ll give you a page back every time.”
I frown at the thought of him handing me pages ripped and wrinkled, torn from the pad. “You could’ve already made copies of everything.”
“I haven’t. And I won’t. And I’ll destroy any dress we’ve made when I give you its sketch back.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Short of saying the P word, how can I convince you?”
I try to think of something that would affect him as much as his using my designs in his collection would affect me. What would really get his goat? What would make him feel exactly as betrayed, angry, hurt, and powerless?
In a moment of brilliance, it comes to me. “I’ll tell your mother everything.”
Silence.
“She might not believe me, but—”
“She’ll believe you.”
He says it as if it’s a foregone conclusion she’d take my word over his, even though she met me mere days ago and we haven’t exactly become the best of friends. My intuition tells me I’ve stepped into all kinds of sticky, smelly ancient family poop, so deep I’d need an earthmover to get to the bottom of it.
Of course that makes me insanely intrigued and want to dive right in.
Aiming for nonchalance, I say, “You’ve blackmailed other designers before me, hmm?”
“No. She just doesn’t expect me to be anything but disappointing.”
That’s so unexpected I have no response. Disappointing? Her handsome, respectful, successful son is a disappointment to her?
I become convinced there’s a terrible, dark secret in his background that his mother had to cover up. Like an accidental death or a gnarly history of drug abuse. Some horrible scandal had to be hidden so they could continue to hold their heads high in the aristocratic circles they run in.
Maybe that’s why he’s always so quick to defend her honor! She holds the keys to his skeleton closet!
Or maybe it’s more mundane than that. Maybe he’s more like Brad than I realized. Not the gay thing—there’s no way Matteo is batting for the other team. No, the gambling, running-up-debts, besmirching-the-family-name-with-douchebaggery thing.
Oh God. Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to him. Maybe I have a type. Men Who Seem Like Catches but Are in Fact Giant Lying Pieces of Shit.
This is an awful realization, like finding out Santa Claus is a lie. I wonder if I should try being a lesbian?
“What are you thinking?”
My mouth is ahead of my brain. “About becoming a lesbian.”
Without missing a beat, Matteo says, “You’d make a terrible lesbian.”
“I think I’d make a great lesbian!”
“You like dick too much.”
My face flames with heat. “I don’t like dick any more or less than the next girl.”
His arm tightens arou
nd me. Into my ear he says in a husky murmur, “Yes, you do. You just haven’t ridden the right dick yet.”
I want to fan myself, but I’m too busy hiding my face in the pillow. I have no idea how we went from revealing painful family dynamics to riding dicks so quickly, but here we are.
He punctuates his statement with a soft kiss on the nape of my neck. It sends a little tremor throughout my body, which he evidently knew it would because his chuckle is so smug I want to strangle him.
“You’re an awful person.”
“And yet you want me.”
“We’re back to that line? Your ego has its own atmosphere, you know that? God, I wish vanity were painful.”
“I’m not vain, I’m merely stating the facts.”
“Please stop talking now. You’re making me want to commit murder.”
His chest shakes with the laughter he’s trying to suppress. “Remember what I told you about love and hate, bella. Two sides of the same coin.”
He renders me useless by starting to massage my skull. It’s heaven. His hands are big and strong, and the pleasure makes my eyes cross. I sigh again, caught between wanting to stand up and smother him with the pillow and wanting to live the rest of my life in this bed.
“Don’t you have to go to work? It’s Monday.”
“I will. Eventually. Right now I’ve got more important things to do.”
“Hmpf.”
He whispers, “Go back to sleep.”
“Like I could.”
“Why not?”
“Gee, let’s see. We’re in your bed, for starters.”
“Fully clothed. Which is how we’ll stay.” Pregnant pause. “Unless you’re planning on undressing me.”
“Shut up.”
His fingers slide around my head and start to massage my temples. I make a noise like a pig digging for truffles.
“At least let the aspirin get to work. When you feel better, I’ll drive you home. Then, later on or tomorrow, you can let me know what you decide about my offer.”
It could be my imagination, but something in his voice makes me think he knows I’ve already decided to say yes.
Well, he’s not the only one with a dastardly plan.
I knew this was gonna get ugly.
TWENTY-ONE
When I wake again, the angle of the light slanting through the windows high on the stone walls tells me it’s no longer morning. My headache is better, but my mouth still tastes rank, and I really have to pee.
I’d move but there’s a heavy arm thrown over me, pinning me in place.
Matteo and I are in the same position we were when I fell back to sleep, only now he’s asleep, too. His breathing is deep and even. He doesn’t snore, which makes me hate him even more.
One of these days I’ll discover what faults he has other than egomania and a tendency toward the theft of intellectual property.
I carefully grasp his wrist and begin to move it so I can get up.
“Forget it. You’re not sneaking off.” His voice is deep and scratchy with sleep. He tightens his arm around me.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
A low noise of disagreement rumbles through his chest.
“Like . . . bad.”
He withdraws his arm, gives my waist a squeeze, then a gentle push. “If you’re not back in three minutes, I’m coming to look for you.”
“Irritating,” I mutter, and throw off the covers. I hop off the bed and head toward a door standing ajar on the other side of the room, hoping it’s the bathroom. I’m relieved to find that it is and quickly shut the door behind me.
I give myself a fright when I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I’ve got puffy raccoon eyes and something perched on my head that looks like roadkill. I take care of business, then wash my hands and attempt to smooth down my hair. I splash cold water on my face and find a tube of toothpaste in a drawer. I refuse to use Matteo’s toothbrush, so I squeeze a blob onto my finger and do the best I can to smush it around in my mouth and get rid of some of the fur on my teeth.
When I’m done, I open the door to find Matteo standing in front of a big wooden armoire, removing a fresh white dress shirt from a hanger.
He’s naked from the waist up.
I freeze like one of those pointer dogs when it finds the dead bird its master shot down. My eyes bulge out of my head. I exhale a long, unsteady breath.
He’s so stunning I’m not sure I’ll be able to remain standing if I continue to look at him.
He’s art. Masculine, muscular, beautiful art. Those rippling muscles in his back. Those biceps, hard and meaty. That sleek, flat stomach.
That chiseled V leading down from his abs below the belt of his pants.
Crap. I think I just moaned out loud.
“You’re staring,” says Matteo, sounding amused. Slinging the shirt around his shoulders, he glances over at me. I want to look away as he slides one arm into the shirt, then the other, but I’m in pointer-dog mode and can’t move an inch.
In a fantastic display of intelligence, I say, “Nuh-uh.” And keep staring.
“Oh. My mistake.” He turns to face me, leaving the shirt unbuttoned.
It’s a gift. He’s giving me a gift, is what he’s doing. This might be the nicest present anyone has ever given me. Even his belly button is perfect. And my God! His chest! Michelangelo could’ve carved that chest!
My uterus slow claps, then faints.
After what could be several weeks, I manage to drag my gaze up from his magnificent body to his face. He’s biting his lower lip. His gorgeous blue eyes are bright with laughter.
Shit. “Not a word, Moretti, unless you want a black eye.”
He lifts his hands in a surrendering gesture and shakes his head, but his stomach clenches with silent laughter. Of course that makes every muscle stand out in 3-D, so now I’m looking at a tanned six-pack the likes of which I’ve never seen. It should be illegal for the effect it’s having on my body.
The damn thing is an uncontrolled substance. His abdomen is a dangerous, dangerous drug.
I’d like to push my face into it and snort it up.
“I’ll walk home,” I pronounce, face flaming, and head toward the door.
“It would take hours. And you don’t know the way.”
“I’ll call a taxi,” I say over my shoulder. I stop at the door and look down at my bare feet.
“Your shoes are next to the bed.”
I lift my chin and go on the hunt for my shoes, which are indeed next to the bed. I slip them on, avoiding Matteo’s laughing gaze, and head to the door again.
He stops me with, “How are you going to get a taxi without a phone or money?”
When I turn and look at him, he smiles. “You didn’t bring your purse with you.”
“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
“Just wait there a minute. I’ll drive you.”
He buttons his shirt. By that I mean he makes love to the shirt with his fingers, caressing each button with slow, sensual strokes as he slips them through the buttonholes at the speed at which honey would drip down a wall. It’s a pornographic performance, one that could earn him an Oscar for hotness.
The entire time, he stares at me with a look. That look, the one that makes me weak in the knees.
“Those eyes,” he murmurs, smiling.
I turn and leave before my uterus can revive itself and cause any more trouble.
Neither of us speaks on the ride back to Il Sogno. As soon as he slows to a stop, I leap from the car. I don’t look back. I head inside and go straight up to my bedroom, where I flop facedown onto the bed and ponder the situation.
There’s no denying it.
I want to jump Matteo’s bones.
I’m disappointed in myself because he is—or was—a relative, so ew. He’s another good-looking, entitled egomaniac like Brad, and I’ve sworn off those, and he’s also a heartless jerk who wants to pass off my designs as his own. Unfortunately, none of
that can be helped. The only thing I can control is how I deal with this whole debacle.
The main problem is proximity. If I’m going to be living in this house with his mother until she kicks the bucket, I’ll be seeing a lot of him.
Maybe the idea of moving to Florence was a tad premature.
I suppose I could get my father’s business back into the black and look for a buyer then. That would at least guarantee I’d get a fair price for it, instead of having to sell at a bargain-basement price because of all the current debt. That way I’d have some money to pay for the flight home, the rent I owe on my ash pile of a dress shop, and first and last month’s rent on a new apartment.
That seems like a solid plan, until I remember what’s waiting for me in San Francisco.
Humiliation galore.
How long would it be before I’d be comfortable showing my face in public? Do I have the strength to endure all the whispers and giggles I’d hear while standing in line at Starbucks waiting for my morning latte?
But maybe I’m being overly dramatic. I’m no celebrity, after all. Yes, the paparazzi were after me because I was the hot story of the moment, but surely some other scandal will soon come along and everyone will forget who I am. In fact, I could already be yesterday’s news.
Excited at the thought, I jump up and snatch my handbag from the dresser. I dig out my phone and send Jenner a text.
Nobody in San Fran will still be talking about me in like a month, right?
He texts back within a minute.
I hate to tell you this, darling, but an executive from the Lifetime channel called my agent to see how they could contact you. They want to make a movie.
OMFG. Please tell me that’s a joke.
I wish it were. How are you?
Busy having a breakdown. I’ll call you later.
I flop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling in dismay.
Where could I get a new identity? They make it look so easy in the movies, but I don’t know anyone even remotely criminal. Do I just walk into a passport photo place and drop hints about fleeing the country while flashing a wad of cash?
Maybe Lorenzo knows someone. Or Dominic. I bet he has ties to the mob—he knows everybody. Plus, he’s Sicilian. They’re super old school.
I’m deep in thought when my cell phone rings. It’s a phone number I don’t recognize. “Hello?”
Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3) Page 16
