He moves to my other breast, licking and sucking, murmuring in English and Italian as I pant and writhe against him, my head thrown back and my eyes closed.
“Look at you.”
“So sweet.”
“Cosi perfetta.”
“Il mio perfetta dolci amore.”
His words are so soft, his tone so ardent and tender, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. The hot prick of tears stings my eyes. I suck in a ragged breath, trying desperately not to cry.
All those times I slept with Brad were fake. My life was a lie. And here I am in the arms of a man who could just as easily be playing me.
Am I being used again?
“Easy.” He’s hugging me now, cradling me against his chest with his cheek pressed to the side of my neck and his body curved into mine. He combs a hand through my hair, strokes my back, softly shushes me when I make a noise of distress. “Just breathe, bella. Shh.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not. And don’t lie to me again.”
His voice is both soft and hard, a caress and a command, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I can’t hide from him—and the next time I try, there will be consequences.
I push against his chest but he’s immovable. His arms around me turn into an iron band. He lowers his mouth to my ear and says in a low voice, “Running away won’t solve anything. Talk to me. What just happened?”
I hide my face in his chest, tucking my forehead under his collarbone. I blink hard and fast, trying to clear the water from my eyes. “I’m not as tough as I act.”
The softest of chuckles passes his lips. “I know,” he whispers, tracing his fingertips down my spine. “It’s one of the things I adore about you.”
Oh God. What that does to my poor heart. You’d think it would’ve had enough of sweet-talking men by now, but it does somersaults in my chest like the sad clown it is.
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“Doing what?”
I lift my head and meet his gaze. He blinks in surprise when he sees my face, his brows drawing together. I imagine I look like a wild animal backed into a corner.
“You told me you wanted to buy my father’s business. You made it clear you don’t think I have what it takes to make it in fashion here. And this game you’re playing, the kissing game—what’s the point? Are you hoping I’ll develop feelings for you so I’ll sell? Are you trying to make me fall in love with you so you can get what you really want—the business?”
He’s focused on me with startling intensity. His eyes drill down into mine. “Do you have feelings for me?”
His tone is emotionless. It reveals nothing about what he might be thinking or feeling, and neither does his face. All I can see for sure is his extreme focus and intensity, which tells me only that my answer is important to him but not why.
Don’t be a fool. Don’t let a beautiful liar break your heart again.
I decide to deflect and see how he’ll handle it. “What were you and your mother talking about when I came in?”
His left eyelid twitches, but that’s the only reaction I get. After a moment of silence, he says, “Nothing important.”
“If it’s not important you can share it with me. What was it?”
A muscle flexes in his jaw. He slowly inhales and exhales. I suspect he’s buying time.
And just like that, I’m out. That moment of hesitation tells me all I need to know.
Looking him dead in the eyes, I say, “Step back.”
His brows lower and he scowls, the way he does when he’s displeased. I can see threats are needed.
“Unless you want me to turn your balls into pancakes with my knee, step back.”
For a moment he doesn’t move. Then he curses under his breath and steps away, folding his arms over his chest so he and his balls can glower at me from a safer distance.
I fasten the buttons of my bodice with clumsy fingers, ashamed at myself for letting him get to me so easily. I can still feel his mouth on my skin.
“Tell me if you have feelings for me.” His voice is dangerously soft.
“Tell me if you’re manipulating me.”
Irritated by my answer, he shakes his head. “I told you—I’m not your ex.”
“Which is exactly what a man trying to manipulate me would say. It would’ve been easier for you to simply say no. Unless the real answer is yes.”
He rakes his hands through his hair, curses again, then starts to pace the room.
“Okay, you want me to talk to you? Here goes. I’ll give you my worst-case scenario. Your mother—who, by your own admission, is disappointed in you—needs some insurance on my promise not to kick her out of the house. She got nothing from my father in his will, which must’ve really stung, but his dopey daughter was recently dumped in the most spectacular way, and she’s vulnerable. She owns a business that you’d like to get your hands on and an expensive house your mother would like to legally get her hands on, so the two of you decide that you’ll work your magic and make the dopey daughter fall in love with you so she’ll hand over the keys to the kingdom with a smile.
“Conveniently, you’re in possession of a sketch pad the dopey daughter desperately wants back, so you concoct a clever ploy that forces the two of you to spend time with your faces stuck together. What better way to get those hormones wreaking havoc on her brain? Once you’ve convinced her to sell you the business and put your mother on the title of the house, you’ll be back in your mother’s good graces and everyone lives happily ever after.
“Except me. The idiot Kimberella, screwed by another toad masquerading as a prince.”
By this time, Matteo has stopped pacing. He stares at me with his arms hanging loose at his sides and his lips slightly parted, a strange expression on his face. “That’s what you think?”
I can’t tell if I’ve shocked him with my accuracy or if he’s about to lunge at me and wrap his hands around my throat. His expression is unnerving.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“That’s the kind of man you think I am,” he presses. “A lying, scheming, manipulative prick so desperate for his mother’s approval he’d fake his attraction to you before he even knew who you were.” When I look confused, he clarifies. “At the airport, I didn’t know who you were. At the hotel, I still didn’t know who you were. I only found out you were Luca’s daughter when I walked into the living room of this house and you were sitting on the sofa.”
That sound I’m hearing is a tiny hiss of air being released from the pin he just stuck into my balloon of paranoia. “Maybe you decided after you discovered who I was that the mutual attraction would make it easier all around.”
“Easier to fuck you over, you mean,” he says, his voice hollow.
My pulse is all over the place. My mouth has gone dry. I wish I could tell what his expression is saying, but I’m such a poor judge of character I’d probably decide it was acid reflux and offer the man a Tums.
“Tell me you’re not. Tell me I’ve made the whole thing up in my head. Tell me what you and your mother were talking about when I came in.”
He answers without hesitation. “We were talking about you.”
I knew it! “What about me?” I snap.
His eyes flash. He snaps back, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so what’s the point?”
“Maybe you should try me!”
“Maybe you should trust me!”
I laugh, but it sounds awful. Like I’m dying on the inside. “Sorry, Count, trust is something I’m fresh out of.”
His face flushes red in a wave from his neck to his hairline. A vein pops out in his forehead. He inhales a slow deep breath, gritting his teeth. “I’m. A. Fucking. Marchese.”
He stalks over to the door, yanks it open, and slams it shut behind him, so hard the windows rattle.
I holler, “Way to put some stank on it!”
The only answer I hear is the sound of his footsteps poun
ding angrily down the hall.
TWENTY-NINE
I spend the next day in a daze, trying to concentrate on work, but the upsetting scene with Matteo plays in my head on a loop. It won’t stop, no matter what I try to distract myself. Anxiety settles over me like a cloud. By the time I return home at seven-thirty, I’m so wound up I guzzle a glass of wine to settle my nerves. I don’t know whether Matteo will strangle me straight off when he arrives at eight or wait until after he gets his kiss to do me in.
But he’s a no-show.
I can’t decide if I’m relieved or worried. What could his absence mean?
I’m out of the house before the sun’s up the next day and back at work. In addition to the new designs we’re making, there are several unfinished bespoke pieces clients had on order before my father died that need to be completed. The day is a flurry of activity. I’m so busy and distracted I forget to obsess over my test results. When I take a break for a late lunch, I check my email on my phone and find a new message instructing me to login to a secure website with the password included to get the results.
I start to sweat like a farm animal and almost throw up.
After splashing water on my face and giving myself a pep talk in the bathroom, I take a seat at my desk. I log on to the site and try to keep my hands steady as I type in the password.
My heart thumps so hard it’s physically painful.
The page takes a hundred years to load. Then the type is so small I have to zoom in and scroll around, searching in a panic for anything resembling the word positive.
It takes a few terrifying minutes, but finally it’s confirmed: I’m negative for everything.
Instead of giving in to the urge to burst into tears, I treat myself to an entire pint of pistachio gelato from the charming little gelateria down the block, then call Danielle, who’s been leaving me increasingly hysterical phone messages. When she picks up, she bypasses a greeting and goes straight into guilt mode.
“I can’t believe you haven’t called me back in two weeks!”
“I know. I’m a terrible friend. But life has decided I’m great for target practice, and I’ve been busy dodging bullets.”
“Your dad. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“Jenner told you?”
“He did. Also about your shop, your hot stepbrother, your weird stepmother, and the two dress-wearing dogs who eat at the table. I’ve been pestering him constantly for updates. Your life has more plot twists than the subtitled Korean melodramas I watch.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re the first one to hear this: Brad followed me to Italy.”
The shriek on the other end of the line is as pleasant as an ice pick jammed in my ear. “What?”
“And he’s still here.”
“No!”
“Yep.”
“What does that rat want?”
“Redemption, I suppose.” I sigh, exhausted by the thought of him. “He begged me to forgive him. He still wants to get married.”
Danielle exhales, and it sounds like she’s breathing fire. “That dick. The nerve! Have you hired the hitman yet?”
“I don’t know any hitmen. Not every Italian is in the mafia.”
“But every Italian probably knows someone in the mafia, right? Or someone who knows someone who knows someone.”
“You’ve been watching too many crime shows.”
“Oh right,” she says after a pause. “You can’t tell me. Plausible deniability. That’s smart.”
“There’s no hitman, Danielle.”
“Sure there isn’t.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Do you think the line is tapped?”
“No, but I do think you should take up writing mystery novels. That imagination of yours is being wasted. How are Brian and the kids?”
Her voice brightens. “Everyone’s good. The kids are back to school soon, which is lucky because I’m one mood change away from a meltdown. I don’t remember us being so dramatic at that age.”
Danielle has three daughters. She married her high school sweetheart, moved to the Midwest, and started producing babies before she was twenty, beating all the divorce statistics about marrying young.
At least one of us is lucky in love.
“We were too busy being dorky to be dramatic. Remember my hairstyle?”
“Sweet Jesus, the perm. You looked like you styled your hair by sticking your finger into an electrical outlet.”
“Let’s not forget your headgear.”
“Four years of wandering around in public looking like I’d just arrived from outer space. I’m still not over the trauma.”
“At least you got those beautiful straight teeth at the end of it. I’m still stuck with hair that refuses to hold a curl unless it’s chemically forced to.”
“Your hair is gorgeous! Do you know how many girls with frizzy hair would kill for it to be straight?”
Don’t talk to me about being straight. I heave an enormous sigh. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. When are you headed back to San Fran? I can probably arrange to come out for Labor Day.”
“I’m not going back to San Francisco. I’ve decided to stay in Italy.”
Danielle’s silence rings with worry. “Does this have anything to do with the hot stepbrother?”
“No.” Maybe. “It’s just time for me to make a clean start.”
“Did you tell Jenner that? I can’t imagine he’d let you move thousands of miles away that easily. You two are attached at the hip.”
“Yes, I told him. He doesn’t approve. He’ll be here in a few weeks for the Milan fashion shows. He’ll browbeat me then.”
“Good luck. I wouldn’t want to be on the end of a browbeating from Jenner.”
“He’s more bark than bite.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve seen him reduce people to tears with one look. He’s terrifying.”
“He’s British. They’re skilled at frightening the peasants.” I hear the bell over the front door chime, and know someone’s come into the shop. “Honey, I have to go, but I promise I’ll call you soon, okay?”
“You better, or I’ll send my girls to Italy for their next school break and let you deal with the little monsters.”
“Speaking of terrifying.”
“Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
After we hang up, I head out to the front of the shop but stop dead in my tracks when I see who’s there.
Matteo stands near the counter. He’s wearing a gorgeous navy suit, and looking all kinds of sophisticated, angry, and hot.
He’s got my sketch pad in his hand.
“Oh. Hi.”
He lifts the pad. “This is yours.” Onto the counter he tosses it, with a dismissive flick of his wrist like he couldn’t wait to get it out of his hand.
I can tell by looking at the pad that the rest of the sketches he hasn’t torn out are there. My nerves begin firing on all cylinders. “Okay. I’ll bite. Why are you giving it back?”
“I don’t want it anymore,” he says, staring at me in a weirdly challenging way. “It’s not worth the headache.”
I do my absolute best to conceal the punch to the gut that was, but I must flinch a little because Matteo’s eyes sharpen.
“I see.” I don’t know what else to say. I flatten a hand over my stomach, though it does nothing to settle the churning inside. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The weird challenging stare is starting to freak me out. It’s like he’s waiting for me to do something or say something, but I don’t know what it is.
“So our deal is off?”
“I’m not going to use your designs and claim they’re mine,” he says with an edge to his voice.
I was talking about the kissing part, but I suppose it’s obvious enough. If he doesn’t have the sketches to withhold, he’s got no bargaining chips. And the sketches are the important part, not the kissing.
I think.
/> “What brought about this sudden change of heart?”
“As if you don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway.” His eyes burn. “Right?”
I hurt him the other night. The thought stuns me. I accused him of manipulating me, and it hurt his feelings.
The little red devil taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that Matteo decided not to answer my questions, to turn them back on me, so he’s not the only one with hurt feelings.
I moisten my lips, caught between anger and an apology. “It might matter.”
“Might doesn’t cut it,” he says. When I bite my lip, his jaw hardens. “Don’t do that.”
He’s got the hungry look in his eyes. Combined with the angry look, it’s incredibly sexy.
I decide to venture into uncharted waters. “It does matter,” I admit. “I’m just not sure what that means.”
We stare at each other. Finally he says, “I understand. You have a lot to deal with right now. I’m making your life more complicated. The last thing I want is to be a problem for you.”
Why does this feel like a breakup? And why do I care if it is?
“I don’t want to be a problem for you, either.”
He says, “You’re not a problem. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me since I was ten years old.”
The breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh that feels like two giant invisible hands clasped me front and back and squeezed. “Oh,” I say, trying not to fall over. “Um. What happened when you were ten years old?”
“My mother finally bought me the puppy I’d been begging for. A Great Dane, like Cornelia. I named her Maria, after my favorite opera singer. I loved her with all my heart. She slept in my bed every night, even when she grew too big for it. I’d scoot all the way to the edge so she’d have room.”
His voice is raw and his eyes are shining, and my heart is bursting at the seams. I think of how Cornelia spooned me, and imagine Matteo as a little boy cuddling with his dog in his bed in that soulless drafty castle he grew up in.
I’m in so much danger of falling in love with him right now that I bite the inside of my cheek in fear.
“You had a favorite opera singer when you were little?”
Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3) Page 22
