Seduced by the Italian Tycoon: From the first moment they met, she was powerless to resist him

by Clare Connelly

  “A whole new life with a whole heap of conditions,” she pointed out acerbically, rubbing her temples. She couldn’t think straight with the powerful frame of Sabato Montepulciano only feet away. Her body was still throbbing from receding desire, and her mind was exhausted.

  “This is what is holding you back?” He shook his head, and walked slowly towards her. He put a hand on either side of her body, and brought his mouth towards her lips. “You think you’ll be obliged to sleep with me because I want to help you?”

  Her cheeks coloured at the characterisation.

  “Let me make you this promise, Emily. We will not sleep together again unless you ask for it. Does this set your mind at ease?”

  It didn’t. Her insides churned. She shook her head. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

  He lifted a hand and cupped her cheek. “Life hasn’t been fair to you, Emily, and I can tip the scales back in your balance. Why won’t you just let me?”

  Her laugh was almost a sob. “Because I don’t want you to pity me, okay? I don’t want you to look at me and see someone that needs fixing.”

  “You don’t need fixing,” he reproached gently. “You need help. Let me give it to you.”

  “Why?” She repeated, her eyes lifting to his. “I’m no one to you. I haven’t heard from you in three months …”

  He nodded. “True, but that does not mean you are no one to me.” He kissed her lips gently. “Please, cara, pack some things.”

  The thought of letting someone else shoulder some of her burden for a time crested in front of her, like an enormous golden orb. She ached to walk towards it and bathe in its warmth, but she knew she would never respect herself if she fell in with his plans.

  She lifted her hands to his chest and splayed her fingers across the expensive fabric of his custom made shirt. “No.”

  There was iron in her eyes, a look of steely determination that surprised him.

  She could feel his warmth through the fabric and it gave her courage. “I’m not your problem. None of this is. You feel some sense of misguided responsibility because of what we … shared that weekend. But you shouldn’t.” She lifted a finger to his lips, to silence his objection. “You are mistaken if you think I’m some damsel in distress. I like my life. I chose to work at your hotel because Ewan accommodates whatever hours I can work that fit in with Andrew’s needs. I chose to live here because there’s a basement I can store my canvasses. I wish that my mum and Si were still here, or that my grandparents were at a place where they could help me more. I didn’t choose for any of that stuff to happen. But I chose this. Just because my life doesn’t look like something you would like living, doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with it.”

  He was drowning. The water was coming over his eyes, making his chest constrict. He could not leave her living here. He had thought … he didn’t know what he’d thought. But now that he’d seen her long bus commute and walk through less than safe streets, and the apartment that looked a fashionable lamp away from being a drug den, he knew he couldn’t leave her. The worry would consume him.

  “Canvasses?” He was outwardly calm, and he latched onto the only part of her statement that he hadn’t understood.

  She nodded. Pride was a wave inside of her. She rode it, relieved that she could show him something that might change his mind about her. That might make him realise she was more than just a very financially stretched housekeeper at one of his luxurious hotels. She dropped her hands reluctantly from his chest and stepped away from him. One of her sketchpads was on top of the fridge. She pulled it down for him and laid it open on one of her more recent projects. The portrait.

  Sabato wasn’t looking at the thick white book she’d put on the table. He was looking at her. Beautiful, determined, frustrating Emily. Emily who shone like a diamond in the midst of this tiny, run down apartment. Her enormous blue eyes lifted to his face, her auburn hair shone like a swathe of chestnut silk.

  She was looking at him expectantly, and finally, he dropped his gaze to the book. And froze. A couple was staring back at him, elderly but full of life. The woman’s hair was looped in a bun high on her head, and he could tell just by looking at it that it was soft and floss-like. The man’s eyes were lined by life’s experiences, and he seemed to be peering out of the page at him. Sabato took a step closer, rendered completely speechless for one of the first times in his adult life. The woman’s hand was clasped in the man’s, and they seemed to be sharing a secret without speaking.

  “What is this?” Sabato asked finally, hovering a finger over the paper. He gave into the temptation to touch the page, to assure himself they weren’t somehow real.

  Emily’s nerves stretched taut. “This is who I am,” she said simply, flicking the page to show him another of her sketches. This one was just of Milly, one hand lifting to contain an errant twist of her hair, her eyes arched skywards as she focussed on the task. Sabato swallowed, then reached past Emily, to turn another page. Sketch after sketch confronted him, each strikingly brilliant in a different way.

  “You did these.”

  She nodded.

  “This is who you are.”

  Her lips lifted into a smile at his repetition of her phrase. “So you see, I’m just another in a very long line of struggling artists.”

  He closed the cover of the book so that he could look at the first half of her works. He flicked through the pages, and paused when he came across a sketch of two hands. They were, unmistakably, his hands.

  Emily’s cheeks, bright pink, confirmed his realisation. “It’s what I do,” she downplayed unsuccessfully. “I see things and I draw them. Actually, I paint them.”

  There was urgency in his gut. He had opened a piece of her, and he was greedy to see more. “Show me. Show me your paintings.”

  Emily wanted to. She realised that she really, really wanted to. But she shook her head from side to side slowly. “Andrew will be here any minute. You have to go.”

  It angered Sabato. Her obvious desire to push him from her life, to hide his presence from her brother; it rankled.

  “I want to see your paintings. Will you show me tomorrow?”

  Emily frowned in consternation. “I have to work tomorrow, and you’re flying out.”

  “I will change my plans.”

  Emily bit down on her lower lip. She didn’t want to owe him anything, and yet she needed to see him again. Knowing she may well come to regret it, Emily found herself nodding. “Yes. Okay.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sabato scanned the contract for the tenth time that morning. It was all exactly as he’d outlined the night before. His chief counsel had done an excellent job of compiling it quickly. It was nothing like he’d ever offered before, but he suspected it might tick all of Emily’s boxes and allow her to accept help, without feeling like she was taking favours.

  He tucked it into his coat pocket and eyed the building thoughtfully. There were some spectacular parts of Elephant & Castle. He’d spent a considerable amount of time in London’s East, taking in the boroughs that might be suitable for his investment. Yes, her little pocket had some beautiful history and a sort of urban chic that made it youthful and vibrant. Unfortunately, those areas were a far cry from where Emily lived. Her street was the ultimate in depression and dank filth.

  He stepped out of the Rolls Royce he favoured when in London. “Wait here,” he commanded his driver John, not caring that the car was parked on a double yellow line.

  “Yes sir,” John tilted his cap and closed the door behind Sabato.

  Emily was waiting in the foyer. Her smile, when he approached the door was nervous. Sabato could do nothing but stare at her through the grimy glass of the entrance way. It was the first time he’d seen her in clothes other than her uniform. If he’d thought about it at all, he might have imagined that she got around in jeans and sweatshirts. She had a very fresh and energetic vibe that would suit casual clothes. And yet she was wearing a bright floral skirt that
reminded him of his mother’s marimekko cups, and a fitted black sweater. She looked … stunning and natural.

  His stomach flipped on its side as he closed the distance between them. Her hair was freshly washed and hung in loose waves down her back. Her makeup was minimal – only a slash of bright red lipstick showed that she’d gone to any special effort for him. His chest squeezed painfully.

  “I presumed you wouldn’t want to dice with death again,” she said jokingly, nodding towards the elevator.

  He levelled her a look of mock appreciation. “Thank you, Emily.” His eyes devoured her face. His hands ached to pull her to his chest. “How did you sleep?”

  How had she slept? She hadn’t been able to sleep, for thinking of him. “Fine, thank you.” Had it been the same for him? Had he lain awake for hours, remembering every detail of their lovemaking? “My work’s downstairs.”

  “Lead the way.”

  She nodded and walked swiftly through the foyer, to a small emergency exit door behind them.

  A narrow, dark staircase gave way to a small storage area. It was lit with fluorescent lights, and a persistent drip, drip, dripping sound told of a leak somewhere nearby.

  “Just over here,” she nodded to their left and he walked as she did, carefully dodging old chairs and ladders.

  She stopped in the corner. “Here.” She pulled at the edge of a grey blanket, and Sabato moved to the other side. He lifted it with her, to reveal a swag of eight or nine canvasses. “I’ve done hundreds, but these are the best.”

  He didn’t gasp. He was not prone to such obvious emotional displays. His silence spoke volumes. His eyes took in every detail of the top canvas. This was a young boy, and he knew, without even asking, that it was Andrew. His eyes were the same as Emily’s, and his smile had the same irreverent knowingness to it.

  Without commenting on it, he set it aside so that he could look at the next one in the series. It was Ewan, the manager from the hotel. It brought back a wave of envy, but he ignored it. The man was nothing. Simply a bug he could squash any time he wanted to. He flicked past the canvas. It was brilliant in its execution, but the subject was a source of irritation.

  Within ten minutes, he’d studied each of her most finished artworks – work that she’d poured her heart and soul into – and he’d said not a word. Anxiety was chewing at the corners of her gut.

  “I have to get ready for work soon,” she said, to break the silence, and beg for some feedback. Any feedback! Anything!

  Sabato flicked her a gaze of irritation and then placed the canvases back in place. “You no longer work at the hotel.”

  Emily’s heart dropped as all her fears began to crystallize in front of her eyes. “Excuse me?”

  He was careful not to express his anger, but it was there. A tidal wave of fury that someone so talented had been forced by life circumstances to squeeze their art into the gaps of a busy and unfulfilling schedule.

  “I want to show you something.”

  “No,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “No, no, no. What gave you the right to make that kind of unilateral decision about me and my life?”

  He held a hand up in a gesture of command. “Nothing I have done cannot be undone. Stop shouting and look at this.”

  He pulled his phone from his top pocket and opened up the photographs. The first picture he showed her was a large, open-plan room with views of the Thames framed by enormous windows. “What is it?” She sighed, already suspecting where he was going.

  “An artist’s studio.”

  The surprise was palpable. “An artist’s … studio?”

  He made a growling sound of agreement, and then swiped to the next photograph, a bedroom. Then, another. A large kitchen, and so on and so on. When he’d finished, Emily was numb. “I told you last night, I am not going to be… kept by you.”

  The proud jut of her chin made his heart twist. “I’m offering you a job.”

  Her eyes flared wide, and her indignation made him laugh. “Not that job, though it certainly has merits.” Her innocence was beautiful. He lifted the contract from his pocket and handed it to her. Emily was so shocked that she took it.

  Montepulciano Artist in Residence Programme was written at the top. She read the cover page and then lifted her eyes to his in confusion. “What is this, Sabato?”

  “Cara, you are an artist of incredible talent and potential.”

  “You’re just saying that because you feel bad for me.”

  His eyes glittered in his face. “Do you truly think that is something I would do? I am a business man, first and foremost.”

  She arched her brow, silently disputing the assertion. To her, he was a lover, first and foremost. And nothing else besides.

  His smile showed he understood. “I want you to do only your art. You have a gift, and it is selfish to withhold it from the world.”

  She blinked away the confusion that was writhing through her. “That’s the second time you’ve called me selfish.”

  “Read the contract, Emily.” He nodded towards it. “Everything is in black and white. You will have to meet certain obligations, and in exchange, you will receive a salary, and accommodation.”

  She scanned the document silently. Obligations? Her eyes landed on the relevant paragraph and she read it several times. “It says I’m to produce a minimum of two pieces a month. And that you will commission me to do three specific works of art in a twelve month period.”

  “Si,” he agreed with a business like nod. He pulled a pen from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “And that’s all?”

  “You will find there is nothing unusual about this arrangement. Many artists are in receipt of support from a benefactor.”

  “But it’s just because we slept together!” She cried, marvelling at the cruelty of having her dreams in sight, knowing she had to turn away from them.

  “No.” He gripped her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “That is entirely separate to this.”

  Emily made a sound of disbelief. “How can it possibly be? No, Sabato. I’m not going to just fall in with your plans.”

  “These are your plans. Your dreams.”

  He was right, and yet she shook her head. “It’s so complicated.”

  “You are making it complicated. You worked for me at my hotel. That was a waste of your skills. Work for me as an artist instead.”

  “But this is too much,” she said, handing his phone back to him. “It looks enormous.”

  “It is not. Come and see it now?”

  So many reasons to say no, and yet she found herself nodding. She walked beside him, matching his fast pace. When she went to pull the door shut behind herself, he shook his head. “Leave it. I have a removalist coming to pack your things.”

  “What?” She looked up at him with a mix of consternation and surprise. “I haven’t even agreed yet.”

  He shrugged enigmatically. “You will.”

  “Sabato,” she shook her head and expelled a sigh. “You don’t understand. I can’t make snap decisions like that. It’s not that simple.”

  He stopped walking and looked at her earnestly. “Everything is simple with money at your disposal.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, it isn’t.” She pulled the door inwards, wincing when it came freely and whacked her foot. “I have Andrew to consider. He goes to school near here. And he has friends in the building.”

  “This apartment is in London Bridge. That’s ten minutes by your beloved bus. I am not suggesting you move to the moon, cara.”

  So reasonable, and so right. She crossed her arms across her chest petulantly and shrugged. “Fine. Let’s go look at it. Just look,” she reiterated.

  He shook his chauffeur away and opened the door for Emily himself. “You’re very beautiful when you’re sulking,” he whispered in her ear, as she slid into the backseat of the luxurious black car.

  Emily didn’t look at him. He sat beside her, and the car eased away from her building – an
d, she suspected, her old life. For good. The luxury vehicle was the last word in elegance, and Emily felt like a duck out of water.

  It was a short journey to London Bridge, as he’d said. The car pulled up outside a modern block of flats and a doorman greeted them with a professional clip of his greying head.

  “Security,” Sabato said crisply, nodding curtly at the gentleman and guiding Emily into the palatial foyer. It was as different to her own modest accommodations that she couldn’t help but smile at him bemusedly.

  The lift opened as soon as his finger pressed the button. His hand on her back nudged her into the mirrored cubicle, and Sabato swiped a card then pressed the button for the top floor. “More security,” he said unnecessarily; his disapproval of her own flat was obvious. The lift ascended swiftly, the doors opening right into the living space.

  “Holy hell,” Emily muttered, spinning on the spot so that she could take in the forever-away ceilings, crisp white walls, sand-coloured timber floors, and all the natural light, even on a gloomy Autumnal day.

  “I take it that you like it?”

  Emily didn’t answer. She moved towards the windows, her face glowing. The kitchen was like something out of a space ship. All stainless steel and smooth edges. The fridge was almost bigger than Andrew’s bedroom.

  “Sabato, it is way, way, way too good for us.”

  He cringed at her statement. How could she think of herself in such a downtrodden manner? This woman who was flame and water, earth and matter.

  She moved to the staircase, suspended like a spiral from the ceiling, in the middle of the room. She climbed it quickly, and inspected the three bedrooms and three bathrooms on the mezzanine.

  Sabato was waiting for her in the kitchen when she returned several minutes later. “Well?”

  “Well,” she bit down on her lip. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes.”

  Emily’s brow furrowed.

  “What’s bothering you?” He pushed finally, reaching for her hand and lacing their fingers together. She took a step towards him, though it only muddied things further in her mind.