Billionaires: They're powerful, hot, charming and richer than sin...

by Clare Connelly

  “I am not the man to give your virginity to, believe me.”

  “But I want you, Benedetto.”

  The desire he’d felt, in that moment, to put his own needs first, to be selfish and simply take her, knowing it would only ever be a sexual thing, knowing he couldn’t give her anything beyond an occasional romp in his bed.

  Why had he fought that? Why had he presumed she’d want more?

  Because everything about his wife screamed ‘commitment’. She wanted the kind of fairy tale she should know better than to look for. She wanted to believe in a happily ever after that had never been shown to her.

  He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. Instincts, he supposed. He relied on them unfailingly in business, and they had sung like sirens the night before, making him certain he’d be wrong to go through with it, wrong to sleep with her, even when his body had been hounding him for the release. How he’d wanted to bury himself inside of her, to lose himself in her sweet warmth, to hold her tight as the first painful throb of his possession gave way to something so impossible to describe. How he’d wanted to stare into her eyes as he awakened her, as he inducted her into the world of pleasure and sensation.

  He hadn’t.

  He’d pulled away from her, his breathing rough, and his face undoubtedly showing complete disappointment.

  “It’s time for you to go now.”

  “I don’t want to go.” She’d jutted her lower lip out and even in the fine sliver of moonlight, he’d detected a faint tremble, as though she were close to tears.

  “Becoming your first lover does not interest me. Go.” It had been a lie. He’d been very, very interested, but he’d had just enough of a grip on his sanity to know he was the superior in the situation in every way. Age, sexual maturity and the ability to find rational thought in the midst of their drugging desire.

  His words though acted quickly. She pushed out of the bed, her eyes haunted, pulling her dress up to cover her breasts as she dipped her head forward to walk quickly away from him.

  Regret had assailed him almost instantly. He’d poured another scotch and drunk it while awaiting the oblivion and relief of sleep.

  She looked exhausted.

  And perfect.

  Across the terrace, unseen courtesy of the thick curtains, which hung across the door partially shielding him from view, he watched his wife sitting opposite Alfredo as the child ate breakfast. For her part, she had a plate with a muffin, but she wasn’t touching it. Her glass of orange juice also looked untouched.

  Her eyes were frustratingly impossible to see, but beneath them, the translucent quality of her skin was smudged with a dark charcoal, as though she hadn’t been able to sleep.

  Had she thought of him?

  Dreamed of him?

  Tossed and turned all night for wanting him?

  She wore a simple white tee shirt with a flowing cotton skirt. The shirt shouldn’t have complimented her complexion and yet it somehow did, making her alabaster skin glow like a pearl. Except at her décolletage where he detected a faint hint of red, abrasions just detectable from the way he’d kissed her there again and again.

  Desire spun through him, making his breathing shallow.

  Alfredo said something and she smiled, the simple reaction changing her whole demeanour, lifting her face, erasing the smudges, her eyes shining now as she focussed all her attention on the little boy.

  She reached across and tousled the boy’s hair, and Benedetto scowled. He was a fool to have put a stop to it. A fool to have turned her away. She lifted her head and looked in his direction and for some reason, he moved away, not wanting to be seen, not wanting to speak to her yet.

  Though soon, he’d have to. They were married, she was raising his Godson. Obviously he would have to find a way to put last night behind him.

  There was something magical about Rome. When Cleopatra had first moved here, she’d been fleeing a lifetime’s worth of unhappiness. Unhappiness domestically and then – briefly – professionally. She’d been fired abruptly, and though she’d been reluctant to accept any favours from her former employer, guilt had evidently led him to pull strings and find her a position.

  Rome had appeared in her life like ancient scaffolding, bracing her against one of the harshest winters she’d ever weathered. It had been so harrowing that even now, seven years later, still had the power to rob her of breath.

  Her heart had been broken, but Rome had absorbed her from the first evening, breathing her in, absorbing her, making her a part of it in some way, building her as if from the ancient stones, shaping her as one of these grand buildings. She’d been made strong by Rome, stronger than she’d ever had any hope of being. Seven years with one beautiful family and she’d learned a lot about families too, about happiness and trust, about the kind of intimacy that grows over time – as the ambassador and his wife’s had.

  She stared out at Rome now, the evening crisp and balmy, the lights twinkling like strings of fairy lights dangling into narrow jars, and she tried to take comfort from the fact Rome had smoothed over the rough edges in her life once before. Rome had taken away pain, embarrassment, hurt, everything, and given her relief – at first – and then pleasure.

  She loved this city. She was American, first, but there she’d never known her home. Here, in Rome, whether at the Ambassador’s or now, she was where she was meant to be. On the streets, by the river, amongst the people – this was her place.

  Somewhat mollified, Cleopatra reached for the small glass of wine she’d poured herself after dinner, taking a sip and then cradling the glass between her fingertips.

  She’d been stupid not to realise he’d been drinking that night, two nights ago. Oh, he hadn’t been drunk – not by any measure. She could only imagine it would take a considerable effort to get a man like Benedetto di Fiori wasted. She couldn’t say how she knew, but she suspected he was a man who could control his liquor, and who remained in control at all times.

  Still, when she’d tossed and turned in her own bedroom, trying to sleep but unable to for the mortifying, excruciating memories that kept racing through her mind, new details began to emerge. The fact he had been returning home, dressed in a suit, at nearly midnight.

  When they’d kissed, she’d tasted something aromatic in his mouth. At the time, she’d barely even noticed, but now, she realised the citrus and clove was actually more likely some kind of alcohol. Was it that which had led him to kiss her? Was that why he’d looked at her properly for the first time in a month? Why he hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself?

  With a groan of frustration and a fevered brow, she took another sip of her wine then stood, moving her slender frame across the balcony. A light breeze lifted off the city, pulling at her nightgown, and though it was warm, she wrapped one arm around her waist, seeking some kind of warmth and solace.

  “Cleopatra.”

  Out of nowhere, any idea of solace flat out disappeared. She whirled around, her cheeks staining a dark pink when she saw her husband wearing only a pair of cotton board shorts, pacing towards her. His eyes, those wolfish eyes, were glued to her face in a way that made her insides churn with heat and want. Need.

  “I thought you would be in bed.”

  “I…wasn’t tired.”

  Closer he came, his expression inscrutable, until they were standing toe to toe, chest to breasts, so close they could have touched.

  “No?”

  She shook her head and lifted her wine glass between them, a small smile curving her lips. “I thought a small glass of wine might help.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “And?”

  She shrugged her slender shoulders. “Still awake.”

  “Ah.” Without moving his eyes from hers, he lifted his hand and took the wine glass, drinking from it. She swallowed, watching, something about the simple act of sharing a glass so bizarrely erotic, that a whole new fever sparked in her bloodstream. “I have been wanting to speak with you.”

  A hig
h-pitched screeching sounded in her ears. “Yeah?”

  “Si.” His eyes scanned her face. She held her breath. “About the other night.”

  Mortification slammed against her. “Oh, no. We don’t have to talk about that, do we?”

  His smile was derisive. “You don’t think we should discuss what happened, and why?”

  “I know why,” she muttered, spinning away from him, no longer able to bear his inquisitive watchfulness.

  “Oh?” He prompted.

  It was easier to answer while facing away from him. Her eyes scanned Rome, and she voiced the thoughts she’d just been going over.

  “You were drunk, that’s all.”

  His laugh was completely unexpected.

  “What?” She whirled around to face him again. “What’s funny about that?”

  “That you think alcohol would be the only reason for me to want you.”

  “I…” her mouth dropped and his eyes chased her lower lip, so her pulse fired up a notch.

  “I was not drunk, cara. I had been drinking. I was not completely sober, but I was a very long way from drunk.” He moved forward just enough for their bodies to brush and she felt a spark of need ignite into a full blown fire. “I am sober now though. Except for this,” he lifted her wine glass a little. “And I want you just as much now as I did then.”

  She could hardly breathe.

  “Why?”

  His smile was mocking. “Can you really not see?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then all the men you’ve dated before are fools. How can you still be a virgin?”

  She swallowed, her huge eyes awash with emotions as they held his. “I haven’t really dated before.”

  His expression didn’t change but she felt the workings of his analytical mind as he absorbed this admission. “I am not the kind of man to drink so much he can’t control himself.”

  Cleopatra nodded; hadn’t she been thinking exactly that?

  “Why haven’t you slept with anyone?”

  The question was unexpected. She spun it through her mind, trying to find an answer. “I… haven’t…met…I… not for any particular reason.”

  “You aren’t saving yourself for marriage?” He asked, the words tinged with irony.

  She shook her head slowly. “No, not intentionally.” Heat burned her cheeks. “Not at all,” she corrected emphatically. She went to move away from him but he clamped a hand onto her hip, holding her where she was.

  “Tell me.” It was a command.

  Her teeth pressed into her lower lip. “It just happened.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why would I make it up?”

  “I don’t know, but you are not being honest with me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because no one is accidentally a virgin at twenty four.”

  “What about nuns?”

  “That is no accident.”

  “Right.” Her tongue darted out to swish across her lip and he made an audible breathing sound, a tortured noise that had her eyes skittering to his. The intensity of his gaze almost had her pushing herself further forward, seeking his lips with hers.

  “And you are not a nun.”

  “No,” she shook her head.

  “So?”

  She swallowed. “It’s really hard to explain.”

  “Try.”

  Surprise flashed in her features but she calmed it. It was no secret. She was just out of the habit of confiding in anyone, and she couldn’t have said why she felt tempted to speak to Benedetto – perhaps it was the compelling quality to his voice, the insistence in his eyes, the heat that flared between them, but she found her mind going back seven years earlier, to a time she barely thought of, a time she actively sought to forget.

  “My adoptive parents didn’t approve of dating,” she started hesitantly, her brow furrowed. She was lost to the past now, and didn’t see the way he was studying her, didn’t feel the questions that were tripping off him in waves.

  “They were pretty strict. Not just about dating, but lots of things. No TV, no cell phones, and absolutely no boyfriends.”

  He nodded, saying nothing, silently encouraging her to continue.

  “So I really had no experience, you know? I guess most teenagers spend their senior years getting good at all that stuff. You know, flirting, dating, kissing.” More heat burst into her cheeks and she dropped her eyes. His finger pressed beneath her chin, lifting her face towards his so she couldn’t hide her gaze from him.

  “You are very good at kissing,” he said it lightly, teasingly, but neither of them smiled. The air around them was thick with the nature of her confession, and she didn’t directly respond to him.

  “The ambassador’s home wasn’t my first posting. Straight out of school, I took a job in New York working for… a CEO,” she replaced, discreetly.

  His manner changed almost undetectably. There was a slight shift in his stance, a look of total absorption.

  “They had a little boy, a terrible sleeper, and they’d hired me to supplement their day nanny. I didn’t have much formal training, but I did a Skype interview with … the dad, and he hired me based on the fact I have six younger adoptive siblings and had been very involved in raising them.”

  “Go on.” Another command.

  She nodded, the words coming more easily now. “It was hard. He was a difficult baby. I believe he was autistic, but when I mentioned that Clarice – the other nanny –made me promise I wouldn’t say anything. The mother had post-natal depression and the mood of the house was very dark. Clarice didn’t think they could handle anything else.” She grimaced. “I will always regret that I listened to her. I should have insisted on saying something. I think of him often, you know, and wonder if he’s getting the help he needed.”

  “You were young and inexperienced. It is natural you deferred to someone more senior.”

  “I suppose so. I wouldn’t now.”

  “No,” he agreed with a look of approval.

  “I learned that a child’s interests always come first. I didn’t serve those interests by staying quiet.” She bit down on her lower lip. “Anyway, I was up most nights. Late. Helping him settle, then waiting for him to wake again, so I could settle him. It was exhausting and difficult.”

  “I can sympathise. In the first months after Jack and Veronica died, Alfredo screamed out every night. It was a nightmare.”

  Sympathy tore through her and out of nowhere, tears sparkled on her lashes. “The poor darling.”

  “That is not exactly the words I used.”

  A small smile flexed across her lips. “He must have been so traumatised.”

  “Undoubtedly.” His eyes narrowed. “So you were up nights?” He prompted.

  “Right, yes. And Mr… the father,” she corrected, began to keep me company. Heat scorched her blood now, shame burning through her as she thought of how stupid she’d been not to understand his intentions better.

  “At first it was by accident, really. I was reading and he came back from a benefit, late, saw the light on and came to check. I was reading Persuasion – one of my favourites – and we got into a conversation about it.” She swallowed past a lump in her throat. “We had a bit in common, and I think because Mrs Carri…his wife, was very unwell, and distant from him, he really needed someone to talk to. It was innocent. It really was. At least,” she closed her eyes, because guilt made it impossible for her to look at Benedetto. “It was initially.”

  Something pricked in the air between them. “You’re saying, what? You had an affair with him? A married man?”

  “No,” she shook her head vehemently. “Of course not. I would never do that! I could never get involved with someone’s husband.”

  He stared at her for several seconds, a muscle jerking in his jaw, emotions she didn’t comprehend crossing his face. “Go on.” The words were different now, tinged with iron, except Cleopatra barely heard it.

  “He
fell in love with me.” The words were strangled from her. “He confessed as much to his wife, who spent approximately thirty seven seconds choosing what to do with this information.”

  “And did you love him?” Benedetto prompted.

  “Love?” She blinked, as though it had never occurred to her. “I was seventeen years old, he was thirty seven. I liked his company very much, but no, Benedetto. As I said, he was married. I would never have let myself fall in love with him.”

  “You think it is so simple?”

  “Not simple, necessarily, but important. I have enough experience of broken homes, broken families, to know never to become an instrument of causing one.” Sadness welled inside of her. “And yet, I did.”

  “They divorced?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure a crack formed because of me that they won’t have found it easy to recover from.”

  “You do not know this.” There was darkness in his voice. “It is possible you were a catalyst for a healing between them. She had not been well, perhaps he used this situation to address that with her, to help her to get help.”

  Her eyes widened, and for the first time in seven years, she felt a reprieve from the unrelenting guilt she’d carried around inside of her. “Do you think so?”

  “It is possible,” he dipped his head forward.

  “I liked his company,” she said again, softly. “I had no idea he felt anything for me beyond that. I had no experience. No clue. Looking back, I can see how naïve I was.”

  “And since him?” Benedetto prompted. Overhead a shooting star twinkled across the inky dark sky and Cleopatra’s eyes followed it.

  “No one.”

  “You haven’t dated?”

  “No.”

  “Perche non?”

  “The role at the Ambassador’s was pretty full on. I didn’t speak Italian and even though it was an English-speaking house, I still needed to learn to be able to properly communicate with the staff. And I was shell-shocked. For the first time in my life, in New York, I had started to feel like I belonged. I’d been happy. And that was all pulled out from under me so suddenly, I was thrown into a foreign country, and I just…couldn’t fathom the idea of trusting anyone again.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression so I became more cautious and guarded. It wasn’t hard – the language barrier made aloofness easy and then it became a habit.”