Bought by Her Italian Boss (5 page)

“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

V
ITO
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.

When she had stiffened, he’d said, “Go to sleep,” in the same quietly firm tone he would use on any of his abundant underage cousins, nieces and nephews who might creep down the stairs when they ought to be in bed. Molding Gwyn to him, he’d gone quietly out of his mind while she had relaxed into the hot curve of his chest and thighs.

She had dropped into a deep sleep, leaving him nursing an aching erection, blood burning like acid in his arteries. Every time he dozed, his mind took him back to kissing her on the deck, when she’d aggressively tested his control.

He didn’t know how he’d kept from lifting her skirt. Possessiveness, perhaps, because in that moment he hadn’t cared if anyone saw his naked ass, but the idea of the paparazzi catching another glimpse of her unclothed had been intolerable.

He’d tried to slow things down while he calculated whether to steal into a stateroom or ask for one to be assigned, so they wouldn’t risk interruption.

She had started to cry.

This woman. He was trying very hard to vilify her, to help maintain some distance, but there was no question in him any longer as to whether she had posed for those photos. She was too devastated to be anything less than violated.

Which did things to him. Provoked something that could turn into a blind savagery if he dwelt too much on the injustice.

He sipped the coffee he’d made in the small pot, studying her timeless features, so well suited to her surroundings.

The building was classic Renaissance, imposing and symmetrical. The interior was equally ornate and gracefully proportioned, enriched with dark wood grains and gold accents upon fervent reds and royal blues. The setting made a beautiful foil for her pale skin, pink lips and long dark lashes.

He’d neglected to close the heavy curtains so sunlight poured across her cleanly-washed face. The collar of his white shirt was turned up against her cheek, the unbuttoned sleeve pushed far up her bare arm.

His Lover At Rest
, he thought with a sardonic smile, toying with the idea of snapping her photo. His conscience stopped him.
If it makes you feel objectified, well, you have a glimpse into how I feel right now.

He wasn’t bothered by her taking a photo of his photo. He knew he was good-looking. Female attention had always been abundant in his life in the very best way. He wasn’t surprised that she found him attractive and certainly wasn’t offended by it. He liked it. Too much.

She wasn’t as comfortable with their chemistry. She was feeling used and he was being a bastard, not letting her see that he was equally ensnared by lust, but wanting her was weakness enough. Letting her see it would be akin to handing over a weapon, something he was too innately self-protective to ever do.

His phone vibrated in his hand and he dragged his attention off her peaceful expression to see that his cousin was forwarding something.

Can you deal with this? Will talk more when I get there. Leaving in a few hours.

Vito understood by Paolo’s desire for a face-to-face that he was being abundantly cautious with traceable, hackable things like texts and emails, but it surprised him that Paolo was coming to Como. He had been working from home, refusing to leave his wife’s side as she approached the end of her third pregnancy.

But his cousin was smart enough to see the implication behind Vito’s appearance with Gwyn last night. He would want more details, to be sure they had their story straight, especially before he made further statements to the press.

The multitude of demands for more information from all corners was threatening to break Vito’s phone, coming from every direction from family to news contacts to the bank’s core investors. The story across the sea of media had shifted from lurid curiosity about the woman in the photos to deeper speculation as to who she was and how she had ensnared not just one, but two powerful men into a nude photo scandal. Was she sleeping with both of them?

He stroked his thumb along the edge of his screen, deciding it was time to feed another tidbit to the press, leading them away from Jensen’s version of events toward his own.

Yesterday, he had ordered a team to look for a connection between the spa owner and Jensen, suspecting it could be a laundry for some of the funds Jensen had funneled. Even if the spa’s only crime was the breach of Gwyn’s privacy, he didn’t see any reason they should remain open and making money while Gwyn suffered.

With enormous satisfaction, he touched the query from one of his former paramours who worked as an anchor for an Italian morning talk show.
Quote me as stating that the photos were taken without her consent at a local spa
, he messaged to her.

As the
whoosh
sounded to tell him the text was sent, he could practically hear her spiked heels racing down to her producer’s office, intent on identifying said spa and surprising the owner with an early-morning interview. She would seize world coverage with her exclusive by noon.

With a smirk at how easily the press was played, he turned his attention to the email Paolo had forwarded.

It was from Travis Sanders, director of an architectural firm Vito had never heard of. A quick swipe to his browser revealed it was a growing global corporation based in Charleston. Henry Sanders had started in real estate and morphed into renovation and restoration. His son, Travis, had earned his degree then took over his father’s firm, expanding into design and engineering. All of their projects were prestigious; the most current one was a cathedral in Brazil.

Vito read Travis’s email to Paolo:

I haven’t heard from my sister since the tenth of last month. If you’re screening her calls, stop screening me. I want to hear from her.

Short and decidedly acrid.

Gwyn shifted on the bed, rolling onto her back and opening her eyes. Confusion quickly fell into a wince of memory. She glanced at the empty spot beside her, sat up, saw him and brought the edge of the sheet up to the buttons closed across her chest.

“I thought you said he was your stepbrother?” Vito said.

“Who? Travis?” She frowned in sleepy confusion. “He is. Why?”

“He wants to hear from you. He thinks we’re preventing you from calling.”

She sighed and looked at the landline beside the bed like it was a snake he’d asked her to pick up.

Since she’d left her own mobile back at the house, he rose and took his across to her. “Would you rather text?”

Her gaze flickered across his bare chest and wariness trembled in her eyelashes while sexual awareness brought a light pink glow to her skin. He would have smiled with satisfaction if his entire body hadn’t tightened in response. Her scent was coming off those rumpled sheets in a way that tugged at his vitals.

She expertly sent off a quick message and handed back the phone, not looking at him.

Despite it being very early in Charleston, the phone vibrated immediately with a response.

Vito glanced at it and couldn’t help a dry smirk. “He wants to know his father’s birthday. To confirm that was actually you who just texted, I imagine.”

“Seriously?” She took back the phone, tapped out a lengthy message and slapped it back into Vito’s hand.

He glanced at the exchange, reading that she’d told her stepbrother she was fine, not being held hostage, didn’t know what to say and hoped the press wasn’t bothering Henry. She wanted Travis to apologize to him for her.

Vito frowned at her expression of misery, started to tell her what was in store for the spa, but another message came through.

“‘This isn’t like you,’” Vito read.

“How the hell does he know what I’m like?” she muttered, sliding her feet out the side of the bed. “He barely talks to me.”

“You’re to call him when you can talk freely,” he read aloud as she headed toward the bathroom.

She made a noise and said, “I’m going to see if it’s possible to drown in a shower.”

“Don’t take too long. I’m hungry and plan to order breakfast now that you’re up.”

* * *

Funny how something as simple as a shower became a saving grace in a time of crisis. Washing her hair, smoothing a soapy facecloth over her body... It was comfortingly normal. Routine. She took her time, thinking of nothing as water rained down upon her.

Until her mind drifted to hearing the shower in the night.

Why had Vito risen to shower at 2:00 a.m.? He’d been hard against her butt. She remembered that. If she hadn’t been so drained, she might have turned and let him do something she would be regretting right now.

Had he touched himself in here? Pleasured himself?

When he could have had her out there?

The thought struck like a blow, tightening her midsection, making her miserable all over again. She had to stop thinking there was any sort of potential between them. Maybe sex was an option. He’d told her to go ahead and use him, after all. But that’s all it would be: empty sex. There was no room for romance. They weren’t lovers. Despite appearances, they weren’t dating. They weren’t even friends.

This was all fake.

And her life was a complete disaster, she confronted anew as she stepped from the shower and faced a choice between last night’s sparkling evening wear and his rumpled white shirt. She was not in a fit mental state to start any kind of relationship.

She pulled on the robe from the back of the door. It had an embroidered sailboat on the left lapel and was made of thick, comforting chenille. She knotted the belt and emerged to scents of ham and eggs, coffee and sweet pastries. Her stomach contracted. When had she last eaten, she wondered? Vito had forced a few morsels on her last night from the extravagant buffet, but she hadn’t been interested.

He was closing the door behind someone as she came out and waved at a stack of clothing that had been delivered. “See if that fits.”

She didn’t know what to say and found herself fingering through the clothes. There was a clean shirt for him, a short-sleeved, collared one in cobalt blue along with clean socks.

For her, he’d ordered clean underpants, a camisole with a shelf bra in butter yellow, palazzo pants with a subtle floral print and a sheer top that picked up the colors in the pants with splashes of emerald and streaks of pink.

“We’re going shopping so you won’t have to wear it long if you don’t like it,” he said, making her realize she was frowning.

“No, it’s fine. I thought I’d be wearing the robe back to the house.” She looked for price tags, didn’t find any and started to worry. How would she pay for this?

“Let’s eat,” he said, indicating the set table before the now open window.

Their view looked onto the red umbrella tables six stories below, the marina of bobbing, million-dollar boats and the deceptively placid lake glinting in the cradle of mountain peaks.

“Is the shopping really necessary?” she asked, breaking the yoke of her poached egg with the tine of her fork.

He shrugged. “It’s a parade for the cameras and you need clothes for all the circulating we’ll be doing over the next few weeks, so, yes. I would say it is.”

She watched her fork tremble as a fresh wave of helpless anger swamped her.

“I would like to remind you that I don’t have a job. How am I supposed to pay for a new wardrobe?”

“You are so cute, Gwyn,” he said,
so
patronizing. “I am indulging my
innamorata
. It’s what besotted men do.”

Her appetite died. She put down her fork, vainly wishing she wasn’t sitting here naked under a robe he had funded. She wished she had a better choice than walking out of here in clothes that were borrowed or an outfit chosen and paid for by him. She wasn’t used to being this powerless. Even when Travis had been unknowingly annihilating her sense of self-worth, she’d had a job and enough savings to get herself and her mother started over in a cheap room if Henry had called off the wedding.

“Women love shopping, Gwyn. Why are you so upset by the prospect?” Vito asked, tucking into his breakfast with gusto.

“Because this isn’t like me,” she said, tartly quoting her stepbrother. “My mother didn’t have much. She made ends meet, but we lived very simply and I still do.”

She typically ate scrambled eggs she cooked for herself, not delicately poached orbs on toasted ciabatta with garlic and a pesto hollandaise, garnished with shallots and plum tomatoes. She drank orange juice she mixed from concentrate, or instant coffee, not mimosas and rich, dark espresso that made her want to moan in ecstasy with the first taste.

She swallowed her tentative sip of the hot, bitter brew and set down her tiny cup, noting that Vito was watching her, like he was deciding whether to believe her. She hesitated to open up, but figured it was better to be honest about her background than to hide it.