Bought by Her Italian Boss (8 page)

“Did you get that top at the boutique on the far end of the lake?” Lauren asked. “I bought the red-and-gold one two months ago. They have amazing stuff, don’t they?”

Gwyn agreed, then, as she set a pot of water to boil and the conversation lulled, she screwed up her courage and said, “I, um, lived in Charleston before I came here. I’m not trying to pry,” she hurried to add. “I just thought I should tell you that I couldn’t help but be aware of all the coverage about your husband. Um, first husband, I mean.”

Lauren’s expression smoothed to something very grave, gaze sliding away to hide her thoughts. “It was a heartbreaking time.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Gwyn said quickly, feeling it was the decent thing to say to the widow of a war hero, but it wasn’t why she’d brought it up. She wasn’t asking the big question that had been on everyone else’s mind at the time: had Lauren slept with her husband’s best friend the night she had learned her husband was dead? The answer to that was outside throwing rocks into the lake, as far as Gwyn could tell.

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it except... Is it bad taste to ask how you handled all the attention?” Gwyn asked.

Lauren smiled with empathy. “It’s exhausting, isn’t it? People so love to judge.” She opened a cupboard and drew out a box of linguine noodles. “I guess you make peace with whatever you’ve done to get yourself into that situation and accept that you can’t control what others think or say. It’s what you think of yourself that matters.”

“I’m obsessed with what other people think,” Gwyn admitted glumly. She had a childhood full of starting new schools, being teased for being first to wear a bra, then constantly being underestimated because she was smarter than anyone expected from a girl with good looks.

Her mother had nursed the same sort of angst, having quite an inferiority complex due to an orphan’s upbringing. Sometimes Gwyn wondered if that had been her mother’s reason for moving so often—part habit, but also a continuous attempt to reinvent herself in hopes of ever-elusive acceptance.

For Gwyn, landing this job in Milan had been her first step in believing she really was good enough and smart enough to earn respect on her own merit, but she was seriously struggling to believe in herself now.

And while she could dismiss the dim views of strangers and comfort herself with the knowledge she hadn’t done anything to deserve the humiliation she was suffering, she was acutely sensitive to what Vito might be thinking of her.

Why? Why couldn’t she shrug off his judgment of her?

Because he affected her on every level, she acknowledged. Because he had literally controlled how she felt in the car today, working ecstasy through her. If he had the power to make her feel good, he also had the power to devastate her.

She started to blush, feeling the heat rise from deep spaces to become a hot glow on her cheeks.
Such
power. She wished she could get him out from under her skin!

“My turn to pry,” Lauren said, handing Gwyn a bag of mushrooms, scanning Gwyn’s guilty pink cheeks with interest. “This thing with you and Vito. Have you really been seeing him? Or is it just for show?”

“What?” Gwyn said dumbly, nerveless fingers nearly losing the featherweight of the bag.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Lauren said with a teasing twinkle in her eye. “I’m being nosy because he’s one of my favorite people, but I realize there are things at the bank that can’t be discussed. Believe me, I know.” She made a face of long suffering. “But...” She sent Gwyn a cagey look as she moved to the sink. “I have a feeling that if he’d been seeing you before this story broke, I would have known.”

“What do you mean?” Gwyn asked, knocked off balance by something she couldn’t identify. Was she suggesting Vito acted differently around her? Lauren had only seen them together for a minute and a half before they’d come inside and the men had gone to the beach.

“I don’t know. There’s something in the way he looked at you—” Lauren shrugged, starting to wash her hands, then cut herself off as she gave the soap dispenser next to the sink a shake. “I think there’s a new one in the upstairs bathroom,” she said, turning off the tap.

“I’ll get it,” Gwyn said, setting down the mushroom she was stemming.

“I’ll peek in on Bianca while I’m up there,” Lauren said with a wave.

Seconds later, Lauren’s voice was considerably less relaxed as she swore loud enough for Gwyn to hear her all the way down in the kitchen.

“Are you all right?” Gwyn called, making a panicked start up the stairs.

Lauren came to the open door of the main bathroom, bracing herself against it with a white-knuckled grip, expression somewhere between exasperated and remorseful.

“He’s going to kill me. Tell Paolo my water just broke.”

* * *

Vito was not a romantic, but he had seen the longing in Gwyn’s expression and felt a kick of commiseration. Paolo and Lauren made anyone covetous of their happiness. He envied his cousin himself, not just for finding his soul mate, but for his freedom to pursue a life with her. Even if Vito did find the right woman...

He was adept at not letting himself dwell on such things and cut off the thoughts as he and Paolo took Roberto down to the water and exchanged reports.

Paolo expanded on what he’d already messaged, saying Fabrizio was a tough nut, but cracks were showing in his story. The board of Jensen’s foundation was not yet moved to worry about any of this, let alone meeting to discuss Jensen’s possible removal. Jensen himself was leaving the country for a minor quake that was more photo op than actual disaster relief, but would bolster his image.

“You haven’t frozen the foundation’s assets?” Vito asked.

“I don’t have grounds. I’ll be pushing for a forensic audit once Fabrizio breaks or we’re able to prove Jensen was behind the instructions to move funds, but he is definitely playing a rough PR game right now. This—” He chucked his chin back toward the house and Gwyn. “I see where you’re going and it would work if it was true, but I can’t go on record saying that you’ve been having an affair with her all along. We all may have to testify at some point.”

“Sì,”
Vito agreed. “But you can state that unnamed sources—me—” he shrugged “—made you aware some time ago that there were worrisome transactions within the account. We put it on a watch list and saw no reason to remove Miss Ellis because she was not only conducting herself with sound ethics, but has since proven to be an excellent source of knowledge with regards to the foundation’s legitimate activities.”

“You’re convinced she has been conducting herself ethically?”

It was the judgment Vito had been avoiding making, aware that Gwyn was already a weakness to him. He wanted her and therefore he wanted to believe her, because how could he have an affair with a woman who was committing crimes against the bank? He couldn’t gamble his family’s future on his own selfish desires.

But at every stage, if she was the type to manipulate a man like Jensen, her actions would have been different, right up to this afternoon in the car.
He
would have been the one losing control to her hand or mouth, he was sure, if she was the type to lie and steal and wish him to believe otherwise.

At no time since he’d met her had Gwyn acted dishonorably, though. In fact, she was trying to protect the little family she had from the fallout of dishonor that, if she was innocent, wasn’t hers to bear.

The problem was, if she
was
blameless, he was going to have to kill the man who had done this to her.

“I believe she is Jensen’s victim, yes,” Vito said, and heard the cruel edge on his tone. “They gambled on her lack of experience and when she showed her intelligence, they threw her to the wolves.”

He understood the expression
bloodthirsty
as he said it. His tongue tingled and his throat tried a dry swallow, but he didn’t long for water. He craved the tang of suffering for Jensen and Fabrizio and whoever had helped them by taking those photos.

He felt the quick slash of Paolo’s glance before he returned his watchful gaze to his son, but his cousin obviously read his mood.

“So we imply you two have been having an affair all along and she’s been feeding us information. What happens when I’m asked point-blank if I condone my VP of operations sleeping with a customer service rep?” Paolo folded his arms, eyes on his son, but his tone added,
Because I don’t
.

“You never comment on the private lives of your family or your employees,” Vito said, which was true. “But as a rule, you expect to be notified of such relationships in a timely manner and you have no quarrel with when and how your VP of operations has advised you of this connection.”

Paolo shook his head, mouth pulled into a half smirk. “People call me competitive, but strategy plays are your drug of choice, aren’t they?”

“Live the lie and it becomes the truth,” he said blithely.

Paolo sobered. “The photos certainly look convincing,” he said with another pointed look, before returning his alert attention to his son in the water.

Vito had seen the photos online from today’s shopping trip with Gwyn and last night’s kiss. The passionate embrace on the stern of the yacht still made his pulse pound just thinking of it. His mind went to the car, the wet heat clenching his fingers as she shuddered and cried out with fulfillment.

There were a million reasons why he should merely
act
like they were an item, rather than make the affair real, but they would make it real. He knew it in the same way that adversaries knew a physical confrontation was coming. They could put it off, because they both knew in their gut that neither of them would come away unscathed, but their making love was inevitable.

“No comment?” Paolo prodded. “Because if she’s a victim, don’t make her more of one.”

That stung. Vito hid it, countering lightly, “What do you want me to say? I like women. I can’t help that they like me back.”

It was the laissez-faire attitude he always affected when discussing paramours. Paolo was the head of the family. He couldn’t escape marriage and the duty of producing progeny. Vito didn’t have the same pressure to procreate. He was at liberty to play the field the rest of his life if he wanted to.

Paolo sent him a dour look, the one that told him Vito could show the rest of the world, pretend his entire life was one long, lighthearted affair, but he knew better.

Paolo knew him better than anyone. They had been adversaries themselves in childhood, scrapping constantly. Two strong-willed, alpha-natured boys of similar ages would. It had culminated in a fistfight of epic proportions when they were twelve, not far from here, on the property Vito’s family still owned, high in the hills overlooking the lake. They had been beating each other with serious intent, their superficial argument transitioning into a far more serious drive for dominance over the other. Neither was the type to give up. Ever.

Paolo’s father had stopped them. He’d been a man of strength and drive and purpose, the conservative head of the bank that had been the family’s livelihood for generations. He was a loving man, a devoted uncle, a pillar of strength for all of them.

And he’d nearly cried when he’d pulled the boys apart.

You can’t do this
, his uncle had said.
No more. You’re family.

Vito didn’t like upsetting his favorite uncle, but he had had nameless frustrations swirling inside him. He was claimed to be part of their clan, but he wasn’t. Something was off and he knew it. He loved his parents. His mother doted on him. His father showed great pride in every one of Vito’s accomplishments, but he didn’t feel close to them. He was different. Not quite like them, not the same in temperament or looks as his sisters. He felt more kinship toward Paolo’s father than his own. When they all came together for these sorts of big, family occasions, he caught watchful looks from some of the older aunts and uncles. It made him tense. Meanwhile, Paolo was so very confident in his own position, Vito was compelled to knock his cousin out of it.

So the angry accusation had come out.
Am I? Family?

The way Paolo had looked to his father for that same answer, as if he too suspected Vito was not quite one of them, had been the most devastating blow of all.

Paolo’s father had stood there with his hand on his hair, like he’d come across a bomb blast and was suffering a kind of shell shock himself, unable to make sense of the broken landscape.

Then, very decisively, he had nodded.
Fine. I’ll tell you. Both of you.

Vito had never questioned such huge news coming from his uncle, rather than his father. It was a Donatelli matter, after all.
He
was a Donatelli. Legally he was a Donatelli-Gallo. Women kept their maiden name when they married in Italy. He and his sisters used a hyphenated version of their parents’ names, but he had always felt more drawn to the Donatelli side of his family and used that name to this day.

Because he had no Gallo in him, he had learned, sitting on a retaining wall overlooking the lake, hearing his uncle explain to him that his mother, his
real
mother, was the youngest Donatelli sibling, Zia Antoinietta. The aunt who had died and was rarely mentioned because her loss made everyone so sad. Vito would later look at her photographs and see more of himself in her than in her older sister, the woman who had called herself his mother all his life.

Your father was a dangerous man, Vito. Dangerous to us as a family, to the bank and very dangerous to your mother. I pulled her away from him so many times, but she kept going back. She was pregnant. She thought she loved him. I’ll never forgive myself for not finding a way... She finally realized what was in store for both of you when he knocked her around and put her into labor. She called me to come to her where she was hiding from him. She died having you. I held her, waiting for the damned ambulance, and she begged me to keep you away from him, to keep you from turning into a mafioso like him. He wanted an heir to his empire, but it’s a kingdom built on blood and suffering. We would have called you Paolo’s brother, but well, you know the story we tell instead.