I WAKE WITH A START from a fitful sleep, my heart pounding. Even before I open my eyes, I know that I'm not alone.
The scent teasing my nostrils tells me that it's Matteo. When I turn to see, I find him slouched in the chair that he pulled up beside the bed that afternoon. The pale blueberry hues slanting in through the window tell me that twilight has fallen, and yet he is dressed in a suit—well, part of it, anyway. He has removed the jacket, which is slung over the back of his chair, and his tie, which is nowhere to be seen.
The sleeves of his once crisp white dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, offering me a view of well muscled forearms tanned the color of gold. The top two buttons at his neck are undone as well, revealing the hollow of his throat. When I squint, I think I can make out the flutter of his pulse under that skin, an unexpectedly soft spot in the middle of all of this masculinity, and all I can think about is pressing a kiss there.
Rein in those hormones, Tremaine. A man like this is only going to be interested in a girl like me for one thing. And while, over the course of the afternoon, I've grudgingly decided that I'm grateful that he insisted on getting me stitched up, I have no intention of paying for the favor that way.
It rides a little too close to home. And whether I might enjoy it or not won't change that.
"Did you sleep well?" He leans back in his chair, and I hear the clink of ice against glass. He lifts a small snifter of golden liquid to his lips, regarding me over the edge of his drink.
I note that the bruise around his eye looks worse than it did earlier, the purple tones having darkened over the course of the day. There are matching semi circles beneath his eyes, and he smells ever so faintly of cigar smoke.
Despite his generally dishevelled appearance, as he sits there, regarding me steadily as he sips at his scotch, I feel my long dormant libido roar to life.
Hours ago I unearthed a men's shirt in one of the bureau drawers, and am now wearing that. It falls to mid-thigh, and I've rolled the sleeves up to my elbows. But when he looks at me like that I'm ridiculously aware of the fact that the buttons strain across my rather ample chest.
And also of the fact that my bottom half is completely bare. It's covered by that thin silk sheet, but I'm not even close to worldly enough to be comfortable with that scrap of comfort.
Belatedly I realize that he has asked me a question. Clearing my throat, I nod, running my tongue over suddenly dry lips, not at all sure what to do when his stare follows the movement.
"I—the medication—it makes me drowsy." Which is yet another reason I wish I'd been conscious to refuse it. My shoulder is starting to hurt like a beast with fangs has sunk its teeth into it, but I don't even take aspirin if I can help it.
I spent my formative years watching my mother slump around in a drug induced haze. It didn't endear me to those substances, not even when they're medicinal.
"I brought you some food." He gestures to a platter of fruit, crackers and cheese that is sitting on the bedside table. The sight of the plump purple grapes, of the juicy figs and soft cheese makes my stomach growl, and I reach out a hand, only to snatch it back.
I am growing more indebted to Matteo by the minute, and though I know it's not rational—though he hasn't made a single demand on me—it makes the grapes that are just out of reach lose some of their appeal.
"Before you make up another reason that you should go, perhaps you will think rationally about how you are feeling." He places his glass on the table, looks me over with those rum colored eyes. They're fringed by dark lashes that any woman would kill for. "Tell me. And don't lie. I will know."
As I meet his stare, I feel a jolt of heat pass through me. I think that I'm imagining it—though he is everything that I'd ever daydreamed of for a wild Italian fling—the sober set of his face makes me think that maybe, just maybe, I'm not.
"Tell me." The intensity in his eyes, on his face, tells me that I don't actually have any choice but to do as he says... this is not a man who will be refused. I part my lips to answer, and his gaze tracks the movement, making me feel like he's the lion and I'm the lamb... and that I'm about to become his dinner.
In a sexy kinda way.
"I... my shoulder hurts." I hate admitting the weakness, but I'm not entirely sure what he'd do if I lied.
As it is, he nods, seeming satisfied with my answer. "That's what happens when you jump in front of a knife."
"Hey." My brow furrows as I glare at him. "How dare—"
"Can I have anything brought to you?" He continues on as though I haven't said a word, and I stare at him, astonished. His choice of words hasn't escaped me either... not can I bring you anything, but can I have anything brought to you.
Matteo Benenati is clearly a man who is used to having whatever he wants, just as he seems like he's incapable of accepting the word no. It's so different from my existence that I literally cannot fathom living that way.
My spine stiffens; the stitches in my shoulder pull my skin tight and I wince.
In an instant Matteo leans forward in his chair, his expression concerned.
"Drink." Unceremoniously he shoves his snifter in my face, moving so quickly that I have no choice but to take it.
The liquid pretty, a dark brownish gold. Warily I sniff at it, then wrinkle my nose.
"It stinks." No way I'm drinking this. "It smells like iodine."
"That's the peat." Raising an eyebrow at me, he sits back in his chair, the lord at his leisure. In contrast I feel... plebeian. Like a servant girl, unused to the riches that surround me.
I don't care for that feeling at all, and as if arguing with it, I press the chilled glass to my lips and take a tiny sip, letting the liquid spread out over my tongue.
It's a mistake. Once the medicinal flavor passes, flowing down my throat, I taste a hint of something warm, salty and sweet. Him, his imprint left behind on the glass.
My eyes meet his over the edge of the glass, and once again I get the sensation that I am prey.
"You're quite beautiful, you know." Damn that sexy accent. I should be used to hearing the lovely lilt and flow of the Italian tongue by now... but when uttered in a dark, dangerous tone, it seems that I'm done for.
He shifts in his chair, and his scent again reaches me. My hormones stand up and pay attention, even as warning bells start to clang in my head.
Danger, Will Robinson.
But even though I know I'm at a distinct disadvantage—I'm half naked, injured, in a strange place—I find myself leaning toward him, a magnet pulling me closer.
"Yes, quite beautiful. And am I correct in assuming that you are also broke?"
"What?" I rear back as though he's slapped me. My mind reels. "Where the hell did you get that idea?"
He merely raises an eyebrow, and I can feel my temper begin to lick along my skin.
"Whatever you're getting at, it's not happening." Damn it, I'm seriously pissed at him, but at the same time, my body is not at all pleased with this pronouncement. "I told you I didn't want medical attention, or any of this, and you did it anyway. I don't owe you anything." I flap my hand in the general direction of the room, so he knows what I'm referring to.
And the bastard simply smiles at my anger, which only serves to infuriate me more. "I'm not asking you to have sex with me."
MATTEO
I wonder if the girl has any idea how appealing she looks right now, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks. I'm not usually drawn to ingénue types, but there's something about this one that pulls at me.
For one brief moment, the voice of reason sounds in my head, warning me that I might be about to jump in over my head.
But what choice do I have?
None. Thanks to my late father, I have no choice, and it infuriates me.
"I do not pay for sex," I say sternly. The girl shifts on the bed, and I can see that I've unsettled her.
Good. I won't stand to be the only one who is feeling as though his life has just spun out of control.
"What the hell are you getting at, then?"
I haven't known her for long, but I've already come to see that when Miss Riley Tremaine is uncomfortable, she gets defensive. I watch, not feeling nearly as removed as I'd like to, as she crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me.
Instead of intimidating, she just looks damn sexy. And all that innocence just screams complications.
But I've never been very good at turning down the things that I want—I've never had to. And that creamy skin, utterly devoid of makeup and fresh in a way that the women I know never are, is calling to me to touch it. Those lips, the color of rose petals even without that goop that women slather on, look as sweet as the fruit that is sitting untouched on the bedside table.
For no reason other than to please myself, I pick up a round red grape, press it to equally plump lips. She eyes me suspiciously, but I push it past the seam of her lips anyway. Her eyes spark with irritation, but she slowly chews, swallows, wipes a drip of juice from her lips with the tip of a finger.
I can barely hold back my groan, and press another grape to her mouth. This time, though, she catches my hand before I can press the fruit to her lips, plucking the grape from my fingers.
"You were saying?" She prompts me. I think she means to be chastising, but the faint pink flush that has spread across her cheeks tells me that she's no more immune to me than I am to her.
"I have a story to tell you." I lean back in the chair while I tell her the highlights of the meeting that I had this afternoon. I skip over a lot of details, partly because I don't think she'll care, and mostly because it's just not in my nature to be forthcoming.
She seems faintly puzzled as she listens. "Why are you telling me this?"
She's not stupid; after the meeting I did some digging into her life. But most of the woman I know would already be batting their eyelashes at me and making a play for the coveted position as my wife.
This girl, though—she either truly cannot comprehend a situation like what I've described to her, or she is going to make me say the words.
Make me ask her to marry me.
The question freezes on my lips, and I feel anything but casual. I am not used to needing people... but I need this girl to say yes to me more than I need my next breath.
I don't know how to ask. I only know how to manipulate, to push, to take.
"You have student loans that you cannot afford to pay. And you do not have even enough money to get back to the States."
Her fingers clench in the sheet, and I try not to think about the way that the slate colored satin looks against that smooth skin.
I expect her to ream me out for checking up on her, but instead her hand reaches for the bandage covering her wound. Though I don't think she intended it, I get the message as surely as if she stabbed me with it like that blade sliced through her.
I can't afford to go home because I took a knife for you.
Guilt is not an emotion that I am accustomed to, and I don't quite know what to do with the heavy weight of it. I know that I should bite back my words, should find someone else for what I am about to ask of her.
But I don't want to. For reasons that I can't explain, I want her, and so I tell myself that I am doing her a favor.
"You need money." My voice is casual, but I feel anything but. "I need a wife. Immediately."
"Oh my God." A choked kind of cry issues from her throat, and I wonder if maybe she really hadn't understood what I was getting at. "You're not seriously—"
"I'm asking you to be my wife for thirty days, in exchange for five hundred thousand dollars." I snap. I don't like having to ask, and I set the amount low, sure that she will ask for more.
"Five hundred thousand dollars? Are you insane?" The girl's mouth works, and I can't help but imagine it doing other things.
Not the time, Matteo.
"It's not a large amount of money." What the hell am I saying? I'm just asking her to gouge me. But she's looking at me like she can't imagine that there's that much money in the world.
Probably I shouldn't tell her that Emilia can spend that much in one shopping spree in Milan.
Riley's cheeks are flushed, and that long, lovely body is tense. She's going to say no, and my mind is reeling with possibilities about how I can make her say yes.
But instead of yelling, as I find American women are wont to do, she asks a simple question that gives me hope.
"What's the catch?"
She is tempted. And for some strange reason I am disappointed, even though I am a step closer to what I want.
But for some reason, this woman seemed... different. Not like the ones who are obsessed with my money.
Shoving that feeling down, I try to focus in the way I do at the office.
She is an acquisition, Matteo. Nothing more.
I think about trying to sugarcoat the next words, but the intelligence that I see in those eyes tells me that she won't swallow anything but the truth.
"I am expected to be faithful to my wife for the term of the contract." Her eyes widen, just a bit, and I find myself wanting to bend over, to sink my teeth into her full lower lip. "And so I would expect you to be my wife in all meanings of the word."
Her cheeks flush. Honestly, I'm not sure what to expect from this girl—wide eyed protestations of innocence or the calculation that I am accustomed to from women.
She gives me neither, instead twisting her lips into a sardonic smirk. "So you're asking me to have sex with you for money."
"I told you. I do not pay for sex." I glare, indignant. But...
Does she not have a point?
Still... "I am not asking you to be a common whore." I place my hand on her thigh, feel the muscles tense beneath my fingers. Watch heat flicker through her eyes.
"I'm not going to be any kind of a whore, common or not." She scowls, but without conviction.
I'm offering her a way out, and she knows it. And being who I am, I capitalize on that need.
"I will seduce you whether you accept the offer or not. Be smart. Take the money."
"Fuck you." Riley sits straight up, and her hand flies, heading for my cheek. I allow her palm to connect, the sharp crack echoing throughout the room.
"I believe I just suggested that." Smiling darkly, I twine my fingers around her wrist—her hands are so small compared to mine—and drag her towards me.
"Stop it!" She barely manages to speak before I crush her lips to my own. I mean the kiss to be intimidating, to show her just who is in control, and so I'm deliberately rough.
But... the way she struggles, even as she moans... the surrender of a strong woman. It overwhelms me. Makes me... feel.
Planting my hands on her shoulders, I push her back. Trying to hide the way that I am panting, I all but jump off of the bed—away from her warmth, her skin, her scent—and sneer.
"I require an answer by morning." My heart is thudding against my ribcage, and the sight of her there on the bed, sheets rumbled, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from my own...
I want to possess her, make her mine, on the most primal of levels. But what I want from this girl is simple—sex and a business arrangement—and I have to keep it that way.
So I close my eyes against the sweetness that is begging me to take a taste and head for the door. Her voice stops me before I can pass through the arched exit.
"What you... what you want from me. I may not be very good at it." Her words aren't trembling and virginal... they are matter of fact. Still, I tense.
Surely she is just talking about being my wife, being in the public eye... not about the sex. Because there is no way that a woman of her age is untouched.
"Matteo?" Her voice is silken, caressing my skin like I just know those sheets are caressing her thighs.
No. She cannot be innocent. Because if she was...
I don't know that I could stop myself from claiming her entirely. And the very thought has my cock hardening, pressing against the thin fabric of my trousers.
I could have her right now. She may not be like the other women I know, but there is no mistaking the attraction between us.
But something in me hesitates. And I don't care for it.
"By morning," I snarl without turning around. And then I am gone.