I CAN'T DO IT.
I just can't do it.
This morning after I woke up, I stood by the huge glass window in my room for the longest time, looking out over the city of Palermo.
I don't want to leave. I learned so much in my year here, and I fell in love with the city in the process. Everything about this place—the language, the buildings, the people... it nurtures that artistic spark inside of me like Colorado never did.
But responsible people don't just pack up and move to Italy on a whim, not permanently. It had been hard enough to convince myself that a year abroad to study art of all things was okay.
Impulsive decisions—those were my mother's forte, right up there with spending money that doesn't exist.
I will never be like my mother. And that's why, no matter how tempting it is, I can't accept Matteo's offer.
As I pull on the yoga pants and shirt that I was wearing at the airport, now newly laundered by some mysterious staff member that I never saw, I wonder why this decision makes me so sad. It seems that fate has decided I'll be in Palermo for a while longer, after all¸ since I can't afford a plane ticket home. And that should make me happy, right?
But I'm not. Instead, I feel dread over knowing exactly how little money is in my bank account. And I also feel strangely letdown, that this little adventure with Matteo Benenati is coming to such a meek ending.
For one brief moment, as I push through the heavy doorway that takes me out of the bedroom and into a hallway I don't remember, being unconscious when I was brought here and all, I consider doing the impossible. Consider throwing caution to the wind and accepting Matteo's wild offer.
I knew plenty of girls at school who would do it in a heartbeat, if not for the money and the lure of being with someone I am coming to understand is a very powerful man, then for the sheer thrill of it. What a wild story they'd have to tell someday—that time a billionaire paid them to be his bride.
But I just can't. It's not entirely because of my mama, or because I think it's wrong, or even because Matteo will expect things that I've never done in exchange for money that he can quite clearly afford to blow on something like this.
It just doesn't feel like the right decision for me. I can't have sex with a man who doesn't want me... me, Riley Tremaine, with all of my nuances and quirks. And I'm okay with that.
Which is why I can't understand why I feel so strange, so disappointed, as I make my way down the massive, ornately decorated hallway in search of the front door.
After two wrongs turns I at last find the stairs, which thankfully lead right into the front entryway.
As my feet descend the last step, I pause, sucking in a big mouthful of air. This is it, then. I'm leaving this opportunity behind. Leaving five hundred thousand dollars and a fling with an Italian stallion for a night in a hostel and, please God, a job of some sort. Surely I can scrounge up a job as a waitress. Or hell, even Italy has McDonald's.
And I can always set up on a street corner and try to sell one of the many paintings that I've done this year, though it hurts my heart a bit to lose a piece of my year of freedom. But I know that that's my best shot at quick cash.
"Shit." That's when I realize that the last I saw of my luggage was on a conveyor belt at the airport. Matteo strikes me as the kind who would know that and would order someone to retrieve it, but still, I can't leave until I have my suitcase and my portfolio in hand. Which means that I can't sneak out like I'd planned. Damn it.
"Going somewhere?" The voice is smooth and dark, one that I think might be seared into my brain for all time. Still, I jump—he's standing in an open archway that leads to what looks like a sitting room, looking dark and dangerous and altogether delicious.
I wonder how long he's been standing there, watching me. Hopefully not for long, because then he'll know how easily I could be persuaded... I've always been atrocious at keeping my thoughts from playing across my face like a movie.
Just seeing him sets my pulse fluttering, and I wonder briefly if I've made the wrong choice. As he has so succinctly pointed out, there are thousands of women who would kill to be in my shoes right now.
He knows it. I know it.
And yet...
"I'm leaving." I blurt this out like a seventh grader at her first school dance. But then, I've never claimed to be smooth... I haven't had enough experience with the opposite sex to have perfected my flirtations.
I looked down at my feet as I spoke, nervous about upsetting him, the man who has shown me unnecessary kindness, even if he is a jackass. Now I look up, force myself to look right into his eyes. Something dark passes through them, something that I can't put a label on. And then it's gone, and his eyes are narrowed with contemplation.
"I see." He nods thoughtfully, pushing off from where he is leaning against the wall. The movement makes the muscles of his arms, visible beneath the short sleeves of his black T-shirt, ripple in a way that ahs saliva pooling in my mouth.
Slowly he stalks toward me, and find my mouth drying up with both nerves and excitement. What is it about him? He's a jerk. He's not sorry for it, either.
But there's that hint of something more... that part of him that was revealed when he took care of me after the incident at the airport.
He didn't have to. He could have just left me there. But he didn't, and that's what has led me to believe that there's more to Matteo Benenati than meets the eyes... more, even, than I think he himself knows.
He moves until he's just inside my personal space, just like he did last night. I'm sure that it's intentional—I somehow don't think that there's much in his life that isn't meticulously planned. Except, of course, for this demand that he marry.
This softens my heart. It's an incredibly difficult situation for me... for it's even harder for him. I can walk away.... He can't.
He stands there, just looking at me, that half smirk that is already so familiar playing over the corners of his lips. He hasn't asked me why, but I find myself blurting the words out regardless.
"I'm so sorry. I know you need a wife to secure your company. But there are so many women who would say yes. I'm sure there are. Better choices than me. I just... I just can't."
He leans toward me, just a breath, and as the masculine scent of his soap, his skin, and what is surely some very expensive cologne hits my senses, I start to think that I absolutely can.
"I see." He's close enough to kiss me—it's an assault on all of my senses. But he does nothing of the sort, instead regarding me with that mildly curious expression on his face. "Is it the money? Is it not enough?"
"What?" I blurt, horrified. Does he think I'm some kind of gold digging whore? "Of course not. That's an insane amount of money! I just... I can't."
I won't. I won't be like my mother.
Though if my mother felt even half of these emotions toward any of her johns, I might be able to forgive her, at least some.
"All right, then." Matteo stands straight, putting an extra sliver of space in between us. I sigh with relief as he gives me room to breathe.
It's a fake out. The second the tension in my muscles eases, he slides one hand into the long tangle of my hair, the other around my waist, and pulls my body flush against his. I gasp as that big hand pulls my hair, just a bit, just enough to get my attention, seconds before his lips come crashing down on my own.
While his kiss the night before had been a taunt, this one is a possession. He's marking me when his lips slide over my own, when his tongue teases over the line that divides my lips. When he sinks his teeth into my lower lip.
Against my better judgment, I moan and melt against him. He's long and hard, radiating heat. I can feel his arousal, pressing against the softness of my belly.
Teasing me. Making me wants things that I've only dreamt about to this point.
I gasp when he abruptly pulls away. My lips feel swollen, and I know that I must look a little wild as I stare, not entirely sure of anything but the fact that I want more.
"Why?" He demands, the hand still fisted in my hair tugging until I have no choice but to look him right in the eyes. "You want me as much as I want you. So why not take the money that you need, and explore this?"
I'm mortified to feel a tremble working its way over my skin.
Why is a good question. We may know next to nothing about each other, but still, something in me recognizes something in him.
And yet...
"What is it, exactly, that you want to explore?" I have seen that there's more to this man that the veneer he shows to the world, but he's still a man, and thanks to my mother's... profession... I have a healthy distrust of the creatures.
Matteo smiles, that seductive little half curve of his lips, then reaches over to brush his lips over mine once more. His fingers remain tangled in my hair, and I'm shocked to discover that I like the bite of pain.
His touch has ruined me for every other man, before I've even gotten started. Damn him.
"If you have to ask, then I'm clearly not doing it right." Again, that smile, but this time it makes me feel a bit sick.
If I do this, even if it's something that I think I want...
Won't that make me just like her?
I can't. I won't.
"I'm sorry." Jerking out of his grasp, I shake my head and step away. A chill seeps into my bones as I move away from his heat. "If you'll show me where my bags are, I'll just go."
Matteo presses his lips together, clearly not pleased. But he nods calmly, places a hand at the small of my back, and guides me forward, toward the door. But underneath that calm...
I don't know him well enough to say for certain, but I don't think he's taking this news quite as passively as he seems to be. I wonder at that, because Matteo Benenati does not strike me as the kind of man to take no for an answer.
I tense, wondering if he's going to kiss me again in an attempt to change my mind. I can't lie... part of me... okay most of me... is hoping for it.
He doesn't.
"I will have your bags brought down. My driver will take you wherever you need to go." I want to protest, but truthfully, I don't have the cash for a cab.
"Thanks." Our stares catch and hold, and a tangible wave of heat pulses between us. When he clenches his jaw I have to fight the urge to reach out and smooth my fingers over the hard planes of his cheek.
"Be well, Riley Tremaine." Reaching around me, Matteo opens the heavy wooden door, and the bright sunlight of morning in Italy floods in.
I should be proud of myself, should march straight out into that sunshine with my head held high.
Instead it's everything I can do to not shout that I've changed my mind, that for once in my life I want to be wild and free from the shadows that haunt me.
But that's not who I am. Even if it's hard to remember that with Matteo's pricey cologne teasing my nostrils and his heat warming my skin. If it hurts to walk away, well, this is all my own damn fault.
Coming to Italy in the first place, going to art school—those are not things that a sensible young woman does. I should have known better.
Unbidden, depression washes over me, a grey sheet of rain. I push forward, desperate to be outside, for fresh air, but all of a sudden Matteo's arm is in front of me, holding me back.
"May I help you?" His voice has lost all of the warmth that it held just moments ago, and I crane my neck to look at him, startled. What is he talking about?
But then I see that his attention is trained not on me, but on two large men that have appeared on the front steps of this mansion.
"Miss Riley Tremaine?" The two men are dressed in what are unmistakably uniforms of la policia—the police, even if they differ slightly from the ones I'm used to seeing back in the States. The navy uniforms, the gun belts, the narrow eyed look... I've seen it before, more often than I'd care to admit, always trained on my mother.
But this time their attention is focused on me, and though I know I haven't done anything to warrant their attention, I can feel my pulse stutter.
"That's me." My voice sounds like it is coming from beneath a sheet of ice, and I would believe it, because my toes and fingers have suddenly gone numb. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Miss Tremaine, may we come inside? We need to have a talk with you."
I try to conjure up a smile—again, I know I have nothing to worry about—but when I feel those disapproving eyes roam over me, standing in the doorway of this monstrous home, dressed in my cheap Walmart yoga pants and T-shirt, I feel like I'm being instantly dragged back to the trailer that I've called home, the small, stinking hovel where my mother sells her body to anyone who'll have it, just to earn her next hit.
I'm not her. But in that moment, I feel like I could be.
"That's fine." I smile as calmly as I can—what's going on?—and step back to let them in. But Matteo's arm, still in front of me—protecting me?—tenses, flexes. His free hand comes to rest protectively on the small of my back, anchoring me, and I'm instantly focused on the small square of heat.
"Whatever you have to say, can be said right here." Matteo's voice is calm, yet deadly, and I look up at him with surprise.
Why is he protecting me? He should be furious with me.
"Mr. Benenati, we're sorry to have to bring this business into your home." The one police officer, the younger one, nods at Matteo with something akin to respect on his face. The other one, who is older with a shock of wiry grey hair, barely manages to withhold a sneer of disgust. He pushes slightly in front of his partner, attention trained on me.
I feel like a rabbit, cornered in a yard. Feel like I did when I was a teenager and one of my mom's johns would get a little too close for comfort.
"Then spit it out."
I can barely reconcile the man that I've spent time with over the last two days with the one who stands behind me now. I've heard him be cruel, but the razor edge in his voice now takes it to an entirely new level.
"Very well, Signor Benenati." The older cop smirks, and I wonder if he's someone who once knew Matteo's father, or if he just doesn't like people younger than him in positions of power. But then his hawk-like gaze is trained on me, and unease trails ghostly fingers down my spine.
"Signorina Tremaine, would you care to elaborate on where you received the million dollars that appeared in your account last night?"
MATTEO
My front is pressed to Riley's back, and I can feel that curvy little body of hers stiffen. Since most of the women in my life have been interested in two things—my money and my body, in that order—I could be cynical and suspicious and immediately suspect that she has somehow swindled me out of part of my empire.
But I just don't think so. One, while she's clearly a very smart woman, I'm not sure that this art student from Colorado is hiding ninja like hacking skills beneath her fresh faced exterior. And she clearly doesn't have the money to hire someone else to do it.
Plus... a woman capable of stealing from me would be greedy. And greedy women don't turn down six figure offers, no matter what form those offers come in.
No, little Miss Riley Tremaine had nothing to do with this. But I don't doubt that the money is in the account, or la policia wouldn't be here.
That leaves Emilia. Emilia, who has gotten it into her twisted little brain that she is meant to be my bride.
Emilia, who considers Riley little more than a bug to be squished beneath her Prada pumps.
And while this animosity between my stepsister and I is nothing new, the announcement yesterday put us on a whole new playing field. Benenati Enterprises is worth billions of dollars, and it's at stake.
Emilia is a stubborn, sneaky bitch, but I never expected this from her. And my vision hazes with violet rage.
"All money in Miss Tremaine's account was a gift from me." I say smoothly, thinking fast.
I'm absolutely certain that this is a trick of Emilia's. And if so, the money will trace back to Benenati Enterprises.
Riley squeaks in protest.
"And why, exactly, would you give this woman so much money?" The older cop lets his gaze wander up and down Riley, his lip curled in a sneer that he doesn't bother to conceal, and I feel my rage building.
Without thinking, I pull Riley into my arms. Her skin is cold and clammy against my own, and the officer's last words have her shaking like a leaf in the wind. A bit of an overreaction, I think, but then I don't imagine a woman like her has been around many cops before.
I'm surprised when, rather than sinking passively back into my arms, she struggles against them, her cheeks flushing crimson.
"I'm not a whore, if that's what you're implying." Unable to break my grip, her fingers curl into my forearms, the bite of her nails just a bit painful. And though it's so not an appropriate time, I can feel my cock stirring to life.
Dio, but this woman is different. And I'm drawn to it like a child to candy.
"No," I add calmly, tightening my grip on her slim waist. Calm down, I tell her with the embrace. "You most certainly are not a whore. You are my fiancée."
Riley makes that little noise again, and it makes me wonder what sounds she would make if she was underneath me in my bed. At the very least, I want to kiss her, and even though this isn't the time or place, I'm not afraid of these men.
As much power as they think they have, I have more. And so, to please myself even though I'm enraged at Emilia, I brush a slow, damp kiss over Riley's temple, savor the jolt that works through her body.
"Your fiancée?" The younger cop repeats, and I'm not above feeling grimly pleased when he looks Riley over with an appraising eye.
The older one looks her over too, his eyes lingering on her breasts, which are clearly outlined in the cheap T-shirt that's stretched over her torso. He sneers.
"I don't see a ring." His eyes meet my own, and he smirks. I simply stare back, letting the darkness inside of me pulse out in waves until he finally turns away.
"I just proposed last night. Didn't I, cara mia?" This time when I kiss her, I turn her chin in my direction, allow myself a brief sample of those lips. It's all I can do not to just press her against the doorframe and tear those ugly pants from her body. Fully aware of the two men whose gazes are fixed on us, I allow my lips to play leisurely over Riley's, sampling her sweetness until her lips part and her body softens against mine.
When I finally turn back to the cops, my actions slow and deliberate, I can see that I've won. The younger one just looks dazzled to be here, and the older...
The older clearly has some issues, and I wouldn't be surprised to discover that he'd had dealings with Carmine in the past. But I'm sure he'll be handled easily enough.
"I trust these unfound accusations will be kept out of the press?" I don't try to hide the implied threat. Young cop nods eagerly. Old cop bares his teeth.
"I don't care if you are a Benenati. We have a job to do. You can't just order us around—"
"Can't I?" Letting go of Riley with one hand, I reach into my pocket, pull out a money clip. I pointedly count off bills, then hand half to each, twisting my lips into a cold smile when their eyes bug out of their heads.
On a cop's salary, what I just pulled from my pocket is surely an outrageous amount of money. I know that it will buy their silence and their cooperation.
To me? It is less than nothing. They are less than nothing.
"Go." I meet the stare of the older cop, and though he doesn't look at all happy about it, he tips his head in acquiescence. "I wish to spend time with my future bride."
The door slams behind us as I pull Riley back inside, the sound echoing throughout the massive entryway, loud enough to make the Swarovski crystals in the chandelier tremble.
"Son of a bitch." I shout, one hand raking through my hair. The other slides to Riley's hip, squeezes once.
The touch... anchors me. It is a strange sensation.
"What was that?" When I look at her, I find Riley is no longer trembling. Her face is instead flushed with rage.
It's sexy as hell. It takes everything I have not to grab her, to slam her back against the wall and let us both work out our rage in the only way that I know of to express emotion.
But I have things to do. Things that cannot wait.
"That," I reply slowly, forcing myself to step away, "was my stepsister setting you up." It pains me, but I remove my hand from Riley's waist. To touch her is to want her, and I can't afford the distraction right now.
"She doesn't want you to get married." Riley doesn't need me to explain things to her, a welcome change from the woman I usually see, whose brains have been addled by booze and drugs. "But why bother? You could just marry someone else."
Someone like Emilia, to my stepsister's way of thinking. Get rid of Riley, and then make another play.
"She overplayed her hand." I pin my stare on Riley, note the way her pupils dilate as that inexplicable connection between us pulls tight.
"What do you mean?" Riley licks her lips, and I watch, fascinated. This woman is such a refreshing change from everything that is tired and familiar, I know Emilia has unexpectedly done me a favor.
Stepping closer to Riley, I gather her hair in my fist the way I did when I kissed her. It's a mark of possession, and while she initially stiffens, her body melts against me as she submits.
"Emilia expected me to throw you to the wolves." I smile humorlessly, and Riley's lips part, just a bit.
"But instead she gave me exactly what I wanted. Now, my dear, you have to marry me."