A Weekend of Misbehaving (9 page)

“Easy,
tesoro
…we can’t make love here.”

She lifted her hands to her cheeks, desperate to know if they were as hot as they seemed. “Just for the record, I am on the pill and just saw my downstairs doctor a month ago. I’m safe and clean as a whistle.”

He grinned. “I’m safe, too. The sheer thought of burying myself into you without restraint drives me crazy. For now, though, we must go back to the party,” he said, and ran a finger through the cut of her dress. “Later, I might have to fetch some scissors to get you out of this.”

“Just be careful. I’m not wearing any panties,” she said, then turned in the direction of the party. “Shall we?”

Chapter Seven

W
hy the hell did he admit to wanting her badly? Why on earth would he give her so much power by voicing his raging desire? Lorenzo curled and uncurled his fists and couldn’t help stealing a glance at Alice’s ass once again. No underwear. That revelation had been a blow below the belt. Well, so was his painful hard-on.
No pun intended.

He was grateful he had been able to pull his coat together from both sides, and he visualized cock-blocking images all the way from the gardens to the party indoors.

First things first. They couldn’t just disappear from view. He had performed poorly at the soccer match, and he couldn’t afford to not impress Viola. Especially since Joan had been smart enough to pretend she was interested in a friendship with Alice. What if she discovered Alice was, in fact, his nanny? His whole plan would be compromised—and he would become a laughingstock.

Barbara was bragging about being super close to sealing the deal with Viola when he and Alice joined the other guests at the table. He would have chosen to sit far away from Paul, but as the host had shown him in the beginning, they were assigned the same table.

“She should announce her decision tomorrow,” Barbara said, tossing her hair to the side. “Well. Make it official, I mean. It’s a slam dunk.”

“Good for you,” Joan said, then moved on to ask Alice something about her costume.

Lorenzo looked at the bubbly champagne and was about to take it to his lips, when Paul said, “Lorenzo, what part of Italy are you from?”

With a sigh that didn’t disguise his annoyance for one bit, Lorenzo gave the man sitting across from him a glance before downing the champagne, a tad quicker than what was considered polite. “Southern.”

“Interesting. Where exactly?”

Lorenzo cut into his medium steak. “Why?”

Paul flashed a grin. “Curiosity. I Googled you and couldn’t find the answer. I figured if you were from a dinky little town, the residents would probably be proud of who you became.”

“Cut the crap, Smythe,” he said, so low he imagined only the slimy little weasel heard him. He brought a bite of tender meat to his lips and chewed on it to keep from saying anything else.
Testa di cazzo!
If Paul discovered anything—

“So direct, Lorenzo. I must say I find it most intriguing you’re so eager to buy those paintings. The artist is a no-name. But you said you are not interested in selling.” Paul leaned back in his chair, and a glint of amusement hit his eyes.

Be cool.
If he let his hot blood get the best of him, Paul’s suspicions would only increase. “You shouldn’t believe everything I say, Smythe.”

“Shouldn’t I? Because if you are indeed keeping it to yourself, one must conclude you are personally invested in that art. Why, I wonder?” Paul scratched his chin and peered at the ceiling, as if he was trying to figure it out.

Without waving at the waiter, Lorenzo grabbed the bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilling inside the silver ice bucket and poured himself some more. “When I see something I like, I buy it. That is the upside of being a man…of my caliber.”

Paul narrowed his eyes. “Maybe. Maybe there’s more to it.”

Lorenzo chuckled. “You have a fruitful imagination. Since we’re on the subject, why are you so interested?”

Paul narrowed his eyes. “I know profitable art. And those paintings certainly fit the bill.”

“Honey, may I have a piece of your meat?” Alice nudged his elbow. “Looks fantastic. I went with the fish. Meh.”

Always.
No. No. No. Just during this weekend.
Mio dio,
he would have to come up with a tight schedule to avoid her in Austin. Bumping into her in the hallway or talking about Cara’s day while her daughter was sleeping would be far too dangerous. Too tempting. Too…inappropriate. “Yes,” he said, and lifted a bite to her mouth. He used the interruption to ignore Paul and his inquiry, though once she parted her lips, a loud rumble went through his body and everything disappeared but her.

She locked her rose-colored lips gently around the fork, and he saw her throat work to swallow the meat. She closed her eyes, enjoying it. A smile spread across his face. Watching her eat was almost…erotic.

When she opened her eyes, he drew back, as if he had no intention of taking her right there, at the table, in front of everyone. Maybe he wasn’t successful, and he had no power over the intensity of his own expressions anymore, because she blushed.

Christ.

“Lorenzo. Alice,” Viola called to them before she made her way to their table.

He stood. “Yes?”

“Come with me. I want to show you something,” she said with a crook of her index finger.

He didn’t need to walk from the party and into the red-carpeted, textured-wall hallways to know it was happening. She would show him the paintings, up close. That had to be a good sign. How long had it been since he had been reacquainted with anything related to his father? Besides memories of the bon vivant ruffling his hair. And occasionally, falling drunk on the floor.

Tugging at his collar, Lorenzo sucked in his breath. Alice must have noticed the tension stretching out his clothes, for she reached for his hand and held it in hers. He froze for a moment. He didn’t need her pity or compassion. In fact, that would be bad for him—Kristin would have had a field day with any glimpse of insecurity. If it had been her by his side and not Alice, she would have flashed him a triumphant smile, enjoying his apprehension.

Alice gave him a squeeze, and when his eyes found her gorgeous brown irises, she pointed at the open door. “Let’s go.”

Lorenzo disengaged his hand from hers, smoothed it over his jacket, and glanced at the ambience he had barely noticed they had walked into. Viola’s heels tapped on the polished black-and-white checkered floor, and he didn’t find the uncluttered room with minimalist furniture he’d expected. Instead, dozens of objects toppled over one another—what he guessed were family heirlooms, thousands of dollars’ worth of vases and accent pieces. A few pictures hung from the wall. Unlike the art displayed throughout the house, these didn’t have recessed lighting over them or any other details to make them stand out. The white wall was merely utilitarian, and his heart tightened as he ate up the space between him and his father’s paintings.

“Pardon my dust. These are some of the things I’m still considering whether to keep, give to my daughter, or get rid of,” Viola said behind him.

“I see,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, and focused on the painting in front of him. Bold colors of red, yellow, and orange flowed harmoniously together, with a hint of pink outlining it on a powerful circle. His pulse raced.

“Interesting. I wonder, what this could be?” Alice stepped forward.

“It’s the inside of a sunset,” he said, before he could rein in the words escaping from his mouth.

The memory of his father, too handsome for his own good, calling him into the cramped living room crowded with colors and brushes flashed in his mind. “Come see this,
caro
. I painted you the inside of a sunset. Maybe I’m not around as much as the other fathers. But I give you this.”

“Really? I thought it was one of those abstract ones it’s impossible to figure out,” Alice said, then stepped closer to the painting. “I believe you are right. It could be the inside of the sunset. I love it… It’s mesmerizing.”

An emotion that had been happily stashed away threatened to burst right there. He tugged at his collar again, but there was no dissolving the throbbing lump in his throat. His father had finished painting it on one of the few occasions he’d had Lorenzo over in his little shack at a noisy
cortizo.
He had been sober and without any female companions in sight. A day Lorenzo would never forget.

His fingers itched to trace the painting, even though he knew he couldn’t. There was as much of his relationship to his father in that painting as there was blood in his veins.

He made an effort to rear back and observe the other paintings with a critical eye rather than personal investment. After all, if Viola knew just how much he wanted it, he would be at a disadvantage. Or perhaps if she knew why—being what his father had been, a sleazy drunk who slept with the whole town—Lorenzo doubted she would have been a fan. Especially since Lorenzo’s father had been acquainted with her former husband.

“Wow. These are amazing,” Alice said, pulling him from his thoughts. He peered at her, and she stared at the paintings with her jaw dropped. Did she connect to his father’s work like he had?

“I’m willing to increase my offer, Viola. Thirty percent,” he said, even though money was no object. To him or to her, which made things harder. If she needed the money, he wouldn’t be having this conversation. If she needed the money, he wouldn’t have brought Alice with him for a relationship charade. A pang of sadness hit him, inexplicably, as if he’d betrayed a part of himself by admitting to it.

“I will keep that in mind, Lorenzo. You never did tell me why you’d rather keep it than sell it. I’m no art connoisseur, but I can assume these will have an audience.”

“Call me foolish, but some things defy explanation. It’s the case of these paintings,” he said, gesturing to them. “They speak to me in such way, I just want to keep them to myself.”

A smile ruffled Viola’s face. “A man who’s into exclusivity. Have to admire that.” He couldn’t tell if the trace of sarcasm in her voice was aimed at her former husband or himself. Unlike most of his business partners, Viola was a tough one to read.

“Me, too,” Alice chimed in. “Those are impossible to find nowadays.”

A
lice opened the door to their suite and entered, fully aware that Lorenzo walked behind her, matching her every step. A non-alcoholic buzz washed over her, and she removed her shoes and tossed them in the closet. Slipping out of the dress, though, would require a freaking chainsaw. Her body clung to the fabric, and she was sure if she sucked in her breath super hard her nipples would make an appearance.

Not that Lorenzo would mind. After his confessing he wanted her, a thread of hope lit her from within. What if they weren’t just pretending everything? What if that part of their doomed relationship was real? What if—

“You’ve been quiet since we said good night to Viola.”

“What’s the story behind those paintings?” She removed her wig and rejoiced at the newfound freedom. The stylist had insisted on using pins to keep her hair hidden, and she threaded her fingers into her locks, releasing them. “I saw the way you looked at those pieces.”

“I already explained.”

She turned to him. “To Viola. Not to me.”

“Since when do I owe you explanations?”

“Since you are interested in screwing me all the ways to Sunday. Isn’t it fair to tell me?”

He removed his coat and proceeded to put it over the chair.

Nope. I won’t be distracted. I have watched
Magic Mike
ten times.
Her mouth watered.
Good Lord, I don’t think I gave his biceps enough attention last time. The man was like a top-notch amusement park; there was too much to see and too much to ride on. And not nearly enough time.

“Yes, it would be fair. But I can’t. I admit there is a reason why I want them badly. It’s just very personal, and I’m not interested in talking about it.”

Of course not. If this were the Wild West, she would be a perky saloon girl catering to his every whim.
Get real, Alice. This is just about sex. A shameless weekend of misbehaving to get him out of your system for good
.
Anything else is off-limits.

He unbuttoned his shirt, and heat pooled between her legs. She would agree to pretty much anything. He could ask her to recite the Japanese national anthem backward, for all she cared.

“You know how you didn’t tell me about the loan shark before because you wanted to protect your family? Well, I’m in a similar situation.” He took off his shirt and threw it at the chair with a lot less finesse than he had removed the other items.

“I ended up telling you about the shark.” She watched his eyes to gauge his reaction.

“You slipped up and told me. And you still want to handle it yourself.”

“Okay. Good point.” What kind of hypocrite would she be if she forced him to tell her something he wasn’t comfortable sharing? And apparently, information that could make his family vulnerable. She added figuring it out later to her virtual to-do list and focused on what she could solve at the moment.

Her gaze slid lower, and unless that was an eighteenth-century rifle in his pants, the man wasn’t just happy—he was freaking ecstatic to see her.

“Monsieur. Will you do me the honors?” she asked, doing her best French accent from high school, while pointing at the buttons on her back.

He motioned her to turn around. “I would like nothing more.”

A nervous chuckle went through her, as if this was their first time. They had slept together the previous night, sure. That had been in the spur of the moment—a delicious mistake they repeated in the morning.

Now, though, it was right. No mistake about it. Lorenzo’s hands hovered dangerously over her, and she could feel the warmth oozing from him before he even touched her. He opened a couple buttons and planted kisses on her exposed skin. She wanted his lips on hers, and even though she stretched and tilted her head to the side, granting him full access to her neck, he continued to wrestle the buttons.

What she wouldn’t do at the moment for a pair of scissors. God, what was she thinking? They couldn’t just shred her gown to pieces. How did the ladies get laid in the eighteenth-century, anyway? Oh. They had trained helpers, and not a Joe Manganiello lookalike with an erection with her name on it—and hopefully soon, her tongue on it.

“Damn it. Takes too long,” he said. This time she could hear the frustration in his voice. He fanned her earlobe with his breath, and a trail of goose bumps skated down her flesh, sending her nerve endings in glorious havoc. Then she sensed more pressure—and heard a rasping sound, as if the fabric was being pushed and pulled away from her. When she glanced over her shoulder, she realized he started to rip the dress apart.