3. Renata
The momentI realize I cannot do this is the moment I take my seat in the dining room of the Carlton Bar.
Soon I will see Matteo Mancini again. Nerves flood me, making the scent of food nauseating. It’s a sign that this is a crazy idea. I’m not in control here. I’m already screwed up inside, and I haven”t even seen the man I’m here to seduce.
If I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s that the moment one loses control emotionally is the moment one needs to get out of the game.
My palms are sweaty, and I pick up the thick, embossed napkin and surreptitiously wipe them. Then I take hold of the glass of champagne and pour it down my throat. Not bothering to wait for the sommelier, I reach over for the ice bucket, grab the sweating bottle, and top my glass up.
I force myself to sip at the drink. I need to maintain some semblance of control, and thankfully the full glass of fizzy bubbles that I’ve just downed soothes my nerves a little.
“You’ve got this. You’re Renata Andretti. No one screws you over and gets away with it,” I say the words in my head, making sure I don’t move my lips. The last thing I want is for people to be staring at me because I’m talking to myself.
My phone beeps, and I glance at it to see a message from Carol, Cindy’s godmother. She’s become a good friend. We both like the finer things in life, and she’s always up for a party and a good time. The woman used to hang around with the movie stars and gigolos who spent their summers on the Italian and French rivieras. She told me so many amazing and lurid stories on our last holiday together.
It”s nice having a close female friend. I don’t think Cindy minds. The girl is so caught up with Nico, I doubt she would care if I married Carol. For me, the friendship is kind of a big deal. I don’t make friends easily. I have Jilly, and that’s about it. Women always seem intimidated by me. Jilly says it is because I’m too pretty, but that’s bullshit. It’s because I’m too confident, at least on the outside. Too hard, as well. Again, on the outside.
Maybe, they can sense my all-consuming drive for revenge.
Perhaps it makes me toxic. Too bitter to their girly sweet. Whatever the reason, women don’t gravitate toward me.
The door opens, and my heart speeds up, but it’s just an elderly couple being shown to their table.
I think about the plan Mamma has put into place as I draw shapes on the tablecloth with my fingernail. She wants me to bring down the Mancinis, but I want to bring both families down; unless my beloved kin start to show me the respect I deserve.
I want in on the board, and I want power and a say, and if they don’t give me that, then Matteo won’t be the only one destroyed by the events being put into play here. In fact, I may choose him over them. Why not? He fucked me over, and so did they.
If I betray my family, it will be their own fault for coming up with this madcap scheme. Put a loose cannon like me into play, and who knows where the dice may fall.
My parents might have opened Pandora’s box to their own destruction by setting all this in motion. Who knows what double backstabbing games I could play. Hell, I might decide to feed my family false information, or tell Matteo their plan. I genuinely don’t know how I’m going to play this.
I guess I’ll find out as I go along.
The door opens again, and I glance up to see an attractive couple enter. He’s all blond and tan, and she has dark hair and pale skin. They look striking together. I’m so busy watching them, I don’t immediately notice the man behind them, until they peel off the left to head to their table, and he walks right toward me.
I’d recognize him anywhere with those dark eyes, but Mamma is right, everything else about Matteo Mancini is different, and if she thought I’d take any comfort from that, she was wrong.
He’s different in all the worse ways, so far as my ability to resist him and maintain a cool head goes. He’s no longer a pretty boy; instead, he’s a dangerously and ruggedly handsome man who fills out his suit so well he makes my mouth water.
His hair is shorter than it used to be, but it’s not cropped. It looks almost corporate, except for the slight wave in it and the curl at the base of his neck tickling his starched collar.
He’s wearing an expensive suit, and his hair glints under the downlights. His skin is tan, and there’s ink peeking out at his open shirt, crawling up his throat. He isn’t wearing a tie, and his top button is undone. It gives him a deceptively causal look, but I really observe him, and there’s nothing casual about this man. The way he moves through the space around him screams purpose.
He doesn’t look my way, too focused on his table. It means I have the luxury of watching him for a while. As he reaches his seat, he runs his hand through that thick hair and then smiles at someone.
A gorgeous young woman walks up to him, and my heart stutters. Did Mamma get her intel wrong? Is he meeting someone tonight? The woman hands him a menu, and I relax. He says something to her, and she replies. Whatever she says makes him laugh. I watch his profile awestruck, and I know with a bone deep certainty that I’m already in too deep. Matteo Mancini might have the face of a cage fighter and the body of a pro athlete, but his laugh? His smile? They are beautiful. Utterly beguiling.
I did my homework and read as much as I could about him. The man is a triple threat. Tall, strong, wealthy, and if reports are to be believed, intelligent as hell. Yet, here, in front of me, he has another weapon, one that is hard to define and quantify, but perhaps the most dangerous of all.
Matteo Mancini has something now that he didn’t possess as a pretty, teenage boy. He has charisma. So much that the air around him crackles with it. People turn to look at him even though he’s not gesticulating or raising his voice or doing anything to gain their attention. They are drawn to glance his way like moths to a flame.
He sits with his back to me, and I immediately realize that Mamma’s plan isn’t going to work easily. How can he take pity on me sitting all alone back here if he can’t see me?
Fuck. I’m going to need to walk by him. The thought of putting myself under his scrutiny makes me all hot and bothered. He probably won’t recognize me from behind as I walk by him to the restroom. I’ll have to put some serious swing into my hips and get him interested in the back before he sees the front. Is he an ass man? Most men are. I’ve never met one who didn’t like a handful of ass.
The second glass of champagne goes down far too quickly. I drink it and watch Matteo. He sips at his drink, and his starter arrives. Mussels. I dislike seafood and shudder at the thought of the dish. He eats as he reads something on his phone. Why did he come here? Why not order in at home and eat there if he’s not meeting anyone and he’s just going to check emails?
Then the starter is cleared away, and I realize my time of procrastinating is up. I need him to see me now. I stand, smooth down my dress, a sexy cocktail number that at first glance looks business like, but on second glance will make Matteo’s mouth water more than his starter. Or, at least, I hope so. The dress has cap sleeves and is mid-length. I look both demure and sensual, because while it shows very little flesh and comes in a deep, muted wine-red, it’s also fitted enough to cling to every curve.
My bra is underwired and uplifting, and I’m wearing stockings, just in case I get the chance to flash a bit of leg. The dress has a side slit, and if I cross my legs in a just-so way, you see the top of the stockings on one leg.
Rising from my seat, I breathe out and walk toward the bathroom, my eyes locked on the sign for the restrooms as if it holds the secret to the universe. I won’t let myself even glance his way as I pass Matteo. My plan is to get him intrigued enough to be interested in who I am just from my ass. It’s an audacious plan, but I have a very audacious ass.
Swishing past his table, I put an extra sway in my hips and thank God I have been able to walk in high heels from a young age. They are the one blatant piece of my outfit. Three-inch heels, with the red sole that is so eye-catching. Praise God for Louboutin.
When I reach the restrooms, I realize that I’m all clammy and a bit dithery. “Come on, Ren, you’re better than this. No man will ever get the better of you again. You’re immune, remember. Use them and leave them.”
Pep talk over with, I apply my lipstick. The deep red is muted and matches my dress. It’s not a bold, sexy siren-red, but it’s not a bland neutral either. My lashes extensions are applied every few weeks. My brows are micro-bladed and shaped. I don’t need to bother doing anything else with them as they’re naturally thick and dark. I dab a little extra shimmery peach blush on my cheekbones and smooth it in. Then I run my wrists under the cold water and collect myself.
The walk back is going to be easier … I think. With every step to the ladies’ room I felt vulnerable somehow. Self-conscious. It will be easier to walk by him when I can see his face.
Leaving the ladies’ room, I head down the corridor, wobbling a little when my heels dig into the plush carpeting. I glance around the room, looking anywhere but at Matteo, but as I get nearer, I allow my glance to cut his way, as if by coincidence. I already have my second take and shy smile planned out in advance.
I will act as if I recognize him, but I’m not sure where from. It’s not a stretch. He’s changed so much that if I had simply bumped into him by accident, I might well have been unsure at first as to whether the huge, intimidating man in front of me really was Matteo from my youth.
My gaze skitters over him, and my heart bumps. He’s taken his jacket off while I’ve been in the ladies’ room, and I’ve never seen a shirt fit a man so well. It’s almost indecent the way it hugs his shoulders and arms. Oh, God, he has the sleeves rolled up, and his forearms are so big and strong, tanned too. His left forearm is covered in ink.
My tight sexy dress suddenly feels ordinary compared to the tease that is Matteo Mancini in a tight-fitting shirt.
He’s staring intently at his phone. Damn. As I near, I wait for him to glance up, the way you do when you sense the presence of someone nearby, but he doesn’t. Why would he? After all, he is an apex predator, and apex predators do not have to worry about the lesser creatures scuttling around them.
My heart beats far too fast. At this rate, I have two options. Either I walk on by and miss my chance. Or I pause at his table and speak to him. The second option comes with the risk of much shame if he gives me the cold shoulder.
Time slows as I grow nearer and nearer and must make a decision. My palms are clammy again, and I resist the urge to wipe them down the sides of my dress. What if I say hello, and he merely glances at me, gives me a smile, says hello back, and then returns to his phone. I swear I will die of mortification.
My breathing increases as anxiety gnaws at my stomach. This isn”t going the way I thought it would. This great plan that I had of avenging his betrayal of me looks set to fail at the first hurdle. I don”t have the courage to do this.
Panic intensifies as I’m only a few steps away, and I consider bottling this and walking on by. My mother will have plenty to say about it, but let her. I can”t do this. I can”t put myself on the line again only to be rejected. How could I think I could get one up on this man? He’s been my one weakness in life ever since I let myself fall for his glib lies as a teenager. It sounds melodramatic, but he really did ruin my life back then.
I was already messed up due to my parents’ lack of love for me. My relationship with my brother wasn”t good, as we were always fighting and battling for supremacy in the family hierarchy.
The only genuine affection I had in my life at that time was my nonna on our father’s side. Sadly, she moved back to Italy to be near her other children. I can”t say I blame her, because our family didn”t exactly treat her with warmth and enthusiasm. Maybe to a lot of people looking at my life from the outside, the way Matteo affected me might have seemed outsized. However, to a lonely, insecure, and basically deeply unhappy teenager, his attention felt like the sun warming my face after a long winter.
Then, he wrecked it all by betraying me and making a fool of me in the worst way. It”s the shame that burns so deep. The realization that I had been taken for a fool, and everyone knew except for me. I can still taste the way it crawled up my throat like acidic bile. So yeah, maybe I”ve built this up to be far more than it was over the years, or maybe, just maybe, Matteo Mancini really did ruin my life.
Step.I”m almost close enough to touch him now, and he still hasn”t looked up.
Step.My fingers itch to trail along the edge of the linen on his table. In two more steps I will be past his line of sight.
Step.Dark lashes slowly raise, and deep brown eyes lock on mine.
The world holds its breath, and the clocks stop ticking as time freezes for a long beat.
I falter and halt. For a moment that could be an entire eternity of lifetimes, we simply look at one another.
I want to slap his face. I want to fall at his feet and rest my head in his lap while he soothes me. I want to straddle him and rake my fingers through his hair as he kisses me hard and deep.
I want to run.
I can’t do this.
His face freezes as if in concentration or puzzlement. Doesn’t he recognize me?
I try not to let that crush me. Instead, I mimic his expression, my brain coming back online with the original plan.
I glance around the rest of the room and then back to him. Cocking my head to one side, I let my gaze roam over his face, and my lips part. The fingers of my right hand reach out, and for some reason I gently brush over the linen tablecloth near his hand, the way I’ve been itching to.
Our fingers are so close, but they don’t touch.
“Matteo?” I ask.
“Well, well, well. Renata Andretti. How many years has it been?”
His voice is rich and deep. Much deeper than I remember from before.
I could tell him exactly how many years it has been. And how many months, weeks, even days. The time, day, date, and year of his betrayal is indelibly marked on my mind. Instead, I simply shrug and offer him a smile.
“I”m not sure; time flies.” I”m such a liar.
Growing up in my family, you learn to be a very good liar. People who tell the truth and don”t play games don”t get very far in the Andretti clan.
He looks around the restaurant. “Who are you dining with?” he asks. “Your husband?”
My smile widens as if I”m sharing good news. “Oh, no. We divorced some time ago. How about you? I hear you married one of the DeLuca girls. Are you meeting her?”
Of course, I know full well that he married one of them and which one. I also know that she passed away, so my question is quite cruel in a way. However, from everything I”ve heard about him since she died, I don”t think there was a love match. From what people who saw him at the time reported back to Jilly, who told me, he barely seemed remotely concerned, never mind heartbroken.
“My wife passed away,” he says. His tone is clipped and business-like. His mouth narrows slightly into a straight line as his gaze flicks up and down my face, as if trying to read everything that I’m thinking. “Are you here with friends?” He changes the subject from his wife before I can offer my condolences.
I shake my head. “I”m alone, actually. My friend who was supposed to meet me had to cancel at the last minute, but I”ve heard that the food here is very good, so I decided to come anyway and keep the reservation. What about you? Are you meeting business colleagues or something?”
“No.” He shrugs. “I come here once a week, and just take the time out to have a bit of peace and quiet and eat a meal alone.”
“Can”t you eat alone at your home?” I ask him, genuinely curious.
“Yes, of course, I can. I like the ambiance here. The food is excellent too. It”s a bit of a treat, you know.” He shrugs again and gives me an easy, lazy grin.
I swear that if I didn”t know better, I would believe that Matteo Mancini has been practicing that grin because it”s way sexier than his smile used to be. And his smile used to be dynamite.
“If you are alone, why don”t you join me?” he asks.
“Oh, no,” I say with a slight dip of my head, playing hard to get. “I would hate to ruin your meal with unwanted company.”
“Renata, I haven”t seen you in years. It will be good to catch up. Come, join me.” The way that Matteo says this isn”t a question, but more of an order.
There”s a small, buried, little part of me that likes the way he issues that order. It makes me shiver down my spine. I”ve always liked a man who can take control. The problem I”ve had is that I possess a forceful personality, and finding a man who can take control of me has been an endless quest leaving me with nothing but disappointment.
“Of course,” I say with a smile. “I”ll just grab my things and come join you. Thank you for the invitation.”
I return to my table and grab my jacket, which I have placed over the back of my chair, and also refill and grab my champagne glass. Then, on second thought, I pick up the bucket and carry it with me to his table, placing it between us as I take a seat. He glances at the bucket and then back at me.
“A waiter could have carried that for you,” he points out.
“I”m perfectly capable of carrying an ice bucket.” I take a sip of my drink and watch him over the rim of the glass.
He really is devastatingly attractive. It”s unfair that in breaking his nose he somehow managed to become sexier than ever. It gives his face an irresistible, rugged edge and takes away the mathematical perfection of his youthful features. The dark growth of stubble along his jaw only serves to highlight how powerful it is, and his neck is broad and tanned. He screams masculinity, and I”m finding it hard not to respond.
Still, it doesn”t matter if I find him attractive. It won”t stop me from carrying out the plan I”m slowly putting into place. It just means that I”ll get to enjoy it all the more. There”s nothing to say that I cannot relish time between the sheets with this magnificent specimen and still ruin his life and his business before I walk away for good.
“What are you having for your main course?” I ask, dragging my mind out of thoughts of being in bed with Matteo.
“Veal,” he says. “And you?”
“I ordered the chicken in white wine and cream sauce,” I tell him. Then I raise one eyebrow and regard him. “I think that veal is cruel.”
“Why?” He takes a sip of his drink. A glass of deep red wine so dark it almost looks like thick blood in the glass. “It”s no crueller than eating any other animal. That”s life, Renata. Predators and prey. It’s the way of the world. It always has been, and it always will be.”
“I suppose you”re always the predator,” I say with a small laugh.
“Most of the time, yes.” He drums his fingers on the tablecloth and regards me with a cool expression in his dark gaze. “You don”t exactly look like prey yourself, Renata.”
I don”t answer that and instead sit back in my chair as I sip at my champagne and smile at him. I can”t seem to stop my gaze from roaming over the buffet of gorgeousness that is Matteo. I should try not to be so attracted in case it clouds my judgment, but that is like trying not to like chocolate, or not to crave coffee in the morning. It’s not going to happen.
The silence between us stretches and grows, and it”s almost uncomfortable now, but I won”t be the first to break it. He can be the one to break this time. Except, he doesn”t. His phone beeps, and he picks it up and goes back to scrolling through it. I stare at him in disbelief as he rudely messes around on his phone and ignores me.
After a few moments I snap, “I”m sorry; perhaps I should go back to my table,” I say. “I thought you wanted company. Silly mistake on my part.”
He raises those thick lashes slowly, as if he can barely be bothered to look at me. “I’m sorry. It was an important message. I didn’t put you down as such an insecure woman that you’d throw a tantrum if the attention of your dining companion wasn’t on you at all times.”
Wow, he”s an asshole.
“It’s rude to use your phone at the table,” I point out huffily. “I can’t abide sloppy manners.”
I push my chair back to leave, but he offers me what seems like a conciliatory smile. “Okay, I”m sorry. My bad; you’re correct. I was being rude. Let us start again. Why don”t you tell me how you”ve been?”
I want to say to him: how do you think I”ve been? How do you think I”ve been since you tore my heart out when we were only teenagers? How do you think I”ve been living with that disgusting, cold family of mine that you know I”ve hated all these years? How do you think I”ve been knowing that you married a DeLuca sister and turned your back on me after we were supposed to be in love.
How. Do. You. Think. I’ve. Been!
Of course, I don”t say any of those things. I simply smile at him and lie as I tell him that I”ve been marvellous, thank you.
“I saw you, in the papers,” he says.
That takes me by surprise.
“The papers?” What the hell. When was I in the press?
“You were in the South of France with some old socialite.”
He means Carol.
“She’s not that old,” I say.
“Maybe. I didn’t really look at her.” He shrugs as he sips at his wine.
“Oh?”
“No. I was far too busy staring at you in that bathing suit.”
His voice is husky, and his words have me flushing as I glance away, suddenly unsure of how to respond to the naked lust in his gaze.
This is easier than I thought it would be. I could have him in my bed within the hour, but what is the use of that? I need his heart and soul, not just his cock.
Powerful men want what they can’t have, my mamma’s words come back to me.
No, I won’t sleep with him tonight, no matter how much I might want to.
And I really do want to.