Chapter 2
Chapter Two
O F ALL THE THINGS Willow could have said to convince him to agree to this hare-brained scheme, a soft, gentle plea for help was the one most likely to succeed.
Especially after how she’d been there for him when she hadn’t needed to be.
When his father had died, Francesco had gone to ground. He’d hidden away from the world.
Not because he’d been particularly close to his old man, but because he hadn’t been at all close to him. He’d grieved not just the loss of his father, but the loss of what could have, should have, been. Their mother had died many years earlier, and their father had withdrawn from them from that moment onwards.
It was a situation that had long-reaching consequences for each of the Santoro brothers. For Francesco, he’d been left reeling from the loss of his mother; utterly devastated. And the one person he’d wanted to turn to, to make it hurt less, had shut him out, pushing him away, for the rest of his life.
When his father died, Francesco was riddled with doubts—could he have done something more? Should he have tried harder? For a man who was famed for his self-confidence and surety, it had been an unexpectedly uncertain time.
He thought he’d hidden his grief, and regrets, but Willow had apparently seen something in him at the funeral, because from that moment onwards, and for the next six months, she’d been like a shadow. Texting to check in, calling and leaving little messages, coming over to his place when she couldn’t get through. Picking him up off the ground both figuratively and literally; when his grief had been too thick to wade through, and then, one time, when he’d had too much scotch to stand. Staying with him to make sure he didn’t drink himself into delirium.
Wisely turning him down when—drunker than a skunk—he’d hit on her.
Not holding it against him the next morning. In fact, not ever bringing it up again, because he wasn’t sure he could have kept meeting her eyes if she’d forced him to remember how he’d drawn her against him and kissed her, all stupid drunk and whisky breath.
How he’d lifted her silky shirt from her tailored skirt and dragged his fingers over her naked sides, marveling at the softness of her skin. Treating her like she was any one of the women he usually brought home for a night in his bed and then promptly forgot the name of.
Treating her like she could ever just be sex to him, when she’d shown herself to be the kind of friend that didn’t come along often.
The kind of friend he’d do anything for.
Even this.
His eyes swept over the grand Cotswolds’ estate, set against a dark grey sky that looked like it might weep rain at any moment, and a frown scored deeper across his face.
He’d had to agree to this, but he was not relishing a whole weekend of pretending to be Willow’s boyfriend.
For one thing, Francesco hated lying.
For another, he hated lying to people he knew, and his family and the Von Bates went way back. For generations.
So, lying to them felt like an extra level of wrong.
But underlying all of that was the memory of the time he’d kissed Willow and felt her body stir against his—or at least, he’d drunkenly hoped it did. And he sure as hell knew the way his body had reacted.
Cristo , he’d wanted her.
Not just because he was drunk and grieving, but because she was there, and she smelt so good, and her skin was like rose petals and her breasts were crushed to his chest.
It had been years ago, and there was a lot of water under the bridge for both of them. He’d more than moved on, and he was no longer in that awful headspace.
But their friendship meant too much to him to risk ruining it by letting his cock take over. As it was wont to do.
But not with Willow.
Not this weekend.
If he couldn’t get through forty eight hours in close proximity to this woman, then he might as well check himself into some kind of sex addict facility, because that showed a shocking lack of willpower.
And Francesco was not, generally, known for a lack of self-control.
But three days ago, when she’d shown up at his penthouse and for the first time in their entire relationship he’d seen her look anything other than completely polished, all his hot, red blood had pooled in his nether regions, remind him forcefully that he shouldn’t get complacent. Until that day, he hadn’t known that bare feet with perfectly painted toe nails could be an erotic sight. The way she’d padded across his carpet floor, so graceful and elegant, the skin on her feet lustrous and creamy, the arches high and dainty. Dainty arches?
What the actual hell?
“Good afternoon, sir.” A servant dressed in a formal suit, dark blue woollen coat and grey top hat appeared almost out of nowhere. “You must be Mr Santoro,” he added, and Francesco wondered how the man could possibly have known that. A photograph of the guest list had probably been circulated, he realized. Or perhaps Meredith Von Bates had told the staff to keep a special eye out for him. He was, after all, now somewhat of a guest of honour, according to the over the top text message he’d received from Willow’s stepmother hours after Willow’s surprise visit.
“If you’ll leave your keys with me, sir, we’ll take care of your car and bags.”
He reached back into the car and grabbed his phone, sliding it into his pocket before handing over his keys and returning his attention to the house. Right as Willow strode through the front door and all the blood that had started to pump through his body once more shunted back to his dick.
He stifled a groan.
Did she have to look so…perfect?
She wore a woollen dress, cream in colour and fitted to her slender frame like a second skin, showing her neat breasts, nipped-in waist and surprisingly rounded bottom, as she click-clacked down the front steps and across the path on white leather boots.
“Good, you’re here,” she said, no hint of pretend girlfriend in her stern demeanour. “My stepmother has been asking for you every five minutes,” she added.
“Am I late?”
“No,” Willow said with a hint of wither in her tone. “But apparently my arrival—without you—was neither expected, nor desired.”
He cocked a brow. “This is your father’s birthday weekend.”
“Yes. And you’re the best present I could have given him,” she muttered. “Oh, God. They’re coming out. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to kiss you.”
He froze.
His whole body went into a state of suspended animation, as he processed her statement only a second before she turned to look at him, her features taut, her pale blue eyes laced with the same apology she’d just uttered a moment earlier. “Francesco,” she said, lifting a hand and pressing it to his chest. “Please, at least smile. I promise, it will be over quickly.”
“I’m not afraid to kiss you, Willow,” he responded, the words curt and dismissive, but not by design. He simply wanted to prove to himself—to both of them—that he wasn’t bothered by this. And to take that to the next level, it was Francesco who wrapped his arms around Willow’s waist and dragged her to his body, taking a second to process how warm she felt and sweet she smelled, before he lowered his head, eyes locked to hers so he saw the moment hers feathered shut, just a microsecond before his lips pressed down and claimed her mouth.
She was stiff in his arms for about three seconds, and then it was just as he remembered it being that night; she relaxed against him, so pliant and soft, her curves perfectly matched to his frame, her body completely in his thrall. Her head tilted back, and her lips parted fully, so his tongue slid into her warm, moist mouth, tangling with hers, taunting, teasing, tempting, taking as if he had any goddamned right.
But their kiss was just for show, and Francesco had made himself a promise: this would not get out of hand. He refused to let it. So, he broke away, ignoring the strangling sensation in the pit of his gut, as he dropped his lips to her ear and whispered, “Fake kissing you is kind of fun, you know,” and pulling away with a wink, to show that he was just that casual about the whole thing.
She looked at him as if from a long way away, her gaze unfocussed, her skin flushed, her lips a little swollen from his kiss. He lifted a thumb and dragged it over her lower lip, and her pupils dilated with something that should have warned him—something that terrified him.
Desire.
The same desire that was pounding him from the inside out was clearly terrorizing her system, too. He closed his eyes for a second, praying for strength, and then, Meredith and Baxter were there, all happy congratulations to the new couple, and warm welcomes for the man who apparently somehow made their daughter more acceptable to them.
Idiots.
* * *
Willow had only realized that very same day that they would have to act like an actual couple for this scheme to work. The fact she hadn’t thought that part out at all she put down to the stressful situation that was lunch with Meredith. She’d been thrown completely off her game. Totally knocked for six by the barely veiled insinuation that Willow was a big old disappointment to both her stepmother and father. That his birthday would be all but ruined if she were to turn up, single again.
At first, she’d thought about throwing Tom in her stepmother’s face, but something had held her back from offering the simple truth to Meredith.
Instead, she’d opted for Francesco.
Which was fine. Somewhat perfect, even, if her goal in life was to appease Meredith and Baxter. (Which, on many levels, it apparently was—one couldn’t easily fight a lifetime’s conditioning).
But there were complications to this ruse. Such as kissing Francesco.
Out of nowhere, time seemed to have developed an amorphous quality and Willow was back in his old apartment, on that rainy night when he’d pulled her against his body and kissed her as though his life depended on it, and she’d been oh so dreadfully tempted to succumb. To help him strip her out of her clothes, to kiss him all over, to kiss away his grief and sadness, to kiss him until they were making love.
Because she’d wanted that.
She’d wanted him.
Deep down, beneath their friendship, was that same little school girl crush she’d felt all those years ago, when she’d first met Francesco and thought him to be the most beautiful man that had ever walked this earth. Not his brothers. Not his cousins.
Just Francesco.
It was a crush she’d conquered through sheer grit.
But at his father’s funeral, she’d seen something in him that was so familiar to her it had been like an instant bond was formed.
Francesco Santoro, so strong and hard-headed, was, in fact, lost. Lost like Willow had been lost, so many times in her life. Lost, as if there was no place on this earth that perfectly suited. Lost, like you had no idea where you should be, and who might want you.
She’d only intended to help him through the difficult patch, but somehow, with each text and call and visit to his apartment, she’d felt that stitch of attraction re-forming, deep down inside of her.
Except, Francesco was a date-o-matic, forever hooking up with a different new woman, and Willow knew that if they gave into the surface level attraction, it would spell the end of their friendship. She hadn’t been willing to let that happen.
That was all ancient history, anyway. She had Tom—at least, she would have him again, at some point. When they could work through their issues, and she could screw up the courage to tell her father and stepmother about him.
“Francesco,” Baxter’s voice was just as polished as his custom-made shoes, from the tip of which to the very last hair on his head were all perfectly groomed and arranged to remind everyone that he was a charming, diffident aristocrat. Meredith was at his side, wearing a navy blue skirt suit with a large diamond necklace at her slender throat. Her hair, a lustrous brown, was cut into a neat bob, and her nails were painted a pearlescent white.
“Darling, we were so thrilled when Willow told us your news.”
Following behind them were Willow’s younger half-sisters, Kathryn and Aria.
“Delighted, delighted,” Baxter added, shaking Francesco’s hand with enough enthusiasm to create the cover for Willow to be able to slip a few steps away from Francesco and regain her breath—and sanity.
“Well, there’s no need to stand here in this cold,” Meredith said, then threw a perplexed glance at Willow. “Really, Willow, why haven’t you brought Francesco inside already?”
“They looked perfectly happy out here alone,” Aria said with a wink at her half-sister, earning a slight flutter of impatience from Meredith.
“Yes, well, the hors’ doeuvre will be entirely spoilt if we don’t hurry,” Meredith replied, one last little look of displeasure for Willow before she offered a broad smile in Francesco’s direction. “Come, darling, come along inside.”
But he waited back with Willow, and when the group was far enough away to be out of earshot, he leaned down and whispered against Willow’s ear, so she felt his warm breath flush her skin, “Yes, we can’t have the hors’ doeuvre getting ruined.”
She glanced up at him and laughed, beginning to relax. Because this was Francesco, one of her oldest friends. Everything was going to be completely fine.
* * *
Francesco was used to big family events. When you were a Santoro, participation in the regular pizza dinners that his uncle Gianni hosted was not optional. It was more than a birthright; it was a dyed in the wool expectation. But Santoro dinners were very different to this.
Chalk and cheese.
Or Pizza and Pate.
Santoro occasions were full of food, wine, lively music and conversation, relaxed by the pool unless the weather absolutely drove them indoors, as it tended to around Christmas and New Years. They chatted about their lives, their work, their concerns; they shared their worries, their triumphs. They were a family. But Francesco was starting to realise that not all families operated in the same way.
If he had to choose a single word to describe the Von Bates gathering, it would be…frigid.
Even the chairs were cold and awkward, he thought, as he rearranged himself on the seat that was too small for a man his size, and too upright for anyone. It was also very, very old, so with each movement Francesco made to try to find a more comfortable position, the chair gave a little creak of complaint, a taunt, a threat that if he didn’t stay still, the chair was going to give out on him altogether.
Willow sat to his left, looking as though the chair was, in fact, the most comfortable chair that had ever chaired. Her shoulders were a perfect level, her head held high, and when she wasn’t eating, her hands were clasped neatly in her lap.
She was like a statue.
Her stepmother was exactly the same.
The twins showed a little more animation, though whenever it burst through—like sunshine from behind the clouds—Meredith was there with a quick reprimand. Never mind that they were nineteen years old and of an age when they should have been messing around and playing the clown.
He compressed his lips and tried to conceal any hint of disapproval from his features, as Baxter continued to talk about global shipping trends, and an investment he’d recently made that was turning out to be far more profitable than he’d anticipated.
Usually, it was just the kind of topic Francesco would have found himself enjoying, even contributing to, but the suffocating atmosphere of the formal dining room was almost too much to bear.
He also, as a rule, had no issue with hunting, when done humanely and quickly. But the sheer number of mounted buck heads that were staring down on them with those long, profoundly awe inspiring antlers and glassy eyes, was unnerving, to say the least.
“You know, they all have names,” Willow whispered, as she gently dabbed imaginary soup from the sides of her pastel pink mouth, and glanced up at him quickly. Conversation had moved from shipping to the party guests, and Meredith was now actively involved and no longer paying attention to Willow.
He looked down at his fake girlfriend, not understanding.
“That’s Garth,” she nodded towards the buck above the fireplace. “He’s very old. My grandfather got him, on the edge of the property.”
He followed her gaze, frowning a little.
“That there is Nixon. My dad’s first kill. That’s Regis. And Remi. That’s Fawcett. And that poor unfortunate chap is Nevil.”
“Nevil?”
“Mmm.”
“You sound as though you don’t like Nevil.”
“I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“He has the misfortune of sharing a name with a boy who made me cry once.”
Francesco leaned closer. “What did he do?”
“Pulled my hair,” she said. His eyes widened, and she laughed.
“It was the first day of nursery school; I never forgave him.”
Francesco relaxed. He hadn’t liked the protective instincts her comment had raised in him, the way the image of anyone hurting her had made him tense up.
“So, you named a deer after him.”
“Oh, yes. Very happily.”
He laughed again. Which was a mistake, because it drew the attention of Meredith, her eyes, a stony grey, fixing on him with unashamed curiosity.
“You know, I’m surprised Willow failed to mention your relationship,” Meredith said, as she reached for her champagne glass and took a generous sip.
“We agreed we’d keep it quiet, to start with,” Francesco heard himself say, surprised at the ease with which the lie emerged. “We’re old family friends, after all.”
Beneath the table, Willow’s hand reached out and squeezed his thigh. In gratitude, or a plea for him to stop? She withdrew it again, just as quickly, but that did nothing to dispel the arrows of warmth that were darting through his body.
“All the more reason to tell us,” Baxter said. “It’s wonderful news. Willsy isn’t really one for dating, you know. We were starting to wonder if she might not be interested in it at all,” he shrugged, and the same protective instincts were flaring to life inside Francesco once more.
“Willow,” Meredith chided with irritation unmistakable in her polished tones, her disdain for the diminutive version of that name clear. “Just hadn’t met the right man.”
Something slicked inside of Francesco. A tension, which overtook protective instincts for Willow. She’d made this sound so easy, but suddenly, he was looking down the barrel of how this faux-relationship would end, and he didn’t particularly like to contemplate that. For one thing, he suspected Willow’s family wouldn’t accept that he’d somehow done the breaking up, no matter how blithely she’d suggested his dating history would come to their rescue. For another, he had a feeling they’d see it as further evidence of her failure in this department. But worse was the unmistakable realization that they were starting to think of him as ‘the right man’, when he most definitely wasn’t.
He wasn’t what Willow needed.
Beyond his certainty that they’d be great in bed together, there was no way he was a good fit for Willow. Or anyone. It had been almost two decades since Francesco came to understand that he wasn’t willing to risk getting into a real relationship. Not having seen the way it turned out, if something went wrong.
“Well, she’d met him,” Baxter pointed out, thumbing in Francesco’s direction. “How old were you, Willsy, that year we went to Italy and stayed with the Santoros?”
He glanced across at Willow. Apart from a hint of pink in her cheeks, she looked completely unbothered by the memory. “Around ten, I think.”
Yes, she’d been ten, and him fifteen. He’d thought she was a sweet kid, if totally different to any girl he’d ever met, with her pale English skin and very posh attitudes, even then. She hadn’t wanted to do any of the things he and his brothers had always loved as kids, from climbing trees to rolling down the hills, to swimming in the lake on the southern edge of the estate. Instead, she’d sat under a tree, with her legs curled elegantly to the side, and read her way through a whole series of fantasy novels.
“And you couldn’t get your head out of your books,” he murmured, and hey, what the hell? They were playing the part of a couple, so it didn’t hurt to reach over and flick her arm teasingly. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She glanced up at him sharply. Too sharply. As though she was surprised by the gentle contact.
His eyes held a warning— remember our roles —and she softened her features into a smile. “I’d just discovered Harry Potter,” she said, eyes nostalgic. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they’re quite unputdownable.”
“So you said, at the time.”
It was just about the only time she’d shown animation, her features moving from glacial—like Meredith’s, he realized now—to alight with excitement and enthusiasm, as though she were glowing from the inside out.
Another memory came to him, and his smile widened. “I seem to remember you spending a fair amount of time waving a stick in the air, too.”
Her cheeks progressed to dark red. “Maybe.”
“Casting a spell?” he couldn’t resist teasing.
“If you must know, yes.”
He laughed, and across the table, the twins did, too.
“I can’t imagine you playing magic games,” Aria said with a shake of her head. “Or any games, for that matter.”
“I—,” she glanced across the table at Meredith, then mutinously at Francesco. “I didn’t know anyone was watching.”
He reached down, unable to resist, tilting her chin towards him. “I wasn’t watching; I happened to walk past and saw you. You really were waving it around enthusiastically, though. Clearly you thought you were on the brink of a magic spell breakthrough.”
“Yes, well,” she muttered, before apparently remembering their supposed relationship and once again smiling. “You had better behave yourself, or I shall turn you into a frog. I still have my wand, you know.”
“But then I would just have to ask my princess for a kiss,” he pointed out, and Kathryn made a swooning noise.
“You guys are ridiculously cute.”
“Kathryn,” Meredith intoned sharply. “They are not children or puppies; they are not cute.”
“Fine. Sweet.” She turned to Meredith. “Or would you prefer sexy?”
Meredith’s jaw dropped, but to their surprise, Baxter laughed. “Alright, alright, that’s enough. Francesco, come and have a whisky with me. I can’t tell you how nice it is to finally have another man in the house.”
Before Francesco stood, he leaned forward to whisper in Willow’s cheek, “Your sister thinks we’re sexy.”
Willow turned a little, to whisper back, “Then we’re doing an excellent job of fooling them all. Good night, Francesco.”