Chapter Five #2
What on earth was the matter with him? He had hired the girl on a whim, to fix a problem which had been weighing on him for seven years.
Nothing more. She had intrigued him—her passion for her job, that sheen of naivete which clung to her, and her obvious awareness of him—more than she should.
Perhaps because his encounters with women over the years had become so jaded, her unguarded reactions had been refreshing.
But while she was undeniably pretty, her eyes a striking blue which had reminded him of the sea in Amalfi, her figure had been hidden beneath shapeless clothes, and her appearance hardly remarkable.
Two older women appeared, carrying a garment bag and a box of cosmetics. They must be the team Aldo had hired to prepare Tallulah for her debut as his fiancée tonight.
‘Signor Lorenti,’ one of them said, sending him an enthusiastic smile.
‘Your fiancée is waiting for you on the terrazzo. She wished for some air before your arrival,’ she added, her gaze skating over him, the appreciative twinkle one Dario had become accustomed to from women, young and old, despite his ruined face.
‘Congratulations on your engagement,’ the other said. ‘You will make a very striking couple tonight.’
He gave them both a curt nod as they let themselves out of the apartment, oddly ambivalent at the news of Tallulah’s transformation.
He had told Aldo to hire the best stylists and beauticians in the business in both London and Milan to ensure his ‘bride to be’ would look the part tonight—so he should be glad to hear they had done their job.
The engagement announcement had been released two hours ago—with some concocted story about them becoming acquainted on his non-existent trips to his family estate in the UK over the past two years—so there would be no going back on this arrangement.
Even so, a confusing sensation joined the weight in his gut as he walked towards the apartment’s terrazzo—anticipation.
He dismissed the sensation, which reminded him unhelpfully of being a young, untried boy on Capri besotted with the beautiful models and actresses who had frequented his mother’s parties.
He stepped onto the terrace and spotted the young woman standing with her back to him, staring into the sunset.
The blue satin dress, which stopped far too high up her thigh, seemed to mould to her bottom, displaying it like an offering, while the jewelled heels she wore made her toned legs look about a mile long.
The idea of those legs wrapped around his waist turned the anticipation to harsh, desperate need. He breathed through the intense reaction.
She wore a matching jacket, her hair piled on top of her head and held with an array of jewelled pins. Diamond earrings sparkled in the dying sunlight. No doubt they matched the ring in a box in his jacket pocket which the stylist had sent over that morning, but which he hadn’t even looked at.
Just props, to make this engagement appear real.
He coughed, to alert Tallulah to his presence, his throat so dry it felt like sandpaper.
She spun round, clutching a small purse. The jacket had no buttons, revealing the gown’s bodice, a concoction of satin and transparent lace which cupped her breasts—drawing his attention to the petal-soft skin of her cleavage, far too much of which was on display.
Che cazzo?
Raw desire burst through his veins—like a river in full flood, swelling the heat in his groin and making him stiffen with a devastating combination of shock, awe and possessive fury.
Although the cocktail gown was undoubtedly stylish, it was nothing short of indecent. Tallulah Whittaker had been transformed from the artless girl he recalled—in muddy jeans and a shapeless shirt—into a sex goddess to rival La Loren herself in her heyday.
What the hell had the stylist been thinking, dressing a woman who belonged to him in an outfit that would display her charms to every other man within a ten-mile radius?
Except she is not yours, Lorenti. This is just for show.
The voice of reason whispered in his head but was drowned out by the thunder of blood in his ears, which was heading south so fast it was making him light-headed.
‘Mr Lorenti,’ she murmured, her voice unsteady, unsure. ‘Is everything okay?’
Her lips glistened in the twilight as she spoke, painted with some kind of gloss. The fierce desire to cover that wide mouth with his and thrust his tongue deep made his temper flare alongside the lust.
He marched across the terrace, only vaguely aware of the stiffness in his leg.
She blinked, the glittering make-up on her lids making her wide eyes look even bigger and more guileless. The deep blue of her irises matched the clinging fabric of her dress, which seemed even more indecent the closer he got.
He paused. The shocked awareness on her face reminded him of that artless girl in battered jeans and a shapeless shirt. Her wide-eyed reaction and the familiar grinding pain in his leg were enough to contain the fire in his gut from burning out of control…just.
‘You don’t like the dress?’ she asked, clutching the purse too tightly, then bit into her bottom lip, sending another devastating shaft of heat to his already heavy cock.
He forced himself to breathe, and stop glaring, although he could not be held responsible for the furrow on his brow which was fast becoming a crater.
‘It is more revealing than I expected,’ he said, on a growl of disapproval.
She tensed as if she’d been struck.
And his anger returned. Although he knew the cause of his displeasure wasn’t only disapproval of her attire, or not precisely.
That would have been so much easier to handle.
No, he was glowering at her because of the dawning realisation that he was going to struggle to keep this relationship professional for a week, let alone a year.
The urgent, animalistic desire barely concealed by his tux jacket had already made him lose sight of what this damn arrangement had been supposed to achieve.
‘It’s not appropriate for the opera?’ she asked, her concern obvious as she glanced at the dress and smoothed a trembling hand over the short skirt.
Fuck the opera! I don’t wish anyone to see that much of you, except me.
The reply roared in his head, but he managed to prevent it from flying out of his mouth, barely aware not only that it would sound deranged, but that it was also unprecedented. Since when did he give a damn how much skin his dates had on display?
Concern shadowed her wide blue eyes, while her lip trembled.
He ground his teeth to get a grip on his reaction.
This wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t picked the damn dress—that would have been the stylist he’d paid a small fortune for.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t…’ she mumbled, looking panicked. ‘Madame Rosa said this style is all the rage. Do you want me to change?’ she asked. ‘There’s about a thousand other dresses in my luggage. I’m sure I can find something less revealing.’
But as she went to rush past him, he clamped a hand on her wrist. Raw sensation ricochetted up his arm, reminding him of when he’d touched her before. And the spark of arousal flared. Terrific.
‘Wait,’ he grunted, his tone sharp with demand, as he struggled to control his febrile reaction. ‘There is not time.’
He could make time, of course. He owned a corporate box at the opera house, and if they arrived late, it would only make their story more convincing.
Everyone would assume he had been availing himself of his fiancée’s undeniably spectacular charms. But the violent need coursing through his system made it clear to him that he had to get out of this apartment.
Because controlling the yearning to discover exactly what was under that damn dress was already tormenting enough.
‘Are you sure? It’s no trouble, Mr Lorenti. It’s not really my style anyway…’
‘Yes, I am positive…’ he snapped, his temper fraying, along with his self-control. Then he noticed the pulse pumping against the delicate well of her collarbone.
What would it feel like, to kiss her there? How would she react, if he feasted on the thin skin, and marked her as his for every other man to see?
‘And stop calling me Mr Lorenti, Tallulah,’ he added.
She stiffened at the harsh tone. He released her wrist and tried to gentle his voice.
‘We are supposed to be engaged, the press release went out hours ago,’ he managed, trying to contain the burst of temper, and the vision which had popped into his head unbidden and was only making matters in his pants even more pressing, literally. ‘You must call me Dario.’
‘Right, sorry, Mr Loren… I—I mean Dario.’ She dipped her chin to her chest, the blush highlighting her cheeks, making him feel like a brute. ‘I’m making a mess of this already.’
The defeated tone and the unnecessary apology finally pierced the haze of lust. His rampaging heartbeat slowed—slightly—as well as the fierce flow of blood charging beneath his belt.
Damn it, Dario. Stop behaving like an arsehole. None of this is her doing.
She did not even appear to realise the effect she was having on him.
‘There is no need to apologise,’ he managed.
He tucked a knuckle under her chin and raised her gaze to his. The feel of her skin was so soft, he had to force himself to drop his hand, instead of stroking her neck, and tracing a line through her cleavage, to circle the hard bud of her nipple pressing against the satin.
‘You have done nothing wrong.’
She nodded, although he could see the wary, guarded expression and knew she did not believe him.
Dio, what was happening to him? He prided himself on always keeping his emotional responses on lockdown, of being sophisticated, cynical and self-reliant.
He never let anyone see the side of him which had once struggled to contain those emotions.
As a boy, he’d been far too needy, far too desperate for friendship and affection after his mother’s death.
It was why he had attracted people like Sante, who were only too happy to exploit him.
But it had always been remarkably easy not to care, not to need anyone after Sante’s betrayal…
Until this precise moment.
It is of no importance. This is lust, pure and simple. Something that will be easily contained—once it has been satisfied.
Because it was already obvious that his unprecedented reaction to this woman would have to be satisfied eventually.
He’d never experienced such a strong physical connection to a woman.
But he had no intention of satisfying it yet, not when he was so on edge—barely clinging onto the cast-iron control he had always relied on during his past relationships.
There was no doubt in his mind, he and Tallulah would sleep together—her lust-blown pupils, engorged nipples and catapulting pulse making it clear she was no more immune to this volatile chemistry than he was.
He had sensed it in Wiltshire but had tried to deny it. Partly because he had no desire to make this arrangement any more complicated than it had to be, but mostly because he had never been led around by his cock before.
He enjoyed sex. A lot. He always had. He was a workaholic and considered it a valuable—and time-efficient—way to relax.
As a result, he considered himself a generous and accomplished lover.
The women he dated had certainly never complained about the physical aspect of their relationships.
Of course, he’d been accused of being cold, and insensitive to their emotional needs, but as soon as that became an issue, he considered it his cue to end the relationship.
What some women had failed to believe, once he had dated them more than a few times, was that he genuinely had no desire for any kind of intimacy beyond the physical.
Unfortunately, though, dumping Tallulah once they had satisfied this hunger would not be so easy, because he had employed her to pretend to be madly in love with him…for a year.
Once they had burned out this firestorm of lust, he would end their private relationship, but ending their public one would be impossible—until he had persuaded the Westwick Trustees he had adhered to the terms of his father’s will.
And knowing how damn contrary those old fools were, he doubted that would happen to his timetable.
All of which meant he would have to manage this situation, so that when he and his fake wife did become intimate, Tallulah did not misconstrue their sexual connection for something more.
The possibility that their livewire chemistry might have contributed to his impulsive decision to employ her as his wife in the first place could not be discounted now. The lowering thought was sobering enough to give him some relief from the insistent heat building in his pants.
‘The car is waiting downstairs,’ he said, determined to get her out of the damn apartment before the respite evaporated.
But when he placed his hand on the small of her back, to direct her out of the apartment, her shiver of reaction echoed viciously in his groin.
As they travelled down in the apartment’s private elevator, with her looking subdued, and him straining to recapture his usual control, he grimaced at the thought of the night ahead…
when he was going to be forced to watch La traviata with her in a private box and persuade everyone that they were already lovers, all while figuring out how to make her his lover for real, without screwing up the whole purpose of this relationship.
The brutal irony did not escape him.
But far worse was the challenge of pretending to be a besotted lover—already a stretch for a man like him, who did not have a romantic or flirtatious bone in his body—while unrequited desire was pounding in his groin like a jackhammer, and the scent of wildflowers which clung to her was threatening to send his senses into another tailspin.
And that was without even factoring in the extremely tenuous hold he already had on his temper, as he imagined every single man in the Teatro alla Scala being treated to a virtually uninterrupted view of his new fiancée’s breasts.
As he watched the tiny skirt ride up even more of her thigh as she entered the waiting limo, he bit his tongue to contain the renewed wave of possessive fury—and raw hunger—and made himself a promise.
First thing tomorrow morning, Madame Rosa was getting fired.