Chapter Six
TALI SETTLED INTO the shadowy interior of the chauffeur-driven limousine, aware of Lorenti’s forceful—and disapproving—presence as he folded his tall frame into the seat beside her.
Clearly, she’d screwed up with the dress.
Or rather, Madame Rosa had, because his reaction to it had been nothing short of disastrous.
His gaze had been more searing on the apartment balcony, when she’d turned to find him standing behind her—looking totally devastating in the black tux—than it had been forty-eight hours ago in Wiltshire. But with none of the humour.
The nerves in her stomach tangled. Had she ever felt more hideously out of place in her entire life? She certainly didn’t think so. And she wasn’t talking about the butt-skimming skirt or the semi-see-through top of her opera outfit.
The truth was, she’d been horrified too, when she’d first seen what Madame Rosa was proposing she wear for the evening.
The expensive designer couture was so unlike her usual style—which always leaned towards comfort and practicality.
Even on the rare occasions when she took a night off work to go to the local pub she usually just shucked on a clean pair of jeans and a nice shirt.
But an opening night at Milan’s legendary opera house was hardly quiz night at the Talbot Arms—so she had sucked up her discomfort and agreed to the stylist’s suggestion.
But once she’d seen her reflection in the mirror and Madame Rosa and the beautician Clara had complimented her profusely on her appearance, the knot in her belly had dissolved at least a little, despite her nerves.
Maybe she didn’t look like herself anymore, or the self she had always known, but the smoky, professionally applied eye make-up, the gleaming lip gloss, the gown’s chic style and expert detailing, the diamond drop earrings which dangled against her neck, the elaborate chignon the hairstylist had managed to tease her insane curls into…
and those elegant heels! All of it had the wow factor, even she could see that…
She’d felt exposed, sure, but also like she might have some chance of persuading Milan’s finest that Tali Whittaker had somehow caught the eye of a man as successful and compelling as the city’s foremost tech billionaire. So there was that.
But then Lorenti had arrived and instead of being wowed too by the efforts of the designer and the beautician and the hairdresser, he had looked startled and then…well, outraged. His gaze had raked over her, and those rich chocolate eyes had gone dark and stormy with discontent.
She’d been crushed, the anxiety tying her guts back into hard, greasy knots. Not least because his volatile reaction had also made the hot knot in her belly—which seemed to always be there whenever she was in his company—sink even further into her sex.
But as the chauffeur closed the door and the car drove off into the nighttime traffic, the bristling silence that reverberated around the luxury leather interior like a physical force had her crippling embarrassment and confusion giving way to dismay…and irritation.
Lorenti had hired her to do this job. He’d even hired the stylist and the beautician and the hairstylist, or at least he was paying for them.
In ten minutes—traffic allowing—they were going to have to pretend to be madly in love.
And yet he was sitting on the opposite side of the car staring broodily out of the window at the crowds of stylish Italians, refusing to even look at her.
Sulking, basically. If he wanted this arrangement to work, he was going to have to meet her halfway.
He moved effortlessly through the circles of Europe’s elite—the people he was expecting her to impress—people whose lifestyle she knew sod-all about.
If he wanted to persuade any of them she was his chosen bride, he was going to have to help.
Because no way in hell could she pull this off on her own.
She cleared her throat to dislodge the lump of anxiety and forced herself to take the bull by the horns.
‘I’m sorry if you hate the dress, Mr Lorenti. But you’re going to have to look at me—and pretend you don’t hate it, and me in it—when we get to the opera. Or no one on earth is going to believe you want to touch me, let alone marry me.’
He turned towards her. His eyes flared, the chocolate brown turning to a molten gold. But weirdly what she saw in his gaze wasn’t the contempt she’d expected…but something much more confusing—and frankly, dangerous.
‘I told you to call me Dario,’ he said, but the clipped command was softened by the husky tone.
His molten gaze coasted over her exposed skin like a physical caress and turned the weight between her thighs into a boulder.
A very hot boulder. ‘And the issue is not that I hate the dress, but that I like it far too much.’
Finally, his gaze landed on her face, the heat in it as searing as the sensation now pulsing between her thighs.
‘No one will believe I do not wish to touch you, when the problem I currently have is how I am going to stop myself from stripping you out of that damn dress during three solid hours of opera.’
‘Oh…’ she murmured, shocked not just by his directness, and the harsh appreciation in his expression, but how it made sensation flare across her skin like wildfire. ‘Well, I guess that’s a good thing then. That it won’t be hard for you to pretend to…’
‘I will not be pretending.’ His lips twisted in a rueful smile that was almost as exhilarating as the heady leap in her heart rate. ‘But it will definitely be hard,’ he said, the deliberate double entendre somehow diffusing the tension, while also ramping it up to fever pitch.
Her gaze dropped to his lap entirely of its own accord. And she spotted a bulge in his lap, barely disguised by the loose-fitting suit trousers.
Leaning across the seat, he tucked a knuckle under her chin and lifted her gaze away from the evidence of his reaction. ‘Be careful, Tallulah, or I may test my resolve right here in the limousine.’
She blinked, aware of the flush scouring her cheeks. The erotic promise in his eyes was so potent, she crossed her legs instinctively—which instantly made matters worse, when the pulsing between her thighs became catastrophic.
‘And that would be bad?’ she murmured, the cheeky challenge coming out before she could stop it.
His brows lifted, and she knew she’d surprised him again, which felt oddly empowering. But then his lips curved. The urbane, arrogant smile was matched by the feral light in his eyes—which carried an erotic threat so potent the pulsing in her panties got worse.
‘That would be up to you,’ he said as his thumb trailed down her neck. The tantalising caress eased over her throat as she gulped, traced her collarbone, then dipped to skim across her breast and tease the tight bud of her nipple.
She gasped, the brutal dart of sensation at the light touch making her swollen clitoris throb so hard she was astonished she didn’t pass out.
‘Tell me you wish to explore our chemistry, Tallulah, and we can forget about the opera.’
Oh, yes please.
The thought blasted into her brain, but right behind it was the surge of panic when he added, ‘But be aware, it would change the terms of our arrangement. As once I have had you, I very much doubt I will want to let you go for a while.’
The dark determination in his eyes, and the way his thumb continued to toy with her nipple, had the urge to say yes getting locked in her throat.
Even through the delicate fabric, his touch felt so sure, so certain, so confident. While her response—the urge to arch her back and offer him more—was so wild and instinctive it scared her.
Sleeping with Dario Lorenti would push her even further out of her comfort zone. What did she know about the sort of sexual liaison he was talking about? Even less than she knew about Europe’s cultural elite, frankly.
And that was before she factored in her incendiary response to his slightest touch.
The driving need, the desperate hunger felt far too needy—and completely out of her control.
Because she didn’t know him. Plus, she was still anxious about being able to fulfil the role he was actually paying her for.
Adding sex to the mix wouldn’t exactly simplify the situation…
And it was unlikely to cure her performance anxiety either, given he was clearly a lot more experienced than she was.
Despite the enormous bulge in his pants, he didn’t seem to be anywhere near as on edge.
This would still be just an ‘arrangement’ to him.
And while a part of her knew becoming his stunt wife with benefits would help make their charade more convincing—would she still feel like a stunt wife if she slept with him, given that she was so much less jaded and worldly than him?
She covered her breast with a shaky palm, and his touch dropped away.
‘I… I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ she managed.
Or at least not yet, her needy body qualified. Not until she was sure she could control her emotions, the way he seemed able to control his so effortlessly.
Staying out of Dario Lorenti’s bed—especially if he continued to look at her as he was now, as if he wanted to devour her in a few greedy bites—was going to be an even bigger challenge than persuading Italian high society he would pick her to be his wife.
Instead of looking annoyed, or even irritated, he simply nodded. ‘As you wish, Tallulah.’
That harsh, heady gaze remained on her burning cheeks though, as he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a velvet box.
‘But there is something that I want you to understand…’ he continued.
He flipped open the box, revealing a beautifully crafted silver ring with a diamond solitaire in the centre. The gemstone glinted in the lights from the passing streetlamps as the car inched through the traffic towards the opera house.
Lifting the ring out of the velvet, he discarded the box.
He took her trembling fingers in his and slid on the exquisite engagement ring. It fit perfectly, because of course it did.
‘Whatever you decide, Tallulah, you are mine now, until the conclusion of our arrangement,’ he said. ‘And I will not allow you to wear something so revealing again…’ Those dark eyes met hers, the erotic promise becoming a tantalising erotic threat. ‘For anyone but me.’
She shuddered, her throat drying to parchment at the authority in his voice, her nipples so hard now they could probably drill a hole to China.
She should tell him he was only paying for her co-operation in public, that he had no right to dictate what she wore in private—for him or anyone else.
But she couldn’t seem to unstick the words from her throat.
Because no man had ever looked at her like that before.
As if the only person he could see in that moment was her.
But when he lifted her fingers to his lips to brush a kiss across her knuckles, the heat in her sex rose to wrap around her heart, and she trembled violently.
As soon as he released her, she buried her fist in her lap, the delicate ring heavy on her finger, her skin burning where his lips had touched.
This wasn’t a real engagement any more than it would be a real marriage—whatever they decided to do in private. So why did his possessive statement feel so compelling, as well as completely outrageous?
Tali, get a clue.
As the car stopped on the historic opera house’s courtyard, the breath Tali had been holding expelled from her lungs.
She could see the photographers through the tinted glass, crowding around the red carpet laid out on the cobbled stones for the opening night.
The Teatro alla Scala’s elegant and imposing facade dated back to 1778.
All of Italy’s greatest composers had presented their work here, from Puccini to Verdi to Toscanini, she’d discovered while investigating what they would be seeing tonight on the internet.
But somehow, as she stepped out onto the red carpet, and watched Dario buttoning his tux jacket to disguise the erection she’d caused, the flashes from phone lights and camera lenses, the questions shouted in Italian from the local celebrity hacks eager to ask about their ‘engagement’ and the thought of seeing her first-ever opera, were nowhere near as overpowering as the feel of Dario’s large palm resting on her back.
Or the fierce need having a field day in her panties.
Or the sparkle of the diamond engagement ring on her finger which was supposed to be a prop for their fake marriage but now felt more like a mark of his ownership.