Chapter One #2
When she’d finally dived into the crowd to find Matteo, it had been hard to navigate the gigantic mansion, not counting the grounds and the marquee.
For all that she’d hoped that her silk blouse was an upgrade from the worn sweater, she had still stood out.
Luckily, she’d wandered inside in search of Matteo and a quieter spot and happened upon this room.
Now that the moment was finally here, she felt a sudden reluctance to face Matteo. Would he appreciate her coming all the way here when he hadn’t replied to her texts? Was he still mad at her for being the one to finally end their faltering relationship?
She forced herself to take a few deep breaths.
The comforting scent of old books and cigars and leather instantly transported her to her grandfather’s cottage she used to visit as a child.
The peace and quiet of the room seeped into her skin as she walked around, centering her after the noise of the party outside.
The large mahogany desk with its worn edges, the soft leather chair with the imprint of a body, the well-thumbed pages of several books on classical music and ancient civilizations… The room was full of character. An utter contrast to the extravagant wealth outside.
It was a room that was lived in and loved well—someone’s sanctuary.
Just like her attic room at her parents’ house.
It definitely wasn’t Matteo’s. She rushed out of the cozy reading nook, imagining his surprise.
His naughty grin. The familiar comfort of his arms around her. The way he’d always made her laugh…
The man leaning against the doors wasn’t Matteo, but the one that belonged to this study.
He held a striking resemblance to Matteo, though.
Where Matteo had light brown eyes, dark blond hair and features that bordered on pretty with their lushness, this man was darker, leaner, almost severe.
A high forehead, deep-set eyes, sharp bridge of a nose and thin lips with a jawline that she could sharpen her mother’s knives on.
Together, his features created an impression of a darkly masculine sensuousness that made her keenly aware of her own skin. Of the wild beat of her heart. Of her pulse racing madly all over her body.
If Matteo was light and charm and laughter, this man was darkness and passion and something she didn’t understand. Unlike everyone else in the crowd, he didn’t wear a tuxedo. Also unlike everyone else, he didn’t need diamond cuff links or designer clothes to call attention to himself.
He stood with his back to the closed doors, ankles crossed, his head tilted to the side, his fathomless dark eyes taking her in greedily. As if he’d been waiting to look at her.
He was tall. So tall that at five nine, if she walked up to him, her mouth would fit at the hollow of his throat exactly.
The tight-fitting shirt hugged a leanly muscled torso and made his dull gray eyes pop.
Unbuttoned to his chest, it revealed the corded column of his throat, and Sam had the insane urge to lick that hollow…
The sheer naked greed of his expression twisted her breath through her body. As if it was outside of her own control. As if he held it.
He looked at her as if he wanted to inhale her. Even having little experience with sexual chemistry, Sam knew this. As clearly as she knew the hard tug low in her belly was her response to whatever he was putting out.
She wanted to say something to break the spell, and yet she didn’t want to step outside of whatever was locking them together in their own gravity. Her body felt new, full of needy claws.
Suddenly, the intensity of his stare died down. From one blink to the next. As if it were that easy for him to turn it off. Breath rushed into her lungs in a wave.
Sam blinked, feeling as if all of her insides had been splayed out for this stranger to probe. She’d had too many instances in her life where she’d felt small and powerless. But this vulnerability was different.
Embarrassment made heat crawl up her neck. “You’re not Matteo,” she said, a thread of complaint in her tone.
That thin-lipped mouth flinched in an imperceptible movement. He pushed off from the door, all that violent energy contained. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You belong to this room, though,” she added, wanting to mollify him.
“No one has ever said it like that.” His gaze took in the study, a tiny flutter of a smile at his mouth. “Point to you.”
With each step he took toward her, that awareness slammed into Sam again. It was not unlike the impact she felt when she trained with a punching bag. Except she didn’t know where to strike to stop it from coming at her, again and again. “You’re mocking me.”
He blinked. “I’m not sure I am.”
Her middle felt like there was a hook there, relentlessly tugging her toward him. “Why do I have a feeling you’re never unsure?”
His lips curved, slashing a dimple in one cheek. But it didn’t warm the cold storminess of his eyes. “You’re beautiful and clever.”
“I’m not beautiful,” she said, half to fight the effect of his words, half because they weren’t true.
She was too skinny, too tall, too angular to be considered beautiful. Not that she didn’t like her reflection when she saw it in the mirror. She’d survived too much at too young an age to not appreciate what she had and who she was.
Her eyes were big and wide, sure. There was a certain symmetry to her features that was pleasing, and her cousin said Sam had a body made for modeling.
But she’d never been interested in modeling, and since those were ridiculously arbitrary standards society imposed on women, it didn’t really make any difference to her.
Life had always forced a large dose of reality on her, and she preferred it in this too.
With this man, though, her protest stemmed from a place of self-preservation. “I don’t like false compliments.”
He stopped a couple of feet from her. Again, she had the sense that every step he took was calculated. Raising a brow, he swept that gaze over her with such thorough possessiveness that a lick of heat trailed behind wherever it touched. When it returned to her face, challenge simmered in his eyes.
Her fingers itched to trace the slash of his brows, the sharp planes of his cheekbones. And not all of it was from the perspective of a portrait artist who was drawn to faces with character.
Frustrated at her own sharp reaction, she said, “I’m looking for Matteo.”
“Did you ask the staff for him?”
“No, but he knows I’m here.”
“How?”
“Are you being thick on purpose?” she asked with a familiarity she couldn’t shed.
“I do not believe so,” he said, his tone calm in the face of her crankiness. But there was something about his steadiness that felt hollow. As if it were simply an act. “I simply want to know how Matteo knows you’re here if you didn’t ask for him.”
Put like that, his question was fair. “You’re right. He might not know that I’m here this exact moment. But he knows that I’m here. In Italy, I mean.”
“How?”
“I used the open plane ticket he gave me. The travel agent would have told him I was on my way. It’s how there was a chauffeured car waiting for me at the airport.”
“This plane ticket—”
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“You walked—no, strutted—into my house as if you were invited, Ms…?”
“Fischer,” Sam said, refusing to give him her full name. Because she desperately wanted to hear it on his lips. Really, she was acting strange. “Of course I was invited. I’m not some petty thief,” she said, before adding, “Now, please do me the courtesy of telling me who you are.”
“Who invited you?”
“You’re rude.”
“I simply want to understand why you are here, Ms. Fischer.”
She rubbed a finger over her temple. “Matteo invited me.”
“Tonight?”
“Not specifically. He invited me months ago. It was an open invitation. I decided to surprise him. Now, tell me who you are.”
“I’m Alessandro Ricci.”
She recognized his name immediately. “You’re the CEO of Ricci International Finances. You made that big deal recently with the software company my dad works for in California.”
“Sì.”
It was all starting to make sense. The extravagant wealth outside. The surname. Ricci International Finances. The resemblance between Alessandro and Matteo…
“And Matteo is…?”
“My younger half brother.”
Sam pressed her hand to her neck, backing away. “So Matteo is rich, like you?”
“Sì.”
Her foot caught on the rug, and the man caught her, even though he’d been several steps away.
His hand landed on her lower back. The bare patch of skin between her top and her jeans burned at the abrasive texture of his fingers.
Heat from the small contact arced through her, pooling in her lower belly.
How would those fingers feel against more bare skin? Against her aching breasts? Against her belly? Against her—
Jerking away from him, she tried to corral her uneven breath.
Damn it, this man was a stranger and Matteo’s older brother. A man so far out of her league that he might as well have been the alien overlord in one of her cousin’s romance novels.
“You didn’t know that Matteo comes from a wealthy family,” Mr. Ricci added behind her.
“It’s been years since we first met,” Sam said automatically. “He did mention Lake Como but not an estate on the shores of it.”
“My family owns most of the town.”
She turned to face him. “Thanks for clarifying that.”
His sharp gaze assessed her relentlessly. “How do you know him?”
“I’ve answered enough of your questions. I want to see Matteo.”
“Not unless you tell me why.”
“Or what?” she said, hunger and sudden exhaustion dialing up her frustration. “You’ll throw me out?”
“I’m trying to save you from a potentially embarrassing situation.”
Laughter burst out of Sam. “You talk just like he said you do.” Matteo had talked about his brother from time to time, but he’d never mentioned his name.
“How is that?”
“Like you know the best for everyone around you. Like arrogance and ruthlessness given shape and form. Like…”
A ghost of a smile floated on his lips. “So you know me?”
“I know of you. The perfect older brother. A cold, ruthless, brilliant man who understands machines better than people,” she said, quoting Matteo word for word. She was being an awful guest, and yet something in her wanted to test his steely control.
Mr. Ricci simply watched her. And she realized what she’d thought of as a younger brother’s humorous resentment held more than a grain of truth. There was a gloss of remoteness to him. As if he stood outside of the world and its inconvenient emotions. Like she’d been for so long.
Was that why they felt such pull toward each other?
“As much as I’d like to deny that I’m the villain Matteo painted, trust me when I say it’s better for you if you tell me everything. I do know what’s best for you.”
“Fine. Matteo and I used to be together.”
His frown turned into a full-blown scowl. “How long were you seeing each other?”
“Almost five years. I haven’t seen him since we had a fight and broke up four months ago.”
“Where did you two meet?”
She glared at him, but the lie came fast. “At a café in SFO.”
“And he asked you out?”
“Yes, that’s how these things are usually done. One interested person asks the other out,” she said dryly.
Her attempt at sarcasm made no dent in his expression. “How old are you, Ms. Fischer?”
For the first time since he’d walked in, she heard cautiousness in his voice. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Answer my question.”
“Twenty-three.”
Again, there was that flinch. “So you were eighteen when you two met.”
“Eighteen, yes. Matteo was twenty-three,” Sam protested hotly. It was the same argument she’d had with her own parents after she’d introduced them. To see her fragile little girl with a man suddenly had sent her mother into a tailspin. “I’m very mature for twenty-three,” she said inanely.
Mr. Ricci snorted. Even that was elegant. “What is that you do with that mature brain of yours?”
“I’m a certified professional at annoying arrogant Italian men who treat me like a petty criminal.”
He frowned, then blinked, and slowly, a beautiful smile appeared.
It tugged one corner of his mouth higher than the other, digging a deep groove in the left cheek.
The stark angles of his face softened, giving a glimpse into what lingered beneath the severity.
If he flashed a full-blown smile at her, she might faint at the sheer beauty of it.
“I’d appreciate your wit better if you answered my questions. ”
“I’m a portrait artist,” Sam said, his reasonable tone dialing up her crankiness.
That scowl returned, and yet when he spoke, his words were silky smooth. Too smooth, in fact. “You’re the artist Matteo has been visiting every few months like clockwork for the last few years. You are Sam.”
“Yep. Short for Sameera.” She tried to not bristle at the distasteful note in his tone as he said her name. “I’ve traveled a long way to see him.”
“You’ve wasted a long journey, especially if you were thinking of patching things up with him.”
“Why?”
Those dark eyes considered her for another long moment. “Matteo is celebrating his engagement tonight. The party you almost crashed is in honor of him and his fiancée and their love.”