Chapter Five
“WE DON’T NEED to talk about that at all,” she said behind him as Rocco crossed to where he’d left his suit jacket on the back of his chair.
He shrugged into it, then smoothly pocketed his phone. When he came back to her, he skimmed her face, from her rebellious gaze to her perfectly tempting lips, down to the vee of winter-honey skin on her chest.
He held up a hand, signaling a truce.
“That needs to go down a little.” He pointed at her zipper. “Otherwise, people will see that it’s been moved.”
“Who would notice something like that?” she asked crossly as she brought the zipper down a few more teeth.
“Every man with working gonads.”
“Better?” she asked with scathing sarcasm, dropping her hands away.
Exquisite. He continued his inspection, seizing the chance to appreciate the way the knit clung to the contours of her waist and ample hips, halting mid-thigh to reveal those curvy stems all the way to her open-toed shoes.
Coming back, he couldn’t resist brushing one tendril of hair so it joined the rest behind her naked shoulder, which allowed him the slightest caress of her downy skin.
Her spine snapped and her skin pimpled. Her indrawn breath was erotic enough to stir his blood, but he steeled himself against more than a nod of approval before he opened the door.
The temperature, decor and light level were exactly the same as they exited his office, but everything was more intense. Bigger. Brighter. Louder.
He hadn’t been this naturally high since his sixth Christmas, when his aunt had somehow procured the set of toy race cars he’d coveted.
Of course, things had gone to hell by his ninth birthday, but with this much good fortune in his lap, he was able to believe that prayers could be answered, miracles were real and dreams could come true.
“I’m gone for the day,” he told his assistant as they passed her desk.
His car was at the curb, thanks to his assistant’s ability to read his mind. He helped Mira into it, then texted Silvio Galetti as soon as he was seated.
“Home,” he absently told his driver as the car pulled into traffic.
“A hotel,” Mira contradicted him crossly.
“We need somewhere private.” Rocco’s mind was firing on all cylinders. “You’ve gifted me with the element of surprise. Let’s use it.”
“How?”
He hadn’t decided yet.
His phone pinged with a reply, but it came from Silvio’s assistant. Silvio was taking personal time with his family. They were out of the country, but she promised to have Silvio reach out to Rocco the next time she spoke to him. It might take a few days.
Their anniversary cruise. Right. Damn. If Mira did know that Otto wasn’t her father, Rocco wanted to warn Silvio.
There was an outside chance that Otto had told her that Silvio was her father, but Rocco doubted it.
If Otto wanted that information known, he would have already used it.
That nondefamation clause must still be at play, as Silvio had always suspected.
And, if Mira was pulling her money, Otto would already be scrambling for funds, not wanting to pay a penalty that, presumably, would benefit Mira through her mother’s estate.
Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t tell Mira if he thought he could use the information as leverage.
Rocco glanced at Mira’s stiff profile. She hadn’t once referred to Otto as “my father” today. Did she realize how telling that was?
That must be what their falling-out was about, though. What else could shake her so badly she had come to him?
Of course, there was also the matter of their sexual attraction, whether she wanted to admit to it or not.
He did hate her a little for obsessing him this way. His desire for her was probably coloring his reasoning right now, urging him to keep her close even though he couldn’t trust her. Not until he had a better understanding of her motives.
How could he discern them, though, if he wasn’t with her?
It was the sort of rationale produced behind the fly, rather than above the collar, but he took her to his home, anyway.
Mira was annoyed by how much Rocco’s picturesque apartment building charmed her. It was five floors and reminded her of a wedding cake with its pale yellow exterior and icing-like scrollwork of plaster around arched windows and fat balustrades.
Inside, the decor was equally appealing in its old-world elegance of polished parquet floors and arched alcoves and glass doors offering a view to a private courtyard with a pool surrounded by orange and lemon trees.
The staff greeted Rocco warmly before the elevator took them to the top floor. They exited onto a landing next to a stairwell of polished wooden banisters and carpeted marble stairs that zigzagged their way back down to the bottom floor.
Rocco waved a fob against the mechanism on one of the carved double doors, letting her into a miniature version of the foyer downstairs with an arrangement of fresh flowers blooming on a narrow table set in a recessed section of the wall. He dropped his fob into a dish there.
“Are you hungry?” He veered through an archway into a kitchen of bright appliances and white tile that had an open pass-through to the dining nook, where six very comfortable chairs were arranged in a horseshoe so they all had views through the windows overlooking treetops and blurred mountains in the distance.
“You don’t have to feed me. I’m a picky eater.
” She wandered into the enormous lounge area, admiring the fireplace, with its wide mantel, and the abundant light pouring through fan-shaped windows over paned French doors.
He had some gorgeous artwork, including an abstract sculpture she immediately coveted.
She started to peer onto the terrace, but he said, “Wait.”
She looked back and saw him pointing a remote at her through the pass-through. There was a click and a hum. Three sets of bifold doors opened, letting in fresh air and very little city noise.
She stepped onto the terrace and realized it overlooked the courtyard with the pool below.
Three sides of the building were residences with wrought-iron balconies covered in vines and riots of colorful blooms spilling from window boxes.
Directly across, the courtyard was closed in by a wall of arched breezeways, likely installed for privacy and security while also allowing airflow during hot summer days.
Rocco’s terrace was partly in sun, partly protected by an overhanging roof.
Bougainvillea climbed latticework to form a privacy wall next to a full, outdoor lounge.
There was a dining area, then an outdoor kitchen at the far end, where herbs grew between pepper and tomato plants in raised boxes.
Pots of roses and lavender released a subtle fragrance into the air.
Music drifted from one of the lower units, a quiet accordion with a lazy tempo.
It was an oasis, one she suspected she would never leave if she had the choice.
“Why is your terrace so much bigger than everyone else’s?” she asked as he came outside with tray of salads, plates and cutlery. He set everything on the table.
“I own the building. The top floor was six units that I’ve combined into one. That’s why there’s a second kitchen out here. My bedroom is that whole wing.”
She glanced in the direction of his nod, but was hungry enough to be interested in the caprese salad he’d brought out. The other one was more suspect.
“Olives?” She crinkled her nose in rejection.
“With mint and celery leaves. Try it.”
Good luck, mister. She sat and helped herself to the tomato and cheese slices layered with basil leaves while he walked away and came back with two glasses and a bottle of red wine.
“You didn’t need to make all of this for me, but thank you,” she said politely.
“My housekeeper leaves it for me.” He poured the wine.
For a few minutes, they ate in silence, but it was strangely comfortable. How could it not be in this idyllic atmosphere?
“This is really nice,” she finally said, in reference to the terrace. “It’s obvious you spent a lot of time thinking about how to make this a space you want to come home to. I thought I would feel like this at the villa, but it needs a complete overhaul.”
“I can help with that.”
“I’ve already had a consult with your Salerno office. That’s how I got my appointment with you today,” she reminded him.
“I meant I can personally help you with design and decision making.”
And have his influence baked into every wall? “I’ll think about it.”
They fell into silence again. This time the quiet held more undercurrents.
“We have to be careful how much you tell me about the inner workings of Vorstoben. I don’t want to be accused of industrial espionage.”
“I supervised payroll. Salary and bonus structures won’t help you.”
“Still, there could be an unflattering perception unless… Has there been an announcement about your departure from Vorstoben?”
“It’s not a secret, but no one cares enough to turn it into a story.”
“What about your broken engagement?”
“I think Axel is being a gentleman and letting me make a statement when I’m ready.”
“Why haven’t you? Are you having second thoughts?”
“No. I’m relieved.”
She felt all his attention on her like the sunlight dappling through the bougainvillea, sending sparking glints into her eyes and warming her skin in peppering licks of warmth.
“I was advised to be careful how much I take public and when,” she explained. “Otto offered me a settlement if I keep quiet about the details in the marriage contract. Conversely, if he puts up a fight around my pulling my money, I want some bargaining chips.”
“I appreciate you want to be cautious, but you didn’t come to me so I could help you play defense. You want me to attack. Let’s rattle his cage.”
He narrowed his eyes in thought, then looked her dead in the eye.
“Let’s announce an engagement of our own.”