Chapter 9 Matteo #2
She excuses us gracefully, guiding me toward the bar with movements that look casual but feel urgent. I order whiskey, she asks for champagne, and we stand in comfortable silence watching the crowd swirl around us.
"You did well with Marchetti," I tell her, noting the way her fingers wrap around the champagne flute. Delicate hands that I remember digging into my shoulders, that trembled when I touched her breast.
"He's harmless," she says, but there's something in her voice. A note of weariness that wasn't there before.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." The response is automatic, practiced. The same way she probably answered that question for years after her parents died. "Just need a moment."
Before I can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the crowd noise behind us.
"Matteo Rosetti. I was hoping I'd find you here."
I turn to see Tanya Ashford, stunning in red silk that hugs every curve and diamond earrings that catch the light like captured stars.
Old money, impeccable breeding, and the kind of connections that make or break political careers.
We had a brief thing two years ago, mutually satisfying and completely uncomplicated.
The kind of woman who fits in my world without questions or emotional entanglements. The kind of woman who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it.
"Tanya." I don't move away from Isabella, but I feel her stiffen slightly beside me. "You look beautiful tonight."
"Thank you." Tanya's smile is predatory as she takes in the scene before her.
Isabella's flushed face, our proximity, the obvious tension crackling between us.
Her gaze lingers on my hand where it rests on Isabella's waist, and something calculating flickers in her eyes.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important. "
"Not at all," Isabella says smoothly, that composed mask sliding back into place. "Perhaps you two would like to catch up."
She starts to move away, but I catch her wrist. The contact sends heat up my arm, reminding me of how her pulse raced when I held her throat, how she melted when I claimed her mouth.
"Stay," I say quietly.
The word comes out rougher than I intended. Isabella's eyes widen slightly, and I see her pulse jump under my thumb. The same rapid flutter I felt when my fingers were wrapped around her throat, when she was surrendering to my touch.
"Actually," Tanya says, moving closer with feline grace, "I was hoping to steal Matteo for a dance. It's been too long since we've had a chance to... reconnect."
The invitation is clear, loaded with memory and promise.
Two years ago, Tanya was exactly what I wanted.
Beautiful, sophisticated, sexually adventurous.
She knew the rules of the game and played them without complaint.
No emotional complications, no deeper expectations.
Just mutual pleasure and mutual benefit.
Everything I thought I wanted in a woman.
But as I look at her calculated smile and predatory eyes, all I can think about is the way Isabella's voice broke when she talked about her parents. The way she kissed me back in the library despite every reason to resist. The way her breast felt in my palm, soft and warm and heavy.
"Thanks, but I'm exactly where I want to be," I hear myself say.
Tanya's eyebrows raise slightly, genuine surprise flickering across her features. She's not used to being refused. "I see." Her gaze shifts to Isabella, assessing and dismissive. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
She glides back into the crowd, leaving us alone at the bar. Isabella stares after her, something unreadable in her expression.
"She's beautiful," she says finally.
"Yes."
"Sophisticated. Available."
"Probably."
Isabella turns to look at me, searching my face for something I can't identify. "Why didn't you go with her?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because you've gotten under my skin in ways I don't understand. Because no other woman has ever made me feel like I was holding something precious when I touched them.
But I can't say that. I just need to fuck this woman and get her out of my damn system.
"Because I told you to stay close," I say instead. "And I meant it."
It's not the whole truth, but it's all I can give her right now. The thought of dancing with Tanya left me cold.
Isabella studies my face for a long moment, then nods slowly. "We should mingle more. People will expect it."
She's right. We spend the next hour working the room, and I watch her perform with growing fascination.
She charms the mayor's wife with genuine interest in her charity work.
She deflects inappropriate comments from drunk donors with graceful humor.
She remembers names, asks follow-up questions, makes everyone feel like the most important person in the room.
But I can see the cost. The way her smile never quite reaches her eyes. The slight tremor in her hands when she thinks no one is looking. The careful distance she maintains even while appearing completely engaged.
She's exhausted from being what everyone needs her to be. Just like she was exhausted when I had her pressed against the bookshelf, when she finally let someone see past the performance.
"I need some air," she says quietly as we finish talking to a group of art collectors. "Just for a moment."
I guide her toward the terrace doors, my hand on her lower back feeling the tension coiled in her muscles.
The summer night air is warm against our skin, and the sounds of the party fade to a comfortable murmur behind us.
We're alone on the private balcony, city lights glittering below us like fallen stars.
"Better?" I ask.
She nods, setting her champagne glass on the stone railing with careful precision. "Thank you. I just needed to stop performing for a moment."
The honesty in her voice surprises me. No deflection, no careful politeness. Just truth, raw and simple.
"Is that what you call it? Performing?"
"Isn't that what we're all doing?" She turns to face me, and in the soft light from the ballroom, she looks younger. More vulnerable. "Playing roles, saying the right things, being what people expect us to be."
"Some more than others."
"You're not performing in there?"
I consider the question. "Maybe. But I chose my role. You had yours chosen for you."
Something flickers across her face at that. Recognition, maybe. Or pain. "I should go back inside. People will notice if we're gone too long."
She moves toward the terrace doors, but I catch her hand, stopping her.
For a moment, we just stand there in the warm night air, the sounds of the party distant and meaningless.
Her pulse beats steadily under my thumb, and I remember the way it raced when I touched her in the library.
The way she whispered my name like a prayer.
"Isabella," I start, but she pulls away gently.
"Let's go," she says quietly. "Before I forget how to be what you need me to be."
We return to the ballroom, and Isabella transforms back into the society princess.
She smiles and charms and says all the right things, never once betraying whatever she felt on the terrace.
But now I can see the exhaustion in the set of her shoulders, the way her smile is starting to fray around the edges.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of handshakes and small talk and carefully coded conversations. Isabella never leaves my side, never lets her composure slip. To everyone watching, she looks like a woman who chose to be here, who's exactly where she wants to be.
But I know better now. I can see the cracks in her armor, the places where the performance is wearing thin. And every time I catch her struggling to maintain the facade, I think about how she felt in my arms. How real she was when she stopped pretending to be what everyone else needed.
By the time we're walking toward the exit, I'm angry at myself for reasons I don't want to examine.
Angry that I refused Tanya without thinking, angry that I'm more interested in Isabella's exhaustion than the networking opportunities I'm missing, angry that I keep thinking about how she tasted when I kissed her.
This is supposed to be about leverage. About power. About getting what my family needs from Chase Callahan.
Instead, I'm obsessing over a woman who looks at me like I might be worth trusting, and I can't figure out if that makes me weak or dangerous.
As we reach the SUV, Isabella slides into the backseat with a soft sigh, her shoulders finally relaxing now that we're away from prying eyes.
The streetlights cast moving shadows across her face as Anton pulls into traffic, and I find myself studying her profile, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the way her eyelashes cast shadows.
She played her part tonight. Better than I expected, better than I had any right to ask for. But watching her perform while slowly suffocating underneath makes me want to strip away every mask she wears until I find the woman who kissed me back in the library.
It's just fascination, I tell myself. The challenge of a puzzle I haven't solved yet. A physical itch I haven’t scratched.
Nothing more complicated than that.