Chapter 6
6
L ATER THAT DAY, SALVATORE stared out at the view from their Manhattan office, listening as his cousin Rocco ran their family board meeting, detailing the latest progress on their Hamptons project. What had initially started as a takeover bid of a beachfront street filled with rundown old houses had turned into a full-scale rejuvenation. With the force of Rocco’s unwavering attention, the houses in the street were being structurally restored and renovated, turning from places fit only for demolition, to the sort of luxurious homes that billionaires would soon be fighting to snap up.
Of course, there was no greater motivator than love, and Rocco Santoro had surprised them all by falling head over heels in love with Maddie, who happened to have grown up in one of the houses. Destroying the house would have devastated her, and so he worked hard at a solution that would enable the historic street to be saved, while the Santoro family still came out on top financially.
This update was important, and with the rest of the family headquartered between the UK and Italy, Salvatore was the only other Santoro in the boardroom with Rocco. As such, he knew he should be giving this more of his attention. But every time he moved, he was aware of the way his body responded, muscles pleasantly fatigued, aching in a way that spoke of great exertion. Of the way he’d treated last night like some kind of marathon workout, making love to Emilia until they were both completely destroyed. Exhausted, and wrecked, they’d collapsed onto the mattress and fallen asleep, limbs entwined, bodies heavy from the weight of shared pleasure.
Then, she’d woken, and he’d teased her for attempting to run out on him, but the truth was, he’d been relieved as hell. Relieved that he didn’t have to be the one to go, to do the whole ‘this was great, but let’s leave it at that’, speech. The fact that he and Emilia had already agreed to the terms of their relationship, such as it was, helped him make peace with what had happened between them.
Because he wasn’t an idiot.
For all he’d downplayed her concerns, and acted as though this was no big deal, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt his family. Even more so, he didn’t want this to cause shit for Emilia. Where he might have once said that he’d have happily watched the Valentinos lose everything they held dear, his relationship with Emilia—even while only physical—had changed that viewpoint somewhat. He didn’t want her to suffer because of this.
Hence the ground rules. It was funny to think that usually rules were associated with restrictions, and yet, in this case, they gave him cover. Cover to relax and enjoy this; cover not to overthink it.
“Bro, you here?” Rocco clicked his fingers right in front of Salvatore’s face, so the latter refocused with a sense of impatience.
“What’s up?”
“The Moricosian development—just wondering if it’s completely dead in the water?”
Salvatore ignored the strange prickling at the base of his spine. This was no time to get a conscience. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard there have been some delays with suppliers. It’s not the Valentinos’ fault, necessarily, but the government is frustrated. The designs were meant to be finalized by now.”
“And they’re not?” he asked, again, ignoring the fact they were now speaking directly about Emilia Valentino, who was spearheading the Moricosian project for her family.
“Not according to my source,” Rocco said, with a nod.
Salvatore’s frown deepened. King Ares of Moricosia was one of his best friends, but they were all tight with him. The main reason they’d been rejected for the job was because Ares had fallen in love with Sofia. While not technically a Santoro, she’d been raised as one of them, and the appearance of nepotism would have been too obvious.
So the deal had gone to the Valentinos. To Emilia.
“As far as I know, Ares’s connection to Sofia rules us out.”
“Even if the Valentinos were shown to be inept?”
Something bristled at the back of his spine. “You just said the delays weren’t their fault.”
He was aware of the way the entire family was staring at him, as if he’d just called the earth flat. He relaxed his features, wiping any hint of defensiveness away, trying to remember who he was and what was at stake here.
Seven months ago, he’d wanted the Moricosian development more than he could say; and he’d been prepared to play dirty to get it. Even using his close, long-standing friendship with the King to swing parliament. In the end, Ares had recused himself from the decision-making process, leaving it to the parliament, but Salvatore had known their family’s relationship was at issue.
Therefore, if the Valentinos hadn’t, in fact, won the design on merit, as Emilia had suggested, then what harm was there in righting that wrong? That was certainly one way to look at it, and he knew it was the right way, for his family, and for himself. But whenever he thought of making a call to Ares to check on the progress, of trying to get the wheels moving again, he pictured Emilia and knew he couldn’t—wouldn’t—be the one to pull the rug from under her feet.
“Listen, I have no interest in putting Ares in that position. Or Sofia, for that matter.”
Rocco grimaced.
“We will watch the situation. If it continues to unravel, then we can step in. But we cannot play on Ares’s sense of affection for our family, by pressuring him to drop a contract that his parliament signed off on.”
“We are a viable alternative,” Rocco pointed out.
“Yes.” He felt like iron was being ground into his chest. “And if he wants that alternative, we’ll be here, ready and waiting. Trust me,” he said, feeling like in that moment, not a single person in his family should trust him with anything. Because he knew one thing for sure: while he might want the Valentino family to fail at anything and everything, Emilia was exempt from that, utterly and completely.
“What do you need?” Leandro asked, mouth full of piadina . Emilia pulled a face, shaking her head.
“How you got Skye to marry you is beyond me.”
He laughed at that, picked up his scrunched napkin and threw it at her. “My charms, obviously.”
She rolled her eyes. “Clearly she’s never seen you eat.”
“I don’t eat like this around her.”
“You just save it for me, your loving sister?”
He grinned like the cat who’d got the cream. And she supposed he had. Watching Leandro and Skye together was like watching some kind of incredible ballet. For all Skye was one of the strongest people Emilia had ever known, something about her brought out Leandro’s protective side. She couldn’t move without him being there, arm around her shoulders, or even just his presence, ready to catch her should she stumble. Ready to be whatever she needed.
For all Emilia delighted in teasing Leandro, she’d have been blind not to see that theirs was a match truly made in heaven. And Leandro wasn’t all bad. It was just that when he was hungry, he devoured his food as though it were his first and last meal.
She, on the other hand, took a petite bite of her own piadina and marveled at the flavours. Sometimes, she contemplated learning to cook. It would make it easier than having to rely on take out or meal delivery services. Besides, what self-respecting Italian couldn’t at least whip up some kind of pasta? Yet she was famous in their family for her inability to so much as boil an egg, and for that, she couldn’t help but blame their mother. If she hadn’t been such an exceptional cook, always stocking the fridge and freezer with delicious home cooked food, Emilia might have been forced to up-skill at some point.
Instead, she’d turned not cooking into an artform, and it was definitely not the biggest regret of her life.
“So, what’s up?”
Right. She’d asked him to meet up for a reason. Thoughts of that morning’s phone call were still fresh, not least because of the way it had fully and completely driven memories of last night from her mind, turning Salvatore’s seduction into a distant memory. Whatever pleasure waves she’d still been riding had been replaced by stress and frustration.
“Just about everything that could go wrong in Moricosia is going wrong.”
Leandro nodded sympathetically. “Tell me about it.”
“Okay, well, our principal design team has been sidelined owing to some in-house staff issues—allegations of bullying and unfair dismissal. You can imagine how that looks to the government. I’m scrambling to find someone else to take over, but the project is huge, and halfway through the formal design process, so getting a company to step in isn’t as easy as you might think, despite the prestige of the job.”
Leandro sat back in his seat, eyes latched to hers. “What else?”
And she let it all come tumbling out, every single issue, every broken deadline, every impatient phone call from the Moricosian Minister of Development. It had been one nightmare after the next, so half the time she seriously wondered if they were being sabotaged.
“Is there any possibility this isn’t all an accident?” Leandro asked, thoughtfully, when she’d finished talking.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just a lot to go wrong, as you say. This isn’t your first major development. I know you, Emme. You run things with the precision of a Swiss bank. You make careful decisions when it comes to hiring companies. For the wheels to all be coming off like this seems—unlikely.”
His praise nestled inside of her, acting as a sort of reassurance she hadn’t realized she desperately needed.
“I can’t see how anyone could pull these strings,” she said, with a shake of her head.
“The Santoros could.”
She thought of Salvatore and was surprised to find herself shaking her head, without realizing it. “No, impossible.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s too devious. They fight fair, even if it means losing.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Do you have any evidence to the contrary?”
He stared at her, clearly not convinced.
“We’re the ones who stole Acto out from under them,” she pointed out. It had been Andie’s suggestion to have their older brother Max pose as her fiancé, to get her father to sell the company to the Valentinos instead of the Santoros. They’d worked for a long time on putting together an offer for the business, but it had been Max who’d swooped in and bought it at the last minute. Never mind that he and Andie had legitimately fallen in love in the process.
“All’s fair in love and business,” Leandro said with a shrug. “A philosophy I assure you they share. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they’re sabotaging us.”
But she shook her head again. “I think this has just been incredibly unlucky,” she admitted. “I hate it, but I’d rather just address each issue without looking to villainize the Santoros. At least, not over this.”
“Have it your way, but I’m going to do some digging.” And she nodded, confident her brother wouldn’t find anything of note.
The day went from bad to worse on the work front, so by the time Emilia walked in the door of her SoHo apartment, she was drained. Mentally, physically and in every way, just utterly exhausted. Of course, the lack of sleep the night before didn’t help.
As if to reinforce that, she stifled a yawn as she placed her handbag on the hall stand, removing her phone before making her way into the kitchen. There was a text message from her mum, just checking in, and a few work emails that had come through on the drive home. She ignored the emails for now, and instead, poured herself a glass of Shiraz, which she carried through to the bathroom.
While the bath was running, Emilia slowly removed her work clothes, draping them over an ornate chair in the corner, before catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror and letting out a small gasp.
Either she’d been too pleasure-fogged that morning to properly look at herself, or these marks had grown darker through the day. Slowly, fascinated, she trailed her finger from the places on her breasts where Salvatore had lavished kisses and sucked until her skin had grown darker, then to the sensitive flesh that was roughened by his stubble. Her cheeks flushed at the reminders of how he had touched and worshipped her entire body. She wondered if he showed similar marks—nail scratches down his back, or crescent moon shapes across his shoulders from where she’d dug her fingers in as if to hold on for dear life. It was easy to believe he would. She remembered drawing her nails down his back over and over as he spent hours pushing all the buttons she’d needed pushed—and hadn’t even realised she possessed.
The bath was sumptuously warm around her body, and she sunk into it gratefully, lying there with her eyes shut for several long moments before reaching for the glass of wine and taking a sip. She’d just replaced it on the bath’s edge when her phone buzzed. She yawned again as she reached out, blinking to clear her eyes before focusing on the text.
It was from Salvatore—just a photo of a bed. Or rather, half a bed. Crisp white sheets, white pillow, and in the distant background, a sparling view of Manhattan.
Wish you were here.
A smile tugged at her lips as she contemplated what to say, then flicked to the camera and took a picture of her red-painted toenails peeping above the surface of the water. She sent it back to him with the words:
I could say the same.
He responded:
Seriously starting to regret that ‘no going to each other’s homes’ rule.
She reached for her wine, took a sip, and settled back into the bath, deeper, so the warm water lapped against her breasts.
She felt like a teenager, giddy with the excitement of messaging a crush. A crush! Salvatore Santoro was the enemy, not a crush. Even when he was also the man she was sleeping with.
Only, Emilia didn’t want to think about the conflict of her situation. They’d already addressed it. Besides, they’d gone too far to walk this thing back. They’d had sex. A lot. What difference did it make if it happened once or ten times? They’d done the very bad, very forbidden thing—the thing no one in either of their families would be able to forgive if they learned of it.
Hotel rooms have baths, you know. Beds, too, for that matter.
She closed her eyes, and instantly he was there, as he’d been the night before. Kissing her, touching her, making her whole body sing as though he were a maestro, capable of playing her to perfection.
Give me ten minutes and I’ll arrange it.
She sat up straighter, her pulse suddenly hammering in her body. She stared at her phone, in a state of surprise. As much as she was craving him, and what they’d done last night, she hadn’t thought for a second he’d want to see her so quickly. Or that she’d want that, too.
But the truth was, the idea of meeting up with him again answered something inside of her that had been thrumming in her body all day. A craving and need she’d done everything she could to blot out. Not hard, when the Moricosian project she was overseeing was turning to shit before her eyes.
She tapped a finger against the edge of the bathtub, wondering if she should say ‘no’. Tell him another night would be better for her. She was exhausted, and hungry, and the bath was heaven for her over-used muscles. And yet, even as she wondered that, she knew she wouldn’t. How could she? What he was offering was what she’d secretly been needing all day—and if anything, the rigors of her day only made her need that more.
The distraction.
The euphoria.
The feeling that no matter what went wrong, knowing there was someone on earth who could make her feel so sublimely satisfied was somehow the perfect antidote.
She was still prevaricating about her response—knowing what she wanted and somehow couldn’t bring herself to admit—when another text buzzed in from him.
I’ve booked the Plaza. I’ll leave a key at the front desk for you.
She bit into her lower lip, hiding a small grin of appreciation. Her family owned several high-end hotels, three of them in Manhattan, yet he hadn’t booked into one of those.
Then again, even that made sense. Wasn’t it more likely they’d be seen—or talked about—if they booked into a Valentino hotel? Besides, it was the last place a Santoro would ordinarily be seen. Of course he’d chosen neutral ground.
She placed her phone down and took her time. While she knew how much she wanted to be with him again, some deeply-held sense of self-preservation told her that she shouldn’t let him see that. That she shouldn’t be admitting it to herself, much less him.
Even when he’d messaged and organized everything, thus showing that he felt the same way. She felt somehow vulnerable, knowing how quickly he’d worked his way under her skin. And if she stopped to think about the fact he was the first man ever to make her want to the point of insanity, she might run a thousand miles from him. If she was even capable of that anymore…