18. Lucia
18
LUCIA
I ’m about to have lunch with Antonio Moretti, and even though he has more or less blackmailed me into eating with him, I’m actually looking forward to it.
I must be insane.
I should have called his bluff. He already told me he wasn’t going to get me fired, and deep down in my heart, I don’t believe he’ll hurt me.
But the shameful truth is that I wanted to have lunch with him.
Even though it’s a terrible idea.
It’s not just because Antonio is a dangerous man. It’s because he’s dangerous to me. I kept his card in my purse for ten years. I googled him and got jealous when I saw him with an unending parade of beautiful women. I had a sex dream about him that’s still making me blush. The mafia boss is in my thoughts far too often, and if I were smart, I’d avoid him until he fades away from my mind.
We dock in front of Antonio’s house, and he helps me out. Opening his front door, he gestures me inside. I step into his foyer and look around curiously.
The last time I was here, I was too afraid to take in the details. Today, though, I let my gaze wander over the space, soaking it in. Salmon-pink walls provide a vivid contrast to a black-and-white tiled floor. One wall is dotted with a collection of wooden masks. A carved antique bench crowded with turquoise, indigo and forest-green cushions invites me to sink in, and lush tropical plants are everywhere. The room is colorful, eclectic, and fascinating.
And extremely unexpected.
Antonio takes in my reaction. “I’ll give you a tour,” he offers. “Now, or after lunch?”
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I skipped breakfast this morning. “After lunch, please.”
The large eat-in kitchen is just as interesting as the foyer. A massive glass window overlooks an inner courtyard. A weak winter sun fills the space with light. It’s too cold to eat out there today, but I imagine it’s beautiful in summer. I gawk unashamedly at the copper appliances, green plants, and the Talavera tiles forming the backsplash. A vase overflowing with lilac, lavender, and honeysuckle sits on an antique teak dining table, and I inhale the delicate aroma of the flowers with pleasure.
Antonio quirks an eyebrow at me.
“They smell like spring,” I explain. “It’s my favorite season. I had you pegged as a minimalist, but you’re not, are you?” I go around the table to admire a collection of blue-and-white pottery stacked on a side table. There are platters and bowls, but my favorite piece is a tall, gently curved vase. “Where did you find these?”
I expect him to tell me that his interior designer sourced them, but he surprises me by saying, “Portugal.” His lips twist into a rueful smile. “I grew up with nothing, and I’m afraid it’s turned me into a bit of a pack rat.”
“Your house doesn’t look cluttered. It’s very cohesive.” It’s also my dream house, but I’m not going to tell him that. It’ll just make him more smug than he already is.
He chuckles. “That’s not what my friends say.”
Antonio Moretti has friends? I barely have time to register that before he asks me a question. “What’s your house like?”
I make a face. “I like color, too, and plants and patterns and fabric. But right now, I’m extremely minimalist.” My lips twist. “I don’t have any furniture. Just an air mattress and a chair.”
“Why not? Your parents left you their apartment, yes? What happened to the furniture in it?”
Antonio has a file on me, but it’s good to know there are some gaps in his knowledge. “I couldn’t bear to look at their stuff after they died, so I put it in storage. It’s still there.” I suck in a breath. “I move around so often that even if I could afford to buy good furniture, I don’t see the point. It’ll just cost too much money to move every single time. It’s easier to live out of a suitcase.”
“Hmm.” I can’t tell what he’s thinking; he’s good at keeping a poker face. I’m waiting for him to probe, but to my surprise, he doesn’t. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Water, please. Sparkling, if you have it.” If you have it. What a ridiculous thing to say. Antonio Moretti has everything.
“Of course,” he responds. He opens the refrigerator and pulls a bottle out, pouring its contents into a cut glass flute and handing it to me. “If you need furniture, the antique market at the Piazzola sul Brenta has some good pieces. They set up every Sunday. Would you like to go?”
Is he asking me out on a date? My confusion must show on my face because he adds, seemingly out of nowhere, “I’m not dating Tatiana.”
“What?”
“Tatiana Cordova,” he says. “You mentioned her earlier, so I thought I’d clarify. I’m not involved with her or anyone else.” He holds me with his gaze. “The only person I’m interested in is you.”
I stare at him in shock. Nobody I’ve been with, not a single guy I’ve dated, has ever made it so explicitly clear that they want to be with me. No guessing games, no playing hot and cold. He’s so refreshingly direct, and I don’t know how to respond.
He opens his refrigerator door again and surveys its contents. “Let’s see what’s in here,” he says. “There’s a roasted chicken, and I can make a green salad. But if that doesn’t work, I can cook you something else.”
I feel dangerously off balance. “You know how to cook?”
He flashes me a grin. “You sound so skeptical, Lucia,” he teases. “I think I’m a little offended. Yes, I know how to cook, although my housekeeper, Agnese, does most of it these days. However, she’s visiting her sister in Florence for the week.” His smile widens. “Go ahead, test me. What can I make for you?”
That smile is irresistible, and my entire body reacts to it. “Unfortunately, I need to be back at work.”
“Then, chicken and a salad it is.” He pulls lettuce, tomatoes, and a cucumber out of the crisper and begins his prep. I watch in bemusement as he starts chopping. He wasn’t lying; he does know how to use a knife. “Can I do anything to help?”
“You can set the table. The plates are in the cabinet above the sink.”
We sit down to eat. This meal is a perfect opportunity to pump Antonio for information, but the chicken is delicious, as is the salad. The dressing, lemony and tart, turns me into a complete glutton. Planning my next attempt at the Titian is going to have to wait.
“Help me understand,” Antonio says, cutting into a piece of chicken. “Why did you want the fake Titian?”
“I don’t,” I reply. “But Dottore Garzolo remembered the painting and wanted to exhibit it. The fake Titian is going to buy me time until I get my hands on the real one.” I give him a pleasant smile. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”
His eyes laugh at me. “I look forward to your next attempt,” he says, sipping his own water. “More chicken?”
“Yes, please.”
The conversation turns to art. As I found out when I showed him around the Palazzo Ducale, Antonio knows quite a bit about Italian art. Most of the rich art collectors I’ve met buy paintings because they’re good financial investments or a place to hide ill-gotten profits, but Antonio is a connoisseur, and it shows.
Our conversation flows effortlessly and moves from art to travel, books, and more. I barely notice the passage of time. It’s not until Antonio offers me dessert that I glance at my phone and realize with shock that over two hours have elapsed.
I wipe up the last bit of sauce with a piece of bread. “I can’t,” I say regretfully. “I really should be getting back.” Even though I don’t want to leave. “Can I get the tour now? I’d like to see the rest of the house.” I smile up at him. “Especially the room with the Madonna.”
He gives me a half-smile. “Still planning on stealing it?”
His words echo through my mind. If you steal my painting, I’m going to assume you’re sending me a message that you want me to fuck you.
A wave of desire crashes into me. My insides tighten, and I discreetly clench my thighs together. “Do you really think I’m going to warn you before I make another attempt at it?” I scoff. “Why would I do that? So that you can tell your security team to be on high alert?”
He shakes his head, laughter dancing in his eyes. “I wouldn’t warn them, Lucia. That wouldn’t be in keeping with the spirit of this game.”
I should be annoyed that he’s thinking about the Titian as a game, but when I reach for irritation, it’s not there. “It’s almost as if you want me to steal it.”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it? Think about it.” He gives me another maddeningly inscrutable smile, gets to his feet, and holds out his hand to me. “Come, let me show you around.”
Antonio’s house is a bohemian symphony of color and texture. Collections are everywhere. Bronze masks from Benin, ceramics from Mexico, black-and-white rattan baskets—everything co-exists in a riotous harmony. The furniture is sturdy, the rugs are antique, and the overall impression is warm and welcoming. I have to push back my envy as he shows me around. I’ve always thought that being able to live out of a suitcase is a good thing, but for the first time, my life looks bare and empty.
Then he opens the door to his bedroom, and I stop thinking.
His bed is unmade, his duvet rumpled. My imagination throws up an image of him sleeping, naked, and a shiver runs through me.
“The Titian,” he says, gesturing me in.
Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. I swallow the lump in my throat and enter Antonio’s bedroom. As much as I want to see it, it takes all my willpower to focus on the small, invaluable painting. “A Titian in your bedroom,” I murmur. “A bit excessive, don’t you think?”
“Does art only belong in a museum?”
“This one does,” I reply, but there’s no real bite in my voice. It might be because of the excellent lunch, or maybe it’s the company. It’s hard to get riled up on behalf of the Palazzo Ducale when I’m inches away from Antonio’s massive bed. Both the headboard and footboard are slatted, and my brain is throwing up image after image of me tied up and naked, spread open for Antonia’s pleasure.
His to touch, his to possess. . .
Underneath my shirt, my nipples tighten, and my skin breaks out into goosebumps.
Stop it, Lucia.
“So you say,” he replies. There’s a dark, seductive glint in his eyes. “And what are you going to do about it?”
Stop pretending you don’t want to sleep with him, the devil inside me whispers. The bed is right there.
With great difficulty, I ignore that voice. “I should go,” I say, keeping my eyes averted from the mattress. “Thank you for lunch and for the tour.”
I lean forward to brush my lips against his cheek, a polite kiss between acquaintances, but when I get near, the smell of him fills my nostrils, spice and smoke and man. I breathe it—him—in, and he turns his head toward me. His lips are less than an inch from mine, and I am more tempted than I’ve ever been in my life, tempted beyond reason and good sense.
I lean in and kiss him.
Antonio freezes, and for an instant, I wonder if I’ve miscalculated. Then a wicked light flashes in his eyes, and he moves. With a growl, he pushes me against the stucco wall, and his tongue slides inside my mouth, hot and insistent. His fingers stroke my neck, tugging at my necklace, and I gasp softly as long-ago memories flood through me. Ten years ago, his thumb brushed against my neck like this. When I hissed with pain, he growled, hot and furious, and asked who hurt me, promising they wouldn’t go unpunished.
The remembered memories only serve to inflame my lust. I wrap my arms around Antonio’s neck and pull him closer. He fists my hair and sucks my lower lip between his teeth. Desire punches me in the gut, and my brain only has room for one thought.
More. I want more.
He wedges a knee between my thighs, and I part them as best as I can. Antonio makes a noise of impatience and yanks my skirt up to my waist before lifting my leg and wrapping it around his hip.
Oh wow.
His hips press into mine, and I can feel his erection against my lower stomach. My heart hammers in my chest. The feel of him, hot and hard and thick. . . It transforms me into a creature made of lust and want and need. I’m wound so tight I’m going to explode.
He unbuttons my shirt and spreads it open. “So beautiful.” His voice is reverent, but his eyes are hot, possessive, and carnal.
“It’s an ugly bra,” I breathe.
“I wasn’t talking about the bra.”
I squirm on his knee as he palms my aching breasts, squeezing them hard. He pulls the bra cups down and rolls my nipples between his fingers, making me arch in response.
“Please. . .” My nipples are tight, swollen, and aching. I need his mouth on them. I need. . .
He bends his dark head. His tongue circles my engorged nub, and I squirm again, desperate and impatient for more. He sucks them into his mouth, one after the other, and I whimper out loud. I felt the chemistry between us ten years ago and again on Saturday when he caught me stealing his painting and forced me to get into his boat.
But the reality . . . The reality is better than I imagined, better than I could have possibly hoped for. He takes a tender nipple between his teeth while his fingers pinch the other harder than before. Delicious pain winds down my body like a string, focusing on the point between my legs. My clit throbs, and I gasp out loud.
That sound breaks the spell.
What am I doing? It’s the middle of a workday. By now, everyone in the museum would have learned that I gave Antonio Moretti a private tour of the galleries. I left to have lunch with him, and I’m going to be late getting back. If I don’t get back at all, I’ll be the subject of intense gossip and judgment, and not just in Venice.
The art world is very small, and nobody will take me seriously again. I’ll be the woman who slept with the most notorious man in Venice. My skills and knowledge, everything I bring to the job, will pale before my notoriety.
I need to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret.
I squirm away from his grip. “I have to go.”
He lets me go immediately, his face expressionless. “I got carried away. My apologies.”
“You weren’t the only one,” I reply, smoothing down my skirt and finger-combing my hair into some semblance of order. “I was right there with you. But it’s the middle of a workday, and I need to get back.”
“If you insist.” He crooks two fingers at me, just like he did in my dream, and I move toward him before I realize what I’m doing. He buttons up my top, his touch making me shiver again. “After all, who am I to keep you from the Palazzo Ducale?”
“Finally realizing your importance in the scheme of things, I see.”
He laughs softly. “The antique market on Sunday,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at nine?”
I can’t afford new furniture, but maybe Antonio could come with me to my parents’ storage unit, the one I haven’t been able to open. If he’s there with me, if I’m trading barbs with him about the Titian and everything else, then maybe I’ll be able to face the daunting task of sorting through their possessions to find the furniture I need.
I open my mouth to ask Antonio, and alarm bells started to ring. What the hell am I doing? I’m letting myself get sucked in; I’m letting myself lean on him.
I leaned on my parents, and they died.
Never again, I vowed.
And I’m on the verge of breaking that promise.
“No,” I say harshly. All of a sudden, my heart is hammering with fear, and I’m sweaty and nauseous. “I’m not going to the antique market with you. Don’t call me, and don’t drop by the museum unannounced and ask me to show you around.” I look around wildly. “I have to go.”