Chapter 7- A Billionaire’s Girlfriend, If Only It Were That Simple #2
The De Luca family villa sits on a hilltop just outside Rome. A line of luxury cars winds up the cypress-lined drive, depositing guests at the grand entrance where staff in formal attire stand ready to assist.
As our car pulls up, I feel Sasha tense beside me. "There are a lot of people," she observes, a hint of nervousness in her voice.
"Just the usual crowd," I assure her. "Wealthy donors, business associates, a few celebrities my mother convinced to attend. You'll outshine them all."
The driver opens Sasha's door, and I exit on my side, circling the car to offer my hand. As she emerges, the silk of her dress catching the light, several nearby guests turn to look.
The appreciative glances from the men and envious stares from the women confirm what I already know—Sasha Moretti is the most captivating woman here tonight.
I place my hand at the small of her back, the warmth of her skin through the thin silk nearly undoing me. I force myself to maintain a respectable touch, though everything in me wants to trace the elegant curve of her spine, to feel her shiver under my fingertips as she did that night in my bed.
"Ready?" I murmur close to her ear, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her perfume.
She nods, leaning slightly into my touch. The subtle pressure of her body against my hand sends heat coursing through me. This will be a long night.
"Matteo!" My mother's voice cuts through the ambient chatter. She approaches with her usual grace, champagne flute in hand, diamonds glittering at her throat. "Finally, you arrive."
"Mother," I greet her with a kiss on each cheek. "May I present Sasha Moretti."
My mother's perfectly arched eyebrows rise slightly as she takes in Sasha—an appraising look I've seen her give countless women over the years. But something shifts in her expression, a subtle softening around the eyes.
"Signora De Luca," Sasha says, extending her hand. "Thank you for having me. Your home is magnificent."
"You speak Italian?" my mother asks, pleasantly surprised.
"Un po'," Sasha admits with a charming smile. "My grandmother was from Frascati."
"Ah! A local girl then, at heart." My mother's approval is immediate and unexpected.
She takes Sasha's arm, drawing her slightly away from me. "Come, let me introduce you to some people who will appreciate speaking their native tongue with a beautiful young woman."
Before I can protest, my mother is leading Sasha toward a group of her friends, leaving me momentarily abandoned in the foyer. I watch as Sasha is absorbed into the circle, her laughter soon rising above the conversation.
I move through the crowd toward the bar, keeping Sasha in my peripheral vision as I greet acquaintances and business associates.
She fits into my mother's circle with surprising ease, her hands gesturing animatedly as she speaks.
Even from this distance, I can see my mother's friends responding to her warmth—leaning in when she speaks, laughing genuinely at her comments.
"The usual, Mr. De Luca?" asks the bartender, already reaching for the Macallan 25.
"Please," I reply, my attention still on Sasha. She catches my eye across the room and smiles—not the careful, measured smile she's given me since that phone call, but something radiant and open that makes my chest tighten.
"Your date is causing quite a stir," observes Giovanni, appearing at my elbow. "I don't think I've ever seen your mother take to someone so quickly."
I accept my scotch from the bartender. "Neither have I."
"And she's not what I expected," he continues, signaling for a drink of his own. "After what you told me about meeting her on the plane, in her wedding dress..." He shakes his head. "I thought she'd be more fragile."
I watch as Sasha throws her head back in laughter at something my aunt Sophia has said. "So did I."
"She seems quite comfortable in this crowd."
I nod, taking a sip of my drink. "Almost too comfortable."
As if sensing she's the subject of our conversation, Sasha excuses herself from my mother's circle and makes her way toward us.
The burgundy silk of her dress flows around her legs as she moves, drawing the eye of every man she passes.
"Your mother is delightful," she says as she reaches me. Instead of standing beside me as I expect, she slides her arm around my waist, her body pressing against mine in a gesture of casual intimacy that takes me by surprise.
I instinctively place my hand at the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through the silk. "She seems equally taken with you."
"Oh! I'm sorry," she says, noticing Giovanni. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Not at all," Giovanni assures her, extending his hand. "Giovanni Rossi. I work with Matteo."
"Sasha Moretti," she replies, shaking his hand without moving away from me. "I'm Matteo's girlfriend."
I nearly choke on my scotch. Girlfriend? That’s new. What the hell is going on with her?
Giovanni's eyebrows rise slightly, but he recovers quickly. "A pleasure to meet you, Sasha. Matteo has told me so much about you."
"All good things, I hope," she says, leaning her head against my shoulder in a gesture so natural it would convince anyone we've been together for years.
Giovanni excuses himself politely, leaving us alone at the edge of the crowded ballroom. The orchestra has begun playing something classical and elegant, the strains of violin and cello weaving through the murmur of conversation.
"Girlfriend?" I murmur against Sasha's ear, my lips barely brushing her skin. "That's quite a promotion from 'man I met on a plane three days ago.'"
She tenses slightly in my arms but doesn't pull away. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "It just came out. I didn't think—"
"No, you didn't," I agree, my thumb tracing small circles at the base of her spine where my hand still rests. "Care to explain why you're suddenly so eager to establish our relationship status?"
Her eyes dart around the room, as if searching for eavesdroppers. "It's complicated."
"I'm finding that everything about you is complicated, Sasha Moretti." I take a deliberate sip of my scotch, studying her over the rim of the glass. "But I'm a patient man.”
She bites her lower lip, a gesture I'm coming to recognize as a sign of her nervousness. The sight of those white teeth pressing into the soft flesh sends heat spiraling through me, reminding me of how those same lips felt against my skin.
The orchestra transitions to a waltz, the lilting melody filling the grand ballroom. Several couples move toward the dance floor, and I set my empty glass on a passing waiter's tray and extend my hand to Sasha. "Dance with me."
It's not a request.
She hesitates only briefly before placing her hand in mine. "I should warn you, I'm not very good at this."
"Fortunately for you," I say, leading her toward the dance floor, "I am."
As we reach the center of the floor, I turn to face her, one hand settling at her waist while the other clasps hers. The plunging back of her dress leaves her skin bare beneath my palm, warm and smooth.
"If you’re going to play my girlfriend, dolcezza, you need to act like you want me,” I whisper, pulling her closer than strictly necessary for a formal waltz.