Bought by Her Italian Boss(11)

He didn't know how he'd kept from lifting her skirt. Possessiveness,  perhaps, because in that moment he hadn't cared if anyone saw his naked  ass, but the idea of the paparazzi catching another glimpse of her  unclothed had been intolerable.

He'd tried to slow things down while he calculated whether to steal into  a stateroom or ask for one to be assigned, so they wouldn't risk  interruption.

She had started to cry.

This woman. He was trying very hard to vilify her, to help maintain some  distance, but there was no question in him any longer as to whether she  had posed for those photos. She was too devastated to be anything less  than violated.

Which did things to him. Provoked something that could turn into a blind savagery if he dwelt too much on the injustice.

He sipped the coffee he'd made in the small pot, studying her timeless features, so well suited to her surroundings.

The building was classic Renaissance, imposing and symmetrical. The  interior was equally ornate and gracefully proportioned, enriched with  dark wood grains and gold accents upon fervent reds and royal blues. The  setting made a beautiful foil for her pale skin, pink lips and long  dark lashes.

He'd neglected to close the heavy curtains so sunlight poured across her  cleanly-washed face. The collar of his white shirt was turned up  against her cheek, the unbuttoned sleeve pushed far up her bare arm.

His Lover At Rest, he thought with a sardonic smile, toying with the  idea of snapping her photo. His conscience stopped him. If it makes you  feel objectified, well, you have a glimpse into how I feel right now.

He wasn't bothered by her taking a photo of his photo. He knew he was  good-looking. Female attention had always been abundant in his life in  the very best way. He wasn't surprised that she found him attractive and  certainly wasn't offended by it. He liked it. Too much.                       
       
           



       

She wasn't as comfortable with their chemistry. She was feeling used and  he was being a bastard, not letting her see that he was equally  ensnared by lust, but wanting her was weakness enough. Letting her see  it would be akin to handing over a weapon, something he was too innately  self-protective to ever do.

His phone vibrated in his hand and he dragged his attention off her  peaceful expression to see that his cousin was forwarding something.

Can you deal with this? Will talk more when I get there. Leaving in a few hours.

Vito understood by Paolo's desire for a face-to-face that he was being  abundantly cautious with traceable, hackable things like texts and  emails, but it surprised him that Paolo was coming to Como. He had been  working from home, refusing to leave his wife's side as she approached  the end of her third pregnancy.

But his cousin was smart enough to see the implication behind Vito's  appearance with Gwyn last night. He would want more details, to be sure  they had their story straight, especially before he made further  statements to the press.

The multitude of demands for more information from all corners was  threatening to break Vito's phone, coming from every direction from  family to news contacts to the bank's core investors. The story across  the sea of media had shifted from lurid curiosity about the woman in the  photos to deeper speculation as to who she was and how she had ensnared  not just one, but two powerful men into a nude photo scandal. Was she  sleeping with both of them?

He stroked his thumb along the edge of his screen, deciding it was time  to feed another tidbit to the press, leading them away from Jensen's  version of events toward his own.

Yesterday, he had ordered a team to look for a connection between the  spa owner and Jensen, suspecting it could be a laundry for some of the  funds Jensen had funneled. Even if the spa's only crime was the breach  of Gwyn's privacy, he didn't see any reason they should remain open and  making money while Gwyn suffered.

With enormous satisfaction, he touched the query from one of his former  paramours who worked as an anchor for an Italian morning talk show.  Quote me as stating that the photos were taken without her consent at a  local spa, he messaged to her.

As the whoosh sounded to tell him the text was sent, he could  practically hear her spiked heels racing down to her producer's office,  intent on identifying said spa and surprising the owner with an  early-morning interview. She would seize world coverage with her  exclusive by noon.

With a smirk at how easily the press was played, he turned his attention to the email Paolo had forwarded.

It was from Travis Sanders, director of an architectural firm Vito had  never heard of. A quick swipe to his browser revealed it was a growing  global corporation based in Charleston. Henry Sanders had started in  real estate and morphed into renovation and restoration. His son,  Travis, had earned his degree then took over his father's firm,  expanding into design and engineering. All of their projects were  prestigious; the most current one was a cathedral in Brazil.

Vito read Travis's email to Paolo:

I haven't heard from my sister since the tenth of last month. If you're  screening her calls, stop screening me. I want to hear from her.

Short and decidedly acrid.

Gwyn shifted on the bed, rolling onto her back and opening her eyes.  Confusion quickly fell into a wince of memory. She glanced at the empty  spot beside her, sat up, saw him and brought the edge of the sheet up to  the buttons closed across her chest.

"I thought you said he was your stepbrother?" Vito said.

"Who? Travis?" She frowned in sleepy confusion. "He is. Why?"

"He wants to hear from you. He thinks we're preventing you from calling."

She sighed and looked at the landline beside the bed like it was a snake he'd asked her to pick up.

Since she'd left her own mobile back at the house, he rose and took his across to her. "Would you rather text?"

Her gaze flickered across his bare chest and wariness trembled in her  eyelashes while sexual awareness brought a light pink glow to her skin.  He would have smiled with satisfaction if his entire body hadn't  tightened in response. Her scent was coming off those rumpled sheets in a  way that tugged at his vitals.

She expertly sent off a quick message and handed back the phone, not looking at him.

Despite it being very early in Charleston, the phone vibrated immediately with a response.

Vito glanced at it and couldn't help a dry smirk. "He wants to know his  father's birthday. To confirm that was actually you who just texted, I  imagine."

"Seriously?" She took back the phone, tapped out a lengthy message and slapped it back into Vito's hand.                       
       
           



       

He glanced at the exchange, reading that she'd told her stepbrother she  was fine, not being held hostage, didn't know what to say and hoped the  press wasn't bothering Henry. She wanted Travis to apologize to him for  her.

Vito frowned at her expression of misery, started to tell her what was in store for the spa, but another message came through.

"'This isn't like you,'" Vito read.

"How the hell does he know what I'm like?" she muttered, sliding her feet out the side of the bed. "He barely talks to me."

"You're to call him when you can talk freely," he read aloud as she headed toward the bathroom.

She made a noise and said, "I'm going to see if it's possible to drown in a shower."

"Don't take too long. I'm hungry and plan to order breakfast now that you're up."

* * *

Funny how something as simple as a shower became a saving grace in a  time of crisis. Washing her hair, smoothing a soapy facecloth over her  body... It was comfortingly normal. Routine. She took her time, thinking  of nothing as water rained down upon her.

Until her mind drifted to hearing the shower in the night.

Why had Vito risen to shower at 2:00 a.m.? He'd been hard against her  butt. She remembered that. If she hadn't been so drained, she might have  turned and let him do something she would be regretting right now.

Had he touched himself in here? Pleasured himself?

When he could have had her out there?

The thought struck like a blow, tightening her midsection, making her  miserable all over again. She had to stop thinking there was any sort of  potential between them. Maybe sex was an option. He'd told her to go  ahead and use him, after all. But that's all it would be: empty sex.  There was no room for romance. They weren't lovers. Despite appearances,  they weren't dating. They weren't even friends.

This was all fake.

And her life was a complete disaster, she confronted anew as she stepped  from the shower and faced a choice between last night's sparkling  evening wear and his rumpled white shirt. She was not in a fit mental  state to start any kind of relationship.

She pulled on the robe from the back of the door. It had an embroidered  sailboat on the left lapel and was made of thick, comforting chenille.  She knotted the belt and emerged to scents of ham and eggs, coffee and  sweet pastries. Her stomach contracted. When had she last eaten, she  wondered? Vito had forced a few morsels on her last night from the  extravagant buffet, but she hadn't been interested.