Bought by Her Italian Boss(13)

He had cold-bloodedly seduced her with an eye to his own gain.

What are you doing, Vito? he chided himself.

He was protecting the bank, he reminded himself. And his blood was decidedly hot when Gwyn's hand was in his own.

He strolled her through the late morning sun, ignoring the cameras,  entering every boutique on the promenade and refusing to leave without  making a purchase.

But for a woman who only needed to act enamored to get herself out of  trouble, she did a lousy job of it. She wasn't outright defiant. No, her  resistance was subtle enough to give credence to what she had said  earlier about not wanting to look like a gold digger. She needed  cajoling to enter a change room, pulled a face at the prices and frowned  at the growing number of bags he was having sent back to the yacht  club.

It was beyond his experience. Every woman he knew enjoyed being spoiled  this way, whether sisters, mother or lovers. He had been raised to be  chivalrous, and not only owned a sizable number of shares in the bank,  but investing was his living. He made more money in a day than he could  spend in a week. This was pocket change.

He began taking special care, looking for items that were particularly  flattering to her, complimenting her, trying to soften that spine and  coax a smile of pleasure out of her. Why couldn't she relax and see the  fun in this?

A motorcycle jacket with a faux fur collar and narrow sleeves that  capped the tops of her hands to her knuckles looked genuinely delightful  on her. He stood behind her as she eyed it in the mirror.

"It suits you. Makes you look as tough as you are," he said.

She met his gaze in the mirror. "You do this a lot, don't you? I  honestly didn't see you as the kind of guy who had to buy his women."

She might as well have butted that hard head of hers back into his lip  and nose. He tightened his hands on her shoulders to freeze her in  place.

Her gaze met his again and she saw the danger there, stilling, hand on the zipper of the jacket.

"Be very careful what you say to me, cara."

"You want those vultures out there to believe this," she said with a  small toss of her head to the front of the store, where music was  blaring so loudly they could barely hear each other even back here. "I  don't have to. Or does your ego demand that I fall for you for real?"

Once again she had him thinking about a powerful man exploiting a vulnerable young woman.

That wasn't what this was.                       
       
           



       

She moved the zipper an inch then shrugged his hands off her shoulders. "Buy it if you think I should have it. I don't care."

The hell of it was, he believed her.

* * *

Gwyn watched cute sundresses and silk scarves, two hats and a designer  bag that cost the earth all go into colorful boutique bags. Vito told  her they'd buy evening gowns in Milan-for what?-but insisted she get  trendy jeans, cocktail skirts and flirty tops, lingerie that she flatly  refused to let him watch her try on and shoes. Dear Lord, the shoes.

Deep in her most covetous, most materialistic heart, she adored  Italian-made shoes. She'd been saving up for a pair, browsing regularly  as she debated whether to be practical and buy something she might wear  often or ridiculously capricious and own something that would sit in a  box in her closet, to be worn on only a few special occasions.

Vito bought her six pairs of very chic, very expensive day shoes and  completely dismissed them as, "They'll do for now." More, he assured  her, would be purchased with the gowns in the city.

She might have protested, but he was already angry with her. That moment  at the mirror had made her tremble inside, he'd looked so lethal. At  the same time, she knew he wouldn't hurt her physically. It was her  heart, her own ego and self-confidence that were in peril.

Especially because, despite her nastiness, he didn't let up on his  solicitude. They walked from store to store and paparazzi swarmed around  them, clicking and flashing and capturing every murmur and expression.  One called something particularly disgusting and she flinched.

"Ignore them," Vito growled, drawing her closer to the shelter of his  big body, brushing his lips against the tip of her ear as he spoke, then  smoothed his fingers through the tails of her loose hair, caressing her  waist, so attentive to her needs.

She imagined she looked deeply smitten every time he touched her like  this. That's why she'd had to insult him and drive a wedge between them.  Her response to his pretend seduction was dangerously real. Her nipples  tightened when all he did was touch the small of her back. She flushed  with desire when she inhaled the scent of his neck.

How was she so comfortable under his touch? That's what she wanted to  know. Normally she was quite standoffish with men. If they so much as  took her elbow while they walked her down the street, she found the  presumptiveness of it annoying.

Not Vito. Her skin called out for each light graze of contact. She was  in a perpetual state of readiness, skin sensitized and aching with  anticipation, eager for his merest caress. She wanted him to smother her  with his big body. Absorb her.

In some ways it was exhausting. She was incredibly relieved when he  pointed to a car with a chauffeur in sunglasses leaning against it,  reading his phone. "We'll take a drive to some viewpoints, see if we can  lose these cameras before we head back to the house."

Their last two boutique bags went into the trunk where the myriad of  other purchases were now arranged along with dry cleaner bags holding  the clothing they'd worn last night. The man really was a demigod,  taking care of the dreary details of life with what seemed like a  magical snap of his finger and thumb. Forget the other conquests who  fell for this routine. She was becoming one of them. How could any woman  not find this level of provision seductive?

She settled with a sigh on the leather seat in the back, pretending she  wasn't aware of the scooters that kept buzzing up beside them for the  next ten minutes as they drove into the hills. The windows were blacked  out, however, so the followers soon fell away, accepting that their  opportunity was over and they might as well go file the photos they had  and collect their payments.

The car climbed high above the lake, the twists in the road taking them  into stretches of quiet thoroughfare, where she finally let out her  breath in a sigh.

Vito leaned forward to close the privacy window and poured both of them a water from the bottle in the door.

"Was it so bad?" he asked. "Spending my money?"

"No," she said, adding a sarcastic, "How was it for you?"

She heard how suggestive that sounded and made a noise into her glass.

"Why does everything I say come out sounding dirty around you?" she muttered.

"Freudian slip?" he suggested.

She slid her thumb along the rim of her glass, blushing and saying nothing.

"Your silence speaks volumes," he taunted.

"Am I the first woman to find you attractive? I doubt it," she said caustically.

"You're the first to be so annoyed by it," he said with a hint of laughter in his voice. "Why? Because you're so tempted?"                       
       
           



       

"I've never been a drug user and that's what it would be," she muttered.  "You're sitting there like a giant painkiller promising to keep me from  feeling the bus that's crushing me. So, yes, I'm tempted." She couldn't  believe how honest she was being. It wasn't like her to be this blunt,  but what shred of dignity was left to lose? "But I've never gone to bed  with a man purely for physical release. It makes me feel cheap to  consider it."

"You're incredibly insulting when you want to be, aren't you? The  problem, I think, is that you don't know how powerful this particular  painkiller will be." He leaned across and set her glass in her door. His  was gone and his hands went to her waist. "Come here."

"What-?"

He dragged her to straddle his thighs, making her stiffen in surprise at  the sudden intimacy of having her legs open across him, her inner  thighs lightly stretched by the press of his thick, hard ones.

She kept her arms stiff, holding herself off him, but she was intrigued  despite her wariness. "There's no one to see this performance," she  reminded tautly.

"Yes, I know," he said smokily, and stroked his hands up and down her  thighs, massaging in a way that sent ripples of anticipation into her  pelvis. With a little shift, he slouched and they were sex to sex, her  tingling loins firmly seated against the very hard ridge of his  erection.

"If only I still worked for you and could charge you with sexual  harassment," she said, but her voice had thinned and her twitching  thighs wouldn't cooperate enough to lift her away.