The thought disturbed him. Was that how he'd been conceived? In a fit of blind passion that completely disregarded the impact to the woman in question?
By the few accounts Vito had from his adoptive parents, his mother had been deeply infatuated, if far too young and naive for a thirtysomething gangster with a pitiless determination to get whatever he wanted. He had wanted Antoinietta Donatelli. He had seduced her. His family had always sworn up, down and sideways that Vito wasn't a product of rape. No, he was the product of a man taking advantage of a woman who didn't have nearly the worldliness needed to resist him.
Not unlike Gwyn, who didn't take lovers strictly for the pleasure of physical release.
Because, he suspected, no man had given her a release like that. He probably shouldn't have, but her animosity had been eating at him. That remark about buying women and her resistance toward him on every level had been grinding away at his control. When she had called herself "cheap" for wanting to sleep with him, something feral in him had snapped, demanding that he show her how good they would be together.
Cheap? It was unique and precious, beyond even what he had imagined it could be. Disconcertingly powerful.
And honest.
Her reaction now, so taken aback by her own abandonment, told him how thoroughly he had owned her in those moments. He thrilled to it, but it caused a shift inside him. Something he wasn't fully prepared to examine, fearing he was making a rationalization to justify getting what he wanted: her.
But the way she'd ignited in his arms made thinking of anything except possessing her impossible.
* * *
They seemed to have left the paparazzi far behind and circled back toward the house. As soon as they were inside, Gwyn went straight through to the small patio outside the back door, where the cool afternoon breeze off the water gave her the first proper breath she'd taken since coming apart at Vito's touch.
She went down the steps to the pool deck where she stared out over the lake, blood cooling, hands curled around the rail to ground her back into harsh reality. Why had she let that happen? And what did it mean for the rest of this pantomime they were acting? Would they become lovers in every way, not just a one-sided grope that only proved his superiority over her?
That was the part that devastated her. She could give herself orgasms if she wanted them. But despite all the ways he'd turned out to be different from the urbane Italian gentleman she'd fantasized about, she was even more in thrall than ever. Would she become his lover?
She couldn't imagine finding the will to say, No.
Vito came outside with two wineglasses and a corked bottle. He wordlessly poured and offered her one, not speaking until she took hers.
"Salute," he said, gaze trying to catch hers.
She couldn't do it, too aware of how intimate things had been between them. Too vulnerable to him.
"I keep making you angry because it seems the only way to keep you from falling into despair," he said, as though explaining the answer to a riddle.
"Something else for my own good?" She snapped her gaze up to his.
He smiled faintly. "Whatever works."
She released a shaken sigh, finding his statement not exactly comforting, but oddly bolstering. He wasn't toying with her for fun, but trying to help her in his backhanded way.
She couldn't deny that his lovemaking had, for a few minutes, completely wiped away her anxiety over her nightmare of a life. Now everything was flooding back and she would be very thankful if he did something annoying. Despair hovered like a rain cloud looking to move in and burst over her.
He set his glass on a table and shrugged out of his new jacket, a vintage cut in light wool with leather patches at the shoulders. It was gorgeous on him, very debonair, but the dove-colored shirt beneath was equally smart, clinging to his muscled shoulders, buttons open in a V that showed his throat and collarbone and a few dark chest hairs.
He slung the jacket negligently over the back of the nearest chair, attention shifting to his phone. With a flick of his thumb across the screen, he paraphrased from something he was reading. "The spa is claiming they had no knowledge of the photos, but the press has found the same connection my team discovered this morning. Your masseuse is related to one of Jensen's employees. I'll take you to lodge a formal complaint with the police when we return to Milan so they can look at pressing charges for invasion of privacy."
"Charging the masseuse doesn't put the blame on Kevin, though, does it?"
"He has worked very hard to keep his hands clean, but we'll get there. It's early days yet." He picked up his glass and sipped, continuing to read his emails.
Days. It hadn't even been two full ones, but she'd already gone further with him than most of the men she'd dated for months. She was in so much trouble if that was a precursor of what was to come.
Pensively sipping the pale gold of the wine, she wound up exclaiming a very sincere, "Oh, that's very good!"
Not that she was any sort of connoisseur, but Travis always brought wine when she cooked and he didn't punish anyone with cheap stuff. She'd been enjoying trying bottles here in Italy and hadn't found a bad one, but this surpassed anything in her price range.
Vito glanced up, offering what looked like a very genuine smile for a change. "It's the private reserve from my great-grandparents' vineyard. One of my cousins runs it and doles the bottles out to family every year. We could make a fortune, but it's too good to sell."
"Do you-" Gwyn forgot what she was going to ask as a flash of movement caught her eye.
Was that a little boy? He touched his lips to signal her to keep quiet as he climbed the rail that bordered the pool terrace then darted behind an oversize terra-cotta planter.
Vito followed her gaze and glanced backward at the empty landscape, then brought his alert frown back to her. "What's wrong?"
She started to say, "I saw a little boy-"
Before she could get the words out, the boy was barreling straight for Vito's legs.
In the same moment, Vito's expression hardened. He plunked his glass down and spun in a fluid motion, like he knew exactly what was coming. He crouched, grabbed, then threw the boy high into the air as he straightened, then caught him firmly and held him nose to nose.
"You little gremlin. I ought to throw you into the pool."
"Do it!" The boy's laughing eyes brightened with excitement. He splayed out his arms and legs, ready to fly through the air into the still, blue water despite being fully dressed.
"I won't," Vito told him, hitching the boy's wiry figure onto his arm so they were eye to eye. "That's your punishment for trying to push me in. No swimming at all. Say hello to Miss Ellis," he said, indicating her with a nod. "This is Roberto. He has all of his mother's sass and twice his father's disregard for danger."
"I was going to come in with you," the boy excused, curling his arm around Vito's neck and pressing his cheek to Vito's with open trust and affection. He was speaking perfect English but could have been Vito's son, his looks were so patently Italian. He turned his attention to Gwyn and pronounced what sounded like a coached speech. "It's nice to meet you. Welcome to our home." He offered his small hand for a shake, making it a firm one.
"It's a beautiful home," Gwyn said, ridiculously charmed, even though he couldn't have been more than five. "I'm very pleased to meet you, too."
Roberto gave her a stare reminiscent of Vito's most delving look.
"Are you American? Mama is Canadian and sometimes people think she's American, but your accent is different. You sound like our housekeeper in Charleston."
"Good ear," Gwyn said with a bemused smile. Honestly, he had more sophistication than some thirty-year-old executives she had met.
"Did you drive here yourself? Where is your father?" Vito asked, giving the boy a little bounce.
"He won't let me drive," Roberto said with a disgruntled scowl, then pointed to the top floor. "He's putting Bianca in her bed. She fell asleep in the car. She has a cold."
"He brought both of you? How is your mother?"
"So pregnant," a woman said, coming out the back door of the house.
Lauren Donatelli was very pregnant, but carried it beautifully on her tall frame, glowing and graceful as she came down the short flight of steps onto the pool terrace, nary a waddle in her step.
Gwyn recognized her from photos she'd seen in the Charleston news several years ago, along with the odd image published in the company newsletter where Lauren invariably stood next to Paolo looking warm and approachable despite how aloof and distant her husband always seemed.