Bought by Her Italian Boss(29)

With a shaky sigh, she looked down at the payments she was approving and  wondered how many times she'd written her initials without taking in  what she was actually signing. She started again.

When she walked outside, summer was announcing its intentions with a  heat just this side of uncomfortable and a memo that humidity intended  to climb to unbearable.

She dug her keys from her purse, ignoring the sound of a car door opening because it was likely yet another paparazzo-

"Cara."

Cupid's arrow, right through the heart. Sweetly painful, painfully sweet.

She turned to regard him and wished she'd taken a moment to find a bored  expression. Instead, she was sure he read all the mixed feelings of  welcome and yearning and hurt and betrayal. Why would he show up now, as  she was finding ways to live without him?

Why like that? So iconic in one of his banker suits, cut to precision on  his leanly sculpted form. He wore a hint of late-day stubble on his  cheeks and his eyes were the color of morning light on mountain  glaciers.

He stepped to the side and indicated the interior of his limo.

She sputtered, arms folding, aware of footsteps running toward them as some lurking paparazzo realized who she was talking to.

"Have dinner with me," Vito said, paying no attention to the click and whiz of the camera.

"It's four-thirty. I have my own car." She showed him her keys.

He turned and leaned down to speak to his driver, then slammed the door, walking toward her to hold out his palm.

"Really," she said, letting the full scope of her disbelief infuse the word. "Just take up where we left off? No."

"I want to talk to you."

"Does it occur to you that I might not want to talk to you?"

"That is a bluff." He met her gaze and there was a myriad of emotions  behind that brutally beautiful face and somber expression. Knowledge  shone in his eyes, knowledge of her and what he did to her, his patented  arrogance, a kind of desolation that stopped her heart. Heat that made  it jump and race again.

He took her keys from her limp fingers.

"I said I wanted to talk. You only need to listen." He touched her  elbow, turning her toward the parked cars. At the same time, he clicked  the button so the lights on her hatchback flashed. Then he held the  passenger door for her.

She hadn't sat on this side of her new car, which wasn't bottom of the  line, but wasn't the kind of luxury Vito was used to. While he drove,  she took out her phone long enough to punch in Henry's number, leaving a  message that she wouldn't be home right away because she was going to  dinner with Vittorio.

He glanced across as she dropped her phone into her purse.

"Things are well with your family? You're living with your stepfather. Is that because of the attention?"

He knew she hadn't moved into her own place? She hardly stalked him at all.

She shrugged. "He wants me there. I guess if there's a silver lining to  the photos it's learning that I really do have a family. I know now  exactly what other women mean when they say that older brothers are  annoying. Your sisters must say that a lot."                       
       
           



       

His brow cocked at her cheeky remark, but he only said, "His  protectiveness surprised me after the way you sounded so dismissive of  him."

"Join the club," she snorted under her breath.

"He knows you went out with a man the other night?"

"I assume the whole world knows it, if you've heard about it." She  reminded herself that it didn't matter that he was bringing it up-even  if his voice had lowered to a tone that pretended to be casual, but was  actually quite lethal. "He's a friend of Trav's so yes, he knows. He set  it up." Chew on that.

"You had a nice time?" Again with the light tone, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"I don't talk about the men I date," she said flatly.

Silence for a full minute, until he stopped behind a line of traffic waiting for a light.

"No. You don't. I appreciate that, cara," he said softly, and this time  his voice was filled with gravity and sincerity. "I know you've had  offers for tell-alls. They must have been generous. You wouldn't have to  work again, I'm sure."

She only turned her face to her side window. If he thought she was the  least bit tempted in profiting from what they had shared, he really  didn't know her at all.

"How do you like your job?" he asked.

"It's a job, Vito. It's no pin-up gig as Kevin Jensen's piece on the  side. It's no mistress to a playboy banker. But it pays the bills."

"You're angry that I sent you away."

"I'm angry that you're here," she said, swinging her head around to  glare at him. "My life was starting to look normal. Why stir it up  again?"

* * *

Why? It was a fair question. One Vito couldn't answer. At least, not without admitting to himself that he was a very weak man.

"I want to explain why I sent you away," he said. Even though he had  walked out on Lauren that day, telling himself she was wrong. Better to  break ties cleanly, to let Gwyn move on with her life without knowing  what kind of a near miss she'd had.

Why had he decided, after seeing her with another man, that he should  let her know why she couldn't be with him? It was flawed logic.

He had wanted to see her again was the real answer. He could say that he  wanted to talk and her to listen, but that was a lie. He wanted her to  talk. He wanted her to relay every detail of the minutes she'd been away  from him, the way she might have given him the highlights of her day  visiting a museum, or conveyed a funny conversation she'd overheard on  the street or simply traded views with him that might be more liberal  than his own, but were always well thought out and left him with a  broader view of the other side.

"I thought we were going to dinner," she said as he turned into the  underground parking lot of the Donatelli International building.

"You said it was too early," he reminded, pulling into the spot reserved  with his name, right next to the elevator. She scowled so mistrustfully  at him, he had to chuckle. "I'm not going to kill you and eat you,  cara."

No promises against licking and nibbling, of course.

It was all he could do not to pounce on her after he punched in the  override code to get him to the floor he wanted. She had come out of her  workplace with her jacket slung over her arm. Her black skirt was of a  modest length, but narrow and stretchy, clinging to her hips and thighs.  She wore a light green top that was so plain it was unremarkable, but  the narrow belt at her waist gave it some traction across her bustline,  emphasizing her hourglass figure. And those shoes with straps as narrow  as her belt were positively erotic.

He hoped like hell he had paid for them, unsure why it mattered, just  wanting to know she was still allowing him some place in her life.

She flicked her hair behind her shoulder, affecting cool composure, but  her mouth was pulling at the corners as she said, "I know why you sent  me away. It was an affair, nothing more. Like you said, it was always  going to happen."

"Sì," he agreed, and the word moved up from his chest like gravel. "But for different reasons than you think."

The elevator opened into the private residential floor, where he and  Paolo had suites and guest accommodations were made available to other  family members. There was a private gym and indoor pool here, a dining  lounge with views to the ocean that was closed because he was the only  one here. Paolo's suite, where he had taken Lauren the night he'd told  her that her husband was dead, was on the far side of the oversize  foyer. Vito's was here, to his left, but before opening his door, he  paused in the foyer and indicated the portrait on the wall.                       
       
           



       

It was a print of the original that had first hung in the old bank in Milan and now occupied the main lobby of the new tower.

"My great-grandfather," he said, looking at the man who'd been painted  in his middle-aged prime wearing a brown plaid suit and a bowler hat.

He felt Gwyn's gaze touch him, questioning why this might be important, but she gave the portrait a proper study.

"He had two sons and five daughters, but only his sons inherited." He  nodded at the two brothers who had cemented the foundation for what  Banco Donatelli would become. "This one is my grandfather. His brother  only had daughters. We've become more progressive and all share in the  dividends now, but my uncle, Paolo's father, was recognized as his  successor."

He moved to the photo of his grandfather with his wife and five  children. It was a formal color photograph with the family posed for  posterity, the fashions laughably dated. His grandfather had long  sideburns and his pointed collar jutted out like wings against his tan  suit and gold tie. His grandmother wore a floral print dress and Paolo's  father, nearing twenty, was dressed like a newsboy. The four teenage  girls wore identical dresses in a truly horrid purple.