Bought by Her Italian Boss(9)

He heard Gwyn's breath switch to measured hisses as she tried to control  an attack of nerves. As the car stopped, he took her limp, clammy hand  in his-and experienced a thrill of excitement from the contact despite  the terror in the gaze she flashed at him.

"Chin up," he reminded her with a patronizing smile, sensing that  kindness in this moment would be her downfall. She seemed to find her  strength in anger, so he provoked it.                       
       
           



       

She said something under her breath that wasn't very ladylike, making  him want to smile, but that wouldn't do for their purposes.

"Let them know how much you hate them," he said as the door beside him  opened. He stood, bringing Gwyn with him, not giving her a chance to  chicken out. Then he paused, giving the paparazzi the moment they needed  to realize who they had.

The girl from the photos.

With Vittorio Donatelli.

His hand possessively slid so he had his arm around her and drew her  closer, dipping his chin to look into her withdrawn expression with just  the right level of concern before he lifted a hostile, contemptuous  glare to the wall of cameras, silently messaging Kevin Jensen that he  had messed with the wrong man's woman.

A buzz of gasps went through the crowd and the bursts of light  intensified into a wall of exploding lights. The shouts became a rabid  din.

Gwyn swallowed and revealed the barest moment of anguish before she  leveled her shoulders and sent a haughty, dismissive glance toward the  cameras that was gloriously effective in its disparagement. Her upward  glance at Vito was not only a cold, silent demand that he remove her  from this place, but a wonderful expression of trust that he would and  could save her from it. He doubted she realized how revealing it was,  but he saw it, knew the cameras caught it and was deeply satisfied.

She kept her spine iron straight beneath his hand as he steered her  through the blinding lights to where the purser stood at the top of the  steps to the gated marina.

"I'm not on the list," Vittorio told the uniformed young man. "But I'm on the list."

The purser didn't even relay his name, only glanced at the wild reaction  they'd provoked and recognized the value they added to the event.  "Thank you, sir. Enjoy your evening."

Vittorio started toward the steps, then turned back. "If Kevin Jensen is on the list, he's not on the list. Understand?"

"Absolutely." The purser nodded and flipped a page, striking through a name.

* * *

This morning, life had been normal.

Somehow, in roughly twelve hours, Gwyn had gone from mousy banking  representative to notorious internet sensation. Thanks to Vittorio  secluding her today, the full reality of her situation hadn't hit her  until that moment outside the limo. Then strangers had called her name,  clamoring for her to turn, shouting disgustingly invasive questions in a  dozen languages.

When did you pose for those nude photos?

How did Mrs. Jensen find out about your affair?

Is Vittorio Donatelli your lover?

She stepped onto the yacht and a murmur rippled through the crowd. Heads tipped together and a few people pointed.

She instinctively edged closer to her date and his fingertips dug into her hip, oddly reassuring.

The last thing she ought to count on Vittorio for was protection. He'd  behaved like a bastard earlier, using her own reaction against her like  that. She was sick with herself for rubbing into his groin like she  ached for his penetration-which she did. She was even sicker that  finding him hard had excited her to the point she would have let him  have her right there at the top of the stairs if he'd wanted.

Men were simple creatures, she reminded herself. Comedians were always  complaining about erections popping up like dandelions at inconvenient  times. As much as it would soothe her ego to believe Vittorio was  attracted to her, she knew he couldn't possibly feel the same lust that  had cut into her like a knife. His reaction had been about as personal  as shivering from the cold.

They were united in one thing: pretending they were in a sexual relationship to defuse Jensen's allegations.

So she slithered closer to him, ignoring the fact that she drew genuine  comfort from his strength. If he stiffened in a kind of surprise before  tightening his arm around her, well, she wasn't a masochist who wanted  another mean-spirited lesson in how incapable she was of resisting him.  She stood close; she didn't soften and invite.

"Vito!" A gorgeous blonde approached them, tugging a legendary,  award-winning, big-screen star in her wake. They turned out to be the  host and hostess.

Gwyn silently laughed at herself. If the crowd was goggling at her, she  goggled right back. The yacht was full to the gunwales of faces she'd  seen in movies and on TV. Hugely famous people. It added a fresh layer  of surreal to her already bizarro day.

"Thank you for coming," the tall, stunning supermodel said in a New York  accent, kissing Vittorio on the mouth. "We'll have so much more  exposure for the premiere now. I didn't see the photos," she said to  Gwyn with an offhand shrug. "But my agent represents five of the top  underwear models in the world. Judging from your figure, he would love  to be your first call if you want to make lemonade out of this. Don't  put it off. Attention like this doesn't last. Vito has my number."                       
       
           



       

"Vito," Gwyn repeated a moment later, when they were alone.

"My friends and family call me that. You should, too."

"Should I call her agent, is the real question," Gwyn said, taking a  deeper drink of her champagne than was probably wise, but the impulse to  get legless drunk was very strong.

"I would prefer you didn't," he said in a tone that was oddly lethal.

"Call her agent? Why? What other kind of work can I get? Even Nadine  thought I wasn't good enough at my job to earn this promotion without  falling onto my back. Maybe it's time I gave in to what the world has  told me all my life and allow myself to be objectified. Make money on  God's gift." She waved down her front.

An arc of dangerous fire flashed in his gaze again. "Have you come up against a lot of sexism in your life?"

"Is there an amount that's reasonable and acceptable?"

They were approached by someone else, stealing her moment of possibly  taking him aback. They spent the next hour mingling. It wasn't awful,  but she was tongue-tied and Vito kept stealing her champagne, setting  the flutes out of her reach and giving her sparkling water or fruit  juice in exchange.

"If you don't let me drink," she said at one point, fake smile pinned to  her face, "people are going to think I'm pregnant. Surely I've hit the  redline on scandal for one day?"

"I'm letting you drink. I'm just not letting you get drunk. You'll thank me tomorrow."

"I highly doubt you'll ever hear those words out of these lips," she assured him.

"We'll see," he said, catching at the hand she reached to the passing tray and tugging her in the opposite direction. "Come."

"Where?"

He only drew her from the main deck where glass panels provided a  windbreak, keeping the laughing, dancing crowd contained in a pool of  colorful light off a rotating mirror ball. A musician who had risen to  fame three decades ago was going strong, shredding the piano, playing  with a band of indie rockers on guitars and drums.

Vito tugged her down a narrow flight of stairs to where a cool gust  raced along the lower deck, making her cross her arms as the chill hit  her in the face.

"It did get windy," she said, hanging back in the alcove at the bottom of the stairs.

He removed his taupe linen jacket and draped it over her shoulders,  enveloping her in a scent that was both his and something else. His  cousin's aftershave, maybe, because he'd also raided the closets in the  master bedroom. "We have work to do, now that you've relaxed."

"What kind?"

He drew her toward the stern where foam kicked up in a widening trail  behind the yacht. The rush of wind and churning water filled the air.  Pinprick lights from distant houses danced against the black silhouettes  of the mountain-backed shoreline.

And a handful of smaller boats paced this big one, bouncing on its wake, buzzing like mosquitos. Something flashed. A camera.

"Oh."

"Sì," he confirmed. "We are stealing a kiss, mia bella."

"You can try," she said stiffly, turning her head to glare at him with  antagonism, hands on the rail. "I've about had it with being robbed of  things I'm not willing to give up. This cruise could get very rough  indeed."

He leaned his back into the rail and set his feet wide, then indicated  she should come into the space. "I'm offering a kiss," he cajoled,  surprising her with his tender tone. "Would it be such a chore for you  to accept it?"