Not Just the Boss's Plaything(52)

The investors were duly impressed, as expected. They smoked cigars and    let out loud belly laughs over the remains of the last of the seven    courses they'd enjoyed. Their pleasure seemed to ricochet off the    paneled mahogany walls and gleam forth from the impressive Murano glass    chandeliers that hung above them, in resplendent reds and blues, and    would no doubt be reflected in the size of their investments, as    planned. This would be another success, Cayo knew without the smallest    doubt. More money, more power for the Vila Group.                       
       
           



       

And yet all he could seem to concentrate on tonight was Drusilla.

"Fine," she had thrown at him on the yacht, those gray eyes of hers both    furious and something far darker, her mouth very nearly trembling in a    way that had made him feel restless. Unsettled. "I'm not going to  play   this game with you any longer. If you want your two weeks, you'll  have   them-but that's the end of it."

"Two weeks as my assistant or my pet," he'd reiterated. "I don't care which."

She'd laughed, and it was a hollow sound. "I hate you."

"That bores me," he'd replied, his gaze hard on hers. "And furthermore, makes you but one among a great many."

"By that you mean, I imagine, the entire world?" she'd sniped at him.    Her tone, the way she was standing there with her hands in fists-it had    made him suspicious.

"I'd suggest you think twice before you attempt to sabotage me in some    passive-aggressive display in your last days with me, Miss Bennett,"    he'd cautioned her, and the look she'd turned on him then should have    flayed him alive. Perhaps it had. "You won't like the result."

"Don't worry, Mr. Vila," she'd said, his name a low, dark curse, hitting    him in ways he didn't fully understand. "When I decide to sabotage   you,  there will be nothing in the least bit passive about it."

She'd stalked away from him that afternoon, and he hadn't seen her again    until the following morning, when she'd presented herself in his  suite   at breakfast, dressed in the perfectly unremarkable sort of   professional  clothes she usually wore. No skintight white jeans licking   over her  long legs to taunt him and remind him how they'd once   clenched over his  hips. No wild gypsy hair to shatter his concentration   and invade his  dreams. She'd sat herself in a chair with her tablet  on  her lap, and had  asked him, as she'd done a thousand times before,   with no particular  inflection or agenda, if his plans for the day   deviated from his written  schedule.

As if the previous day had never happened.

If he didn't know better, he thought now, watching her through narrowed    eyes, he could almost imagine that nothing had changed between them at    all. That she had never quit, that he had never forced her into  giving   him her contracted two weeks.

That they had never kissed like that, nor let their tempers flare,    revealing too many things he found he did not wish to think about, and    too much heat besides.

Almost.

Tonight she looked as professional and cool as ever, with the prettiness    he could no longer seem to ignore an enviable accent to her quiet    competence. She wore a simple blue sheath dress with a tailored jacket    that trumpeted her restrained and capable form of elegance, her    trademark. She operated as his right hand in situations like this, his    secret weapon, making it seem as if he was not giving a presentation    designed to result in lavish investments so much as sharing a    fascinating opportunity with would-be friends.

She made him seem far more engaging and charming than he was, he'd    concluded over the course of the long evening, and wondered how he'd    never seen that quite so clearly before. She gave him that human touch    that so many furious and defeated rivals claimed he lacked.

He'd watched her do it tonight-lighting up the carefully selected group    of ten investors with her attention, making them talk about  themselves,   letting them each feel interesting and important. Valued.  She hung on   their words, anticipated their questions, soothed them and  laughed with   them in turn, all of it in that cool, intelligent way of  hers that   seemed wholly authentic instead of cloying. They ate her  up.

And because of her, Cayo could simply be his ruthless, focused self, and no one felt overly intimidated or defensive.

She sat at the far end of the lavishly appointed table now, her tablet    in her hand as always, periodically tapping into it as she fielded    questions and tended to the various needs of everyone around her. She    made it look so easy. She was smooth and matter-of-fact, as if it was    only natural that the French businessman should demand a Reiki massage    at two in the morning and it delighted her to be able to contact the    concierge on his behalf. She was his walking computer, his butler, and,    if Cayo was honest, his true second-in-command. Smart, dependable,  even   trustworthy. He should have encouraged her to leave him three  years  ago  when she'd wanted that promotion. She could have been  running  companies  for him by now. She was that good.                       
       
           



       

Which was, of course, why he'd been so loath to let her do it.

Or one reason, anyway, he thought now, darkly impatient with himself. He    idly fingered his wineglass as he half pretended to pay attention to    the conversation that swelled around him. Not that anyone expected him    to charm them, of course. Or even be particularly polite, for that    matter. That was Drusilla's job.

She is magnificent, he thought, and ignored the sudden pang that    followed as he considered how soon she would be gone. How soon he would    have to think up a new approach, a new game to get what he wanted from    investors like this without her deft touch, her quiet, almost  invisible   support.

And how soon he would have to face this stubborn thing in him he didn't    want to acknowledge: how little he wanted her to leave, and his  growing   suspicion that it was far less about business than he was  comfortable   admitting. Even to himself.

"Trust me, Mr. Peck," he heard her say to the self-satisfied gentleman    on her left, heir to what remained of a steel fortune in one of those    smaller, ugly-named American cities, making the man puff up as if she    was sharing a great confidence, "this is the sort of meal that will    change your life. Three Michelin stars, naturally. I've made you a    reservation for tomorrow at nine."

She straightened then, and her gaze met his down the length of the    table, with all of the investors and cigar smoke and concentrated wealth    in between them. It was as if the rest of the room was plunged into    darkness, as if it ceased to exist entirely, and there was nothing but    Drusilla. Nothing but the searing impact of their connection. And he  saw   the truth on that pretty face of hers he could now read far too  well.   He felt it kick in him, as if she'd reached across the table,  over the   remnants of the feast they'd all shared and the money they'd  won, and   landed a vicious blow with the nearest blunt object. A hard  one,   directly into his solar plexus.

She hated him. He hadn't thought much of it when she'd said it, as so    many people had said the same over the years that it was like so much    white noise. But he was beginning to believe she actually meant it. And    more, that she thought he was a monster.

None of that was new. None of it was surprising. But this was: he knew full well he'd acted like one.

He'd do well to remember that.

* * *

Much later that night, the investors were finally gone, off to their own    debaucheries or beds or both, and Cayo found he couldn't sleep.

He prowled through the suite's great room, hardly noticing the opulence    surrounding him, from the paintings that graced the walls of the vast,    airy space to the hand-blown light fixtures at every turn and    breathtaking antiques littered about. He pushed his way out onto the    terrace that wrapped around the suite, offering commanding views across    Milan. The spires of the famous Duomo in the city center pierced the    night, lit up against the wet, faintly chilly dark. On a clear day the    Alps would be there in the distance, snowcapped and beautiful, and he    had the fanciful notion he could sense them out there, looming and    watchful. But he could see nothing at all but Drusilla. As if she    haunted him, and she hadn't even left him yet.