“That’s horrible,” Constance said, the sympathy in her voice only making the uncomfortable knot in his gut tighten.
He tried to shrug it off. “Can’t really blame her. It was a lot of money.”
“Yes but—”
“I believe that’s earned me more than a couple inches,” he said, interrupting her. He didn’t want sympathy from her. It was over and done with. He’d learned his lesson, moved on. He’d much rather focus his attention on the gorgeous woman currently in his bed, not some miserable ghost from his past.
He thought Constance might argue, but instead she lowered the blanket to her waist. He caught his breath and took her in. The thin silk of the camisole did nothing to hide the fullness of her breasts. If anything, the material accentuated the firm mounds that lay beneath it. Her nipples puckered, pressing against the thin fabric, and he had to twist his hands into the sheets to keep from reaching out to touch them.
The faint moonlight filtering in from the window made her pale skin glow like a freshly harvested pearl. The dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders just brushed her nipples and he ached to brush those tendrils aside and bring those tight little buds to his waiting lips.
“Luca?”
He blinked and brought his gaze back up to meet hers. She stared at him, somehow both amused and disapproving. “You seem surprised,” she said.
He forced himself to get a grip. “I am, a little.”
“Oh really? I know I’ll probably regret asking this, but what did you think I slept in?”
“I don’t know. Something flannel maybe. With sleeves down to your wrists and buttons up to here,” he said, flicking a finger at her throat.
She slapped at his hand. “Oh, so because I have a houseful of kids and work with nuns I must dress like them, too?”
“Don’t be so offended. You’d look amazing in a nun’s habit.”
She snorted. “Thanks. I think.”
His eyes flicked over her again. “I could tell you what I hoped you slept in.”
“Do I really want to know?”
He laughed. “Probably not.”
“Too bad you won’t be seeing the rest of it.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can think of some more inappropriately intrusive moments to get the rest of those blankets off.”
She faked a yawn. “I don’t know. I’m getting tired. It’d have to be a pretty good moment. Something not about your sex life would be great, if you even have any stories like that.”
He knew one. It wasn’t something he wanted to share, but the words were coming out of his mouth before he had made the conscious decision to speak.
…
“It’s funny, I guess. I used to think all the attention was fun,” he said quietly. “I’d purposely do the most outrageous things I could think of to get my pictures in the magazines. The paparazzi were almost like friends, there to immortalize me. Capture all my amazing moments. They made me famous for doing nothing, as you pointed out.”
Constance bit her lip, wanting to apologize for her hasty words. Nothing she said ever seemed to faze him much. Maybe she’d been wrong. She held her breath, afraid if she spoke she’d spook him. She needed him to keep talking. The way he’d looked at her she was surprised her clothes hadn’t melted right off. She was already having a hard time keeping her breathing slow and even, like she wasn’t affected by the fact that she was lying in a bed with the sexiest man she’d ever seen, who, if she wasn’t mistaken, wasn’t wearing a stitch of anything beneath the sheet that covered him.
They weren’t even touching, not even close. Aside from the brief brush of her shoulder, all he’d done was look at her, and she was ready to climb him like he was Mount Olympus…only he’d be the one planting his flag.
She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the sight of him long enough to get a grip on herself. And it was only the first night. How was she ever going to survive six weeks of nightly torture?
Luca took a deep breath and she glanced back at him. Some of her libido drained away at the look on his face. He was speaking, but not looking at her, just lying there staring at the ceiling, emotion raw on his face.
“The problem was,” he continued, still staring at the ceiling instead of looking at her, “they didn’t only capture the amazing moments. They captured all my moments. They once took pictures of me vomiting outside a club. That was attractive, let me tell you. I was too young to be there in the first place, too dumb to know any better.” He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound.
“But the worst thing was the questions, always the questions. They’ll ask anything, and I really do mean anything. Nothing is sacred to them if it’ll sell a few papers. In fact, the more private, the better for them. You wanted to know what the worst, most invasive question I’ve ever been asked was?”