Seduced by the Heir(6)

"I'm beat. I'm turning in." Stefano stood and swiped his iPhone off the  coffee table. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day, and if I doze off  during the tour Cassandra will kill me!"

"Is everyone heading into the city for the sightseeing excursion?"

"And by everyone, you mean Paris, right?" He wore a wry grin. "Yeah, she's going."

"I might tag along," Rafael said, keeping his tone light, casual. The  thought of spending the day with Paris appealed to him, but he didn't  confess the truth. If his best friend knew he was feeling something for  her-even just a little-he'd blab to Cassandra, and Rafael didn't want  anyone to know he was interested in hooking up with his former flame.  "My meeting has been pushed back to Monday, and I have nothing planned  tomorrow."

"That's great. Now you'll have time to romance Paris!"

Rafael scoffed at the suggestion. Ever since Stefano had proposed to  Cassandra he seemed hell-bent on hooking him up with one of her single  friends. And when he wasn't playing matchmaker he was bragging about his  lady love. Stefano couldn't go five minutes without talking about how  great she was, and listening to his buddy gush about his bride-to-be  made Rafael feel lonelier than ever.

First my best friend finds love, and then my brothers, he thought,  releasing a deep sigh. Coming to Venice was a bad idea. All this love  and happiness is sickening.

"I'll meet you on the tennis court at 7:00 a.m.," Stefano said, as they  exited the media room. "Don't be late, or I'll send Julietta to come get  you."

"You better not, or you'll be sporting a black eye on your wedding day."

Chuckling good-naturedly they strode down the hall and climbed the staircase.

"Good night, man."

"Try not to snore," Rafael teased, clapping his friend on the back. "I'm  a light sleeper, and I need my rest so I can whip you in straight sets  tomorrow."

"Keep dreaming, pretty boy, it's not going to happen!"

Seconds later, Rafael opened his bedroom door, flipped on the lights and  kicked off his shoes. The first thing he noticed was Julietta-sitting  on the king-size bed in a flimsy lace negligee.

"I can't sleep," she stated. Her eyes were as wide and as innocent as  Bambi's, but the mischievous expression on her tanned face told another  story.

"What are you doing here?" Rafael retorted.                       
       
           



       

"I came to see you," she purred, flinging the blanket aside and hopping  to her feet. Meeting his gaze head-on, she stalked toward him like a  jaguar prowling the jungle for fresh meat. "Let's get down and dirty. I  have wine, and more toys than a dominatrix!"

"I'm not interested."

"Then I'll just have to change your mind." Julietta reached for his belt  buckle, but Rafael grabbed her hands. "What are you doing? Don't you  want to have a good time?"

"It's late, and I have work to do."

"You don't want me to stay?"

"No, sorry, I don't."

Her smile fell away, and a sneer stained her glossy red lips. "I don't  need this crap. I'm superpopular here, and there are plenty of guys  who'd kill to be with me," she argued, propping her hands on her wide,  full hips. "I was the third runner up in last year's Miss Italia  contest, and I have more Twitter followers than the Dalai Lama...."

To end her rant, Rafael opened the bedroom door. "Good night, Julietta. Sleep well."

"If you change your mind, which I know you will, I'll be skinny-dipping in the pool."

Rafael watched the blue-eyed temptress slink down the staircase,  convinced that things couldn't get any worse. But as he turned away, he  spotted Paris standing at the other end of the hall, staring at him. He  wanted to tell her about what didn't happen with Julietta, but he could  tell by the malevolent glare on Paris's face that she thought he was the  scum of the earth. But he had to say something, had to defend himself.  Before Rafael could utter a word she marched into her bedroom and  slammed the door.





Chapter 4

On Friday morning downtown Venice was clogged with noisy tourists, and  flamboyant street performers hoping to make a quick buck, but Rafael  couldn't keep his eyes off Paris. Standing in the middle of the  world-famous Piazza San Marco was a mind-blowing experience, one that  should have been captivating enough to hold his attention, but it  didn't. Not with Paris around.

She looks like an angel, Rafael thought, admiring her on the sly. Her  oversize sunglasses gave her a youthful air, her crimson lips held a  dazzling smile and her sleeveless white dress played up her pear-shaped  figure.

Yeah, a naughty angel you'd love to see naked, his conscience taunted.  Quit gawking at her. You're better than that. You're a Morretti,  remember?

But Rafael didn't turn away. He lacked the willpower and fortitude it  required. Paris was dressed to kill, and her traffic-stopping curves  made him hot under the collar and below the belt. Diamonds dangled from  her ears, neck and wrists, and her ankle bracelet drew his gaze down her  long legs time and time again.

"The Piazza San Marcos is one of the most beautiful places in Italy, and  people travel from far and wide to admire the magnificent works of  Antonio Canova, Giovanni Bellini and Vittore Carpaccio."

Rafael tore his gaze away from Paris, and turned his attention to the  middle-aged tour guide with the receding hairline. He tried to listen to  what Mr. Esposito was saying, but all he could think about was kissing  Paris with all the passion coursing through his veins. He wouldn't act  on his feelings, knew better than to make a move on her in public, but  dammit if he didn't want to.

That morning at breakfast he'd scored a seat beside her. But  unfortunately Paris had spent more time chatting with the other  groomsmen than talking to him. And when they did speak their  conversation was plagued with tension and awkward silences. No matter,  Rafael told himself. He wasn't giving up. They'd had something special  once, and he liked the idea of having a holiday fling with Paris in his  beloved hometown. In fact, he couldn't think of a better way to kick off  the New Year. He was determined to connect with his old college  sweetheart and nothing was going to stop him.

Raising his water bottle to his lips, he took a long, refreshing drink.  The sky was clear, the breeze thick and the air was filled with the  scent of sweet-smelling flowers. People were everywhere-snapping  pictures, feeding the pigeons, wandering the cobblestone streets and  pushing and shoving like kids waiting in line at the water fountain. As  Rafael moped the sweat from his brow he decided he'd had enough  excitement for one day.

He choked down more water. After hours of walking from one ancient  monument to the next, he was ready to head back to the villa for some R  & R. He'd been up since dawn, and after working on his presentation,  he'd played tennis with Stefano and swam in the heated pool.

Checking his gold wristwatch, Rafael was surprised to see that it was  midday. After lunch, the group was heading over to the fashion district.  He had no desire to go shopping, and had better things to do with his  time, but knew it was a bad idea to ditch the group. If he did, one of  the other groomsmen would make a move on Paris, and there was no way in  hell Rafael was letting that happen. He'd have to suck it up, and bide  his time.                       
       
           



       

"Are we going on a gondola ride today?" asked one of Stefano's short, plump aunts.

The tour guide wore a polite smile. "No, ma'am, I'm afraid not."

"But it's on the top of my bucket list, and I may never come to Italy again!"

Everyone in the group laughed. The bride and groom's friends and  family-sixty-five loud, boisterous people in all-entered the Campanile,  the city's oldest and tallest building. But Rafael noticed Paris ducking  into one of the nearby bakeries.

Curious, he entered the pasticceria and took off his Ray-Ban sunglasses.  A fruity, spicy aroma sweetened the air, stirring his senses and  rousing his appetite. With its sultry lights, timber chandeliers and  glass sculptures, the shop looked more like an art gallery than a pastry  store. Italian music was playing, and the servers looked as chic as the  decor.

Rafael looked around, but couldn't find Paris anywhere. As he sat down  on one of the raised, wooden stools, he spotted a buxom waitress  climbing the circular, white staircase. Rafael contemplated heading  upstairs to scope out the second floor, but decided against it. Trailing  Paris was a bad idea. They had plenty of time to get reacquainted, and  since he didn't want her to think he was stalking her, he'd hang out on  the main floor, have a cup of coffee and watch the world go by from his  window seat.