She sighed into his mouth as if she’d lost a battle and brought her hands up to frame his face. He wedged his knee in between hers and hauled her closer. Took the kiss deeper until he was sure he had branded her irrevocably his.
“You have to believe in us, Quinn,” he murmured against her mouth. “This is real. We are real. And we are going to figure this out together.”
“That’s a nice cutline for the photo.”
The amused voice came from behind them at the same time a bright light exploded. He jerked his hands from Quinn and spun around as another flash went off. A photographer.
The shorter, slighter man turned and ran. Matteo lunged for him but he was too quick. He fled up the stairs, Matteo in hot pursuit. Through the restaurant, out the doors to the terrace they ran. The photographer must have cased the place and knew exactly where he was headed, because Matteo lost him in the crowd. He stood there, breathing hard, his arms dropping by his sides. Damn.
He grabbed a security guard. The guard alerted his coworkers and they scoured the grounds. To no avail. The photographer was long gone.
Matteo sought out Raymond Bernard and demanded to see the press credentials. A white-faced Quinn joined him as the manager went off in search of them. She flicked him a glance. “I saw him watching us earlier while we danced.”
“I don’t understand.” Matteo ran a hand over his head. “The door to the cellar locks automatically. You need a code to get down there.”
“There’s a ten-second delay before it locks again,” Quinn said numbly. “If he was watching us and saw you go down he could have slipped in.”
Matteo wanted to kick himself for being so indiscreet. Like a cowboy with your gun drawn at all times, Riccardo had said. Was that what he was?
Well, he was paying for it now.
“It was a Whispers and Tales photographer,” Raymond said, returning with a sheet of paper. He handed it to Matteo, a frown on his face. “Why would he be shooting in the cellar? It was not included in the permissions.”
Quinn looked as if she wanted to throw up. Matteo studied the photographer’s picture. It was definitely him.
He left a voice mail with Alex to put pressure on the magazine not to use the photograph. Threaten them with legal action. But it was 2:00 a.m. Chances were, the photograph would be making the rounds before she even had a chance to speak to his editor.
Quinn pressed her hands to her temples. “That’s not going to make any difference, is it? They’re going to use it.”
“Probably.”
They closed things off for the night, then headed back to the suite. It was nearly two-thirty in the morning by the time Quinn paced the floor of the living room, steam coming out of her ears. “With your notoriety, that photograph’s going to be everywhere by tomorrow morning.”
“Likely.”
“We need a game plan.”
“We’ve done what we can do for tonight.” He kept his voice level, but his stomach was churning. The sense that he was on a one-way ticket to Hades binding its way around his brain. “It was a great night for Le Belle Bleu, Quinn. You did a superb job. Get some sleep and we’ll figure the rest out tomorrow after I talk to Alex.”
“I am not you.” She went from agitated to Mount Vesuvius in under a second. “You might be used to having graphic photos strewn across the internet, but I am not.”
He gritted his teeth. “I am generally very discreet about my relationships. This is not a usual occurrence for me.”
“Yes, well, I have a reputation to protect. This is a disaster.”
He took a step toward her, his blood heating at the gibe. “It’s done. We can’t take it back. There’s no use being melodramatic.”
“Melodramatic? You won’t feel that way when my father hits the roof. When the board realizes how ethically wrong we’ve both been. Goddammit, Matteo. I was going to recuse myself. Now what is everyone going to think?”
“We will deal with it,” he said firmly. “Together. It will be fine.”
“You don’t think Daniel Williams is going to see this and not cry bloody murder?” Her voice rose another octave. “I have breached an open bidding process with completely unethical behavior. It is not going to be fine. It’s going to be awful.”
“Quinn—”
She started pacing again. “Why couldn’t you have just listened to me? Kept your hands to yourself until that party was over?”
“You want to discuss who hasn’t been able to keep their hands to themselves?” He gave her a dangerous look. “Because you started this.”
Color flared in her high cheekbones. She turned and walked to the open French doors and leaned against the frame, looking out at the sea. “It’s not just about me, Matteo. De Campo could lose the contract over this.”