Lauren rotated to face him with feminine aggression. “If you think you can change my mind by telling me your job is more important than my happiness, you’re wrong. Been there, done that. Tell me what I will get out of marriage and I’ll think about it.”
Hellfire, she was beautiful. The short hair worked for her, exposing a face that glowed with passion and assertiveness. That force tapped an answering signal in him, making him want to frame her face in his hands and kiss the hell out of her. They were both still aroused. That’s why they were on the verge of killing each other, snapping like territorial dogs. If she thought he wasn’t aware of the points of her nipples turgid against the fall of her light sweater, she was kidding herself. All he could think about was how close he’d had her to orgasm simply by fondling her breast. It took all his self-control not to adjust the ache behind his fly, but he was afraid that if he touched himself, he’d give in, open his pants and have her on the floor.
She knew what was going on in his mind. Her breathing pattern hitched and her lips parted invitingly while her body language grew soft and receptive.
He smiled. “You want the sex as much as I do, cara. Marry me.”
“I’m not as uptight as I used to be, Paolo. I can have sex without a ring.”
He let his brows go up, not liking that supercilious note in her voice. It was too suggestive of confidence that she could manage him. “You think?” he challenged.
She snorted. “I may be easy, but so are you.”
He folded his arms, taking full advantage of his height to look down on her. “And if I told you I won’t make love to you until my ring is on your finger?”
“Really?” A smile of genuine amusement grew across her lips. “You want to take that on as a challenge or a bet or whatever it is your crazy, competitive nature drinks in as fuel? You have a streak of perversity, you know that? Okay, run with it. Let’s see how far you get.” She chuckled and turned away to reach for her water, turning back with the glass raised nearly to her grin before adding, “Keeping in mind that I can have sex whenever and with whomever I choose.”#p#????#e#
“Oh, that’s where you are wrong, cara. Very, very wrong.”
He hemmed her in with long arms braced on either side of her. Flutters of heat fanned the desire simmering inside him, but his ego was fully on the line now. He wouldn’t make love to her until he had what he wanted: her. And he was the only man who would touch her ever again.
“I’m not coming back to another empty house and having a heart attack because you’re down the road flirting with university dropouts. You and I will be joined at the hip until you agree to marry me, sharing this house or staying in the city to see my family—which is where we are going tonight. Do you have something to wear or shall we go shopping?”
Lauren was gearing up to tell him to back off and get real, but her inner diva heard the magic word and went, O-oh, shopping. The suitcases upstairs were half empty and she had high intentions of filling them.
Paolo straightened and nodded. “Shopping it is.”
“Wait! That wasn’t agreement.”
“You want to know what marriage to me offers, do you not? Allow me to show you how you are treated when you are related to the most powerful banker in Milan. And you will agree to dinner. I would like my mother to know about us before the rumors start. Because they will.”
The assumption in that phrase “know about us” got her back up, but it was overshadowed by the resignation in his tone. Lauren shivered. She wanted to be as confident as she managed to sound about having her baby alone, but deep down she was as fragile and uncertain as any new mother. She longed for support she could count on, just not when it was being offered so reluctantly.
And despite the kisses they’d shared today and his claim that he was attracted to her, she was genuinely gun-shy about rushing into another marriage that was only trying to serve convention.
Getting out of the house suddenly sounded like an ideal distraction from dwelling on problems they couldn’t resolve.
* * *
Paolo had to give Lauren credit. As a man who had escorted countless women through the fashion houses in Milan—relatives, mistresses, his first wife—he was very familiar with where to go and whom to see. His own clothes were tailored almost exclusively by Corneliani; the son of his father’s tailor had been making Paolo’s suits since Paolo had been a ring bearer for Vittorio’s parents at three. Nevertheless, Paolo knew where they were headed even before Lauren seated herself next to him, placed two hands over the pocketbook she set on her knees and said with breathless anticipation, “Via Monte Napoleone, please.”