Bought by Her Italian Boss

He didn’t flinch, only curled his lip as he asked, “Which lie is closer to the truth, Gwyn? That you want to sleep with Kevin Jensen? Or that you’ve been sleeping with me?”

Could he see inside her thoughts? Did he know what she fantasized about as she drifted into slumber every night? She sincerely hoped not. Talk about dirty images!

Blushing hotly all over, she crushed the fingers of one hand in the grip of the other, trying to keep herself from ruining any more of her manicure. Having him aware of her attraction made this worse, just as she had suspected. It was mortifying to be this transparent around him.

All she had to do was picture Nadine’s disapproving face to know how far protesting with the truth would get her, though. If she had more time, she might have come up with a better solution, but the helicopter was much lower now, seeming to aim for a stretch of green lawn next to a lakeside villa.

On the table before her, her phone vibrated with yet another message.

It didn’t matter who it was from. Everyone she knew was being told she had sent naked photos of herself to a married man. The existence of the photos was bad enough, but she was prepared to do just about anything, as the people in Nadine’s line of work would say, to change the narrative. Vittorio said this would cut the scandal down to a few short days and she had to agree that it was a more palatable lie than the one Kevin Jensen had put forth.

“Fine,” she muttered, swallowing misgivings. “I’ll pretend we were having an affair. Pretend,” she repeated. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

He smiled like he knew better.

CHAPTER FOUR

HE LET HER into the house, then watched her wander it as he made a call, allowing her to listen as he greeted someone with a warm, “Cara. Come stai?”

Gwyn took it like a punch in the stomach, wondering how crazy she was to agree that he could call her his lover if he already had one.

The restored mansion was unbelievable, she noted as she clung to her own elbows and stared at the view of Lake Como that started just below the windows off the breakfast nook. The rest of the interior was warmly welcoming, with a spacious kitchen and May sunshine that poured through the tall windows and glanced off the gleaming floors with golden promise. Family snapshots of children and gray-haired relatives and the handsome owner and his wife adorned the walls, making this a very personal sanctuary.

This felt like a place where nothing bad ever happened. That’s what home was supposed to be, wasn’t it? A refuge?

Would she ever build such a thing for herself, she wondered?

Gwyn moved into the lounge and lowered into a wingback chair, listening to the richness of Vittorio’s voice, but not bothering to translate his Italian, aching to let waves of self-pity erode her composure. She felt more abandoned today than even the day her mother had died. At least then she’d had Henry. And a life to carry on with. A career. Something to keep her moving forward. Now...

She stared at her empty hands. Vittorio had even stolen her phone again, scowling at its constant buzz before powering it down and pocketing it.

She hadn’t argued, still in a kind of denial, but she was facing facts now. She had no one. Nothing.

In the other room, Vittorio concluded with, “Ciao, bella,” and his footsteps approached.

He checked briefly when he saw her, then came forward to offer the square of white linen that was still faintly damp and stained with her mascara.

So gallant. While she felt like some kind of sullied lowlife.

She rejected it and him by looking away.

“No tears? That doesn’t speak of innocence, mia bella,” he jeered softly.

She never cried in front of people. Even at the funeral, she’d been the stalwart organizer, waiting for privacy before allowing grief to overwhelm her.

“Is that all it would take to convince you?” she said with an equal mixture of gentle mockery. “Would you hold me if I did?” She lifted her chin to let him see her disdain.

“Of course,” he said, making her heart leap in a mixture of alarm and yearning. “No man who calls himself a man allows a woman to cry alone.”

“Some of us prefer it,” she choked out, even though there was a huge, weak part of her that wanted to wallow in whatever consolation he might offer. She’d had boyfriends. She knew that a man’s embrace could create a sense of harbor.

But it was temporary. And Vittorio was not extending real sanctuary. They were allied enemies at best.

He wasn’t even attracted to her. He thought she was a criminal and a slut.

“Just show me where I can sleep.” She was overdue for hugging a pillow and bellyaching into it.

His silence made her look up.

“Paolo is still tied up questioning Fabrizio. His wife has very kindly offered her wardrobe.” He waved toward the stairs. “She has excellent taste. Let’s find something appropriate.”