Bought by Her Italian Boss

It struck him that she didn’t know he was attracted to her.

He would have laughed if he hadn’t been so stunned. Admiration of her figure was a given. Why did she think she’d been chosen for this particular form of exploitation?

But there was more. Tendrils of possessiveness had rooted in him during those first seconds of viewing her pale nudity. A prowling hunger was growing, urging him to make her aware that he ached to touch her. He wanted to see the knowledge, the catch of excitement in her gaze. The exponential increase of passion as it reflected back and forth between them like parallel mirrors.

He didn’t know how he knew it would be like that, he just did.

“You’ll have to get used to looking insipidly pleased by my compliments,” he said to disguise his growing need, grasping at her remark about practicing. “And welcome my touch,” he added, giving in to temptation and letting the backs of his fingers graze the softness of her bare arm.

Goose bumps immediately rose on her skin and her nipples tightened.

It was such a visceral reaction he experienced an answering pull in his groin, one that very nearly had him throwing in the towel on his precious discipline. He had wanted to scoop her up and head straight to the nearest bedroom. Hell, the floor.

She blushed. Hard. Hurt flashed across her expression. “I’m already a powerless game piece. Don’t make it worse by taunting me with my own stupid reaction to you.” Shame darkened her eyes, but she dared to threaten him. “Or we will have a very ugly public breakup.”

“And a very hot and public reunion  ,” he responded fiercely, catching at the taut tendons in her wrists where she clenched her hands into fists. Tucking them behind her back, he pulled her in close and slid his lips along her perfumed neck, eyes almost rolling back into his skull as male hunger slammed through him. He wanted her. “Because your reaction to me is exactly what will sell this story of ours. So get used to revealing it.”

Then, because she strained her face away from him, he sucked a tiny love bite onto her neck where it met her shoulder. Her whole body shuddered and a sensual moan escaped her. Her hips bucked to press her mons against his straining erection and lingered to rock with muted need, teasing both of them.

In that second, they could have both lost it, but he had forced himself to release her, his grip on his control far too tenuous for his liking.

He was unsurprised by the hatred she flashed at him as she took a staggering step away from him. She looked stricken. Shocked by her own reaction. He was unnerved himself. They would tear the skin from each other’s bones if they gave in to this thing between them.

That hatred was good, though. It armed him against making love to her. He was driven, not despicable.

She hadn’t spoken to him again, moving to the car like an airman with jump orders, sitting stiffly, keeping her stoic expression averted.

Everything in him itched to knock through that wall of hostility with another sample of their amazing chemistry, but he needed time to get hold of himself first.

The driver slowed to a crawl behind the line releasing rock stars, socialites, minor royalty and major league players onto the red carpet.

Vito wasn’t on the list, but he knew the American actor hosting the cruise, so he had seized the opportunity to “come out” with Gwyn here. It was a precursor to an international film festival. The guest list was not only small and exclusive, but worldly enough that leaked sex tapes and mug shots were dismissed as “publicity.” Nude photos were barely worth mentioning, as common to a portfolio as head shots.

He heard Gwyn’s breath switch to measured hisses as she tried to control an attack of nerves. As the car stopped, he took her limp, clammy hand in his—and experienced a thrill of excitement from the contact despite the terror in the gaze she flashed at him.

“Chin up,” he reminded her with a patronizing smile, sensing that kindness in this moment would be her downfall. She seemed to find her strength in anger, so he provoked it.

She said something under her breath that wasn’t very ladylike, making him want to smile, but that wouldn’t do for their purposes.

“Let them know how much you hate them,” he said as the door beside him opened. He stood, bringing Gwyn with him, not giving her a chance to chicken out. Then he paused, giving the paparazzi the moment they needed to realize who they had.

The girl from the photos.

With Vittorio Donatelli.

His hand possessively slid so he had his arm around her and drew her closer, dipping his chin to look into her withdrawn expression with just the right level of concern before he lifted a hostile, contemptuous glare to the wall of cameras, silently messaging Kevin Jensen that he had messed with the wrong man’s woman.