She sipped her wine, quietly digested that snippet of information. A villa in Tuscany. A penthouse in Rome. Exclusive hotel rooms in London. Not forgetting the housekeeper and, of course, his company jet. However severe his setback at the hands of her father, it hadn’t stopped his meteoric rise to success.
She perched on a stool, decided that now was not the time to challenge him on that, and focused on the food. ‘I’m hungry.’ She studied the platters. ‘Where do I start?’
‘Here. Like this.’ He rubbed a garlic clove on a piece of grilled bread, drizzled over olive oil, piled on tomato and mozzarella and topped it with basil leaves and a grind of salt and pepper. He handed it to her. ‘Bruschetta—tradizionale.’
‘Looks wonderful.’
And it tasted just as good.
They ate and drank and she asked him about Rome and Tuscany, quizzing him on the culture, history and climate of each region. He seemed content to keep their conversation light, the topics neutral, and gradually the pretence of normality eased her tension. Or was that thanks to the wine she’d consumed?
When Leo picked up the bottle again she covered her glass and shook her head. The wine had helped her relax, but too much would lull her into a false sense of comfort.
‘We need a story about where and when we met,’ he said, his gaze fastening on her mouth as she fired in another olive. ‘I suggest we use a version of the truth.’
Conscious of his scrutiny, she removed the olive stone as daintily as she could and washed the pulp down with a gulp of wine. ‘The truth?’
‘That we met at an art gallery in London some years ago and have recently become reacquainted.’
She nodded slowly. ‘How recently?’
He sipped his wine, considered. ‘Five months.’
Five months? Did that account for the time since he’d rejected Anna Santino and then some? Or had it been five months since his last mistress? Abruptly, she killed that line of thought. She didn’t need to know. Didn’t want to know.
‘Okay. Five months.’
‘Good.’ He put his glass down, reached for an olive, the movement bringing his arm into contact with hers. The touch was fleeting, inadvertent, yet instant heat flared beneath her skin.
Without meaning to, she flinched.
His brows slammed down. ‘Damn it, Helena.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t bite.’
‘I know.’
‘Then why leap like a scalded cat every time I touch you?’ Lines bracketed his mouth—deep grooves of displeasure that made her stomach lurch. ‘Do you find my touch so repellent?’
Her eyes flared. ‘No—’
‘Perhaps you were right to have second thoughts.’ He balled up his paper napkin and tossed it over the benchtop. ‘We’ll never pull this off. The whole thing is crazy. Pazzo.’
Panic surged up her throat. ‘It’s not. I can do this.’
‘Can you?’
She pushed off her stool. ‘Yes,’ she said, her tone low and fierce, and before she could stifle the impulse she fisted her hands in his shirt, shoved him against the granite and slammed her mouth over his.
Reckless! a voice in her head screamed, but she silenced it. What better way to prove her ability to play his mistress than with a kiss? A kiss that had to knock him dead, she told herself, letting instinct and boldness take over as she flicked her tongue into his surprise-slackened mouth.
Heat combined with the taste of salt and red wine exploded on her tongue, and when he grunted she thrust deeper, a second time and a third, until his grunt became a low growl against her lips.
Leo moved, shifting his weight on the stool, and she felt the hot imprint of his big hands curving around her buttocks. Then he hauled her in close, his powerful thighs parting to accommodate her, and angled his head to give their mouths a better fit.
And, Lord, the man knew how to kiss. Knew how to use those sensual lips and that wicked tongue to devastating effect. He stroked into her mouth, his tongue hot, demanding, and she almost lost her grip on his shirt. Almost lost her grip on herself.