Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

He pocketed the phone and raised his head, his gaze travelling with a discernible lack of haste from her feet to her face. She squirmed, heat trailing over her skin in the wake of his indolent scrutiny. Teeth gritted, she fought the urge to adjust the robe over her breasts.

‘Pointless only because you are being stubborn.’

She snorted. ‘I’m not stubborn. I’m just...selective. I haven’t seen anything I like, that’s all.’

‘You have tried on fourteen dresses.’

He was counting? She crossed her arms. ‘And I told you—I haven’t seen anything I like.’

‘Then I suggest you find something you do.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘I will choose for you.’

The desire to stamp her foot was overwhelming. But no doubt he would enjoy her loss of composure. She settled for raising her chin. ‘I don’t know what type of relationships you have with the women in your life, and frankly I don’t care. But I, for one, do not like to be bullied.’

In a single fluid movement of his powerful frame Leo surged off his chair. He prowled towards her and her nerves skittered, but she held her ground. He stopped just short of their bodies touching and locked his gaze on hers.

‘My mother gave me three pieces of advice before she died.’

It wasn’t remotely what she’d expected him to say. She frowned, uncertain. ‘Did she?’

‘Si.’ His right index finger appeared in front of her face. ‘One, to take my schooling seriously.’ His middle finger rose beside the first. ‘Two, to learn English and learn it well.’ His third finger snapped up to join the others. ‘And three, always to choose my battles wisely.’

Her frown deepened—a convulsive tug of the tiny muscles between her brows. During their brief time together he’d not spoken of his mother except to say that she’d died when he was eleven. Her heart squeezed now at the thought of a young boy grieving for his mother and it stirred a ridiculous urge to comfort him—this proud, infuriating man who wouldn’t accept her comfort if they were the last two people on Earth.

‘Your mother was a sensible woman,’ she ventured, unsure how else to respond.

‘Si.’ He hooked his fingers under her chin. ‘And her advice has served me well. As it will you, if you have the sense to heed it.’

She gave him a blank look. ‘I was a straight A student, thank you very much. And I think you’ll find my English is perfect.’

His teeth bared in a sharp smile that mocked her attempt to miss the point. ‘Then you will have no trouble understanding this.’ He lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath feathering over her skin in a hot, too-intimate caress. ‘Wisdom is not only in choosing your battles with care, cara. It is knowing when to concede defeat. We will stay here until you choose a dress or I will choose one for you. Those are your options. Accept and decide.’

‘I—’

He planted a brief, hard kiss on her mouth, stealing her breath along with any further attempt at protest, then held her gaze in mute challenge until she gave a grunt of anger and whirled away.

‘Bully,’ she muttered, but he either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the slur, and by the time the saleswoman reappeared he was seated again, dark head bowed, his attention back on his phone.

With mammoth effort she mustered a smile and cast a critical eye over the two latest gowns, both backless halternecks with ankle-length skirts, one a bright turquoise, the other a deep, stunning claret. She ran an appreciative hand over the latter.

The saleswoman removed the dress from its hanger. ‘Beautiful, si?’

Helena had to agree. ‘How much?’ she asked quietly.

The Italian woman quoted a number in euros that dropped the bottom out of Helena’s stomach. The equivalent in pounds would pay the rent on her flat not for weeks, but for months.

She slipped into the gown and it was even more beautiful on, its weightless silk gliding like cool air over her body, the shimmering claret a striking contrast against her pale ivory skin. She performed a little pirouette in front of the mirror, her stomach fluttering with a burst of unexpected pleasure.

The saleswoman smiled. ‘This is the one?’

Helena hesitated. Could she really allow Leo to buy her this dress? She studied her reflection. A lot of skin was exposed, and the style called for going braless, but he had said he wanted her in something more eye-catching. Something more befitting his mistress.

She chewed her lip. She could go out there, parade for his approval, but pride and some residual anger over his high-handedness stopped her. Maybe she lacked the glamour of his usual mistresses, and maybe her wardrobe was a little staid, but she still had enough feminine savvy to know when she looked good.

Confidence swelled. Yes. She could do this. She could play her part and convince the world—or at least the Santinos and their guests—that she and Leo were lovers. She had to. If she wanted to honour her end of their bargain—if she wanted Leo to honour his—there could be no half-hearted performances. She either did this properly or not at all.