Bought by Her Italian Boss
When she walked outside, summer was announcing its intentions with a heat just this side of uncomfortable and a memo that humidity intended to climb to unbearable.
She dug her keys from her purse, ignoring the sound of a car door opening because it was likely yet another paparazzo—
“Cara.”
Cupid’s arrow, right through the heart. Sweetly painful, painfully sweet.
She turned to regard him and wished she’d taken a moment to find a bored expression. Instead, she was sure he read all the mixed feelings of welcome and yearning and hurt and betrayal. Why would he show up now, as she was finding ways to live without him?
Why like that? So iconic in one of his banker suits, cut to precision on his leanly sculpted form. He wore a hint of late-day stubble on his cheeks and his eyes were the color of morning light on mountain glaciers.
He stepped to the side and indicated the interior of his limo.
She sputtered, arms folding, aware of footsteps running toward them as some lurking paparazzo realized who she was talking to.
“Have dinner with me,” Vito said, paying no attention to the click and whiz of the camera.
“It’s four-thirty. I have my own car.” She showed him her keys.
He turned and leaned down to speak to his driver, then slammed the door, walking toward her to hold out his palm.
“Really,” she said, letting the full scope of her disbelief infuse the word. “Just take up where we left off? No.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Does it occur to you that I might not want to talk to you?”
“That is a bluff.” He met her gaze and there was a myriad of emotions behind that brutally beautiful face and somber expression. Knowledge shone in his eyes, knowledge of her and what he did to her, his patented arrogance, a kind of desolation that stopped her heart. Heat that made it jump and race again.
He took her keys from her limp fingers.
“I said I wanted to talk. You only need to listen.” He touched her elbow, turning her toward the parked cars. At the same time, he clicked the button so the lights on her hatchback flashed. Then he held the passenger door for her.
She hadn’t sat on this side of her new car, which wasn’t bottom of the line, but wasn’t the kind of luxury Vito was used to. While he drove, she took out her phone long enough to punch in Henry’s number, leaving a message that she wouldn’t be home right away because she was going to dinner with Vittorio.
He glanced across as she dropped her phone into her purse.
“Things are well with your family? You’re living with your stepfather. Is that because of the attention?”
He knew she hadn’t moved into her own place? She hardly stalked him at all.
She shrugged. “He wants me there. I guess if there’s a silver lining to the photos it’s learning that I really do have a family. I know now exactly what other women mean when they say that older brothers are annoying. Your sisters must say that a lot.”
His brow cocked at her cheeky remark, but he only said, “His protectiveness surprised me after the way you sounded so dismissive of him.”
“Join the club,” she snorted under her breath.
“He knows you went out with a man the other night?”
“I assume the whole world knows it, if you’ve heard about it.” She reminded herself that it didn’t matter that he was bringing it up—even if his voice had lowered to a tone that pretended to be casual, but was actually quite lethal. “He’s a friend of Trav’s so yes, he knows. He set it up.” Chew on that.
“You had a nice time?” Again with the light tone, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
“I don’t talk about the men I date,” she said flatly.
Silence for a full minute, until he stopped behind a line of traffic waiting for a light.
“No. You don’t. I appreciate that, cara,” he said softly, and this time his voice was filled with gravity and sincerity. “I know you’ve had offers for tell-alls. They must have been generous. You wouldn’t have to work again, I’m sure.”
She only turned her face to her side window. If he thought she was the least bit tempted in profiting from what they had shared, he really didn’t know her at all.
“How do you like your job?” he asked.
“It’s a job, Vito. It’s no pin-up gig as Kevin Jensen’s piece on the side. It’s no mistress to a playboy banker. But it pays the bills.”
“You’re angry that I sent you away.”
“I’m angry that you’re here,” she said, swinging her head around to glare at him. “My life was starting to look normal. Why stir it up again?”