It was painful to have feelings for someone. He had always known that love hurt. But was he making both of them suffer just to prove he was right?
He sure as hell hadn’t spared himself any pain by holding her off. She had acted like she was doing him a favor by leaving and he had tried to convince himself he didn’t want her to stay.
But he did. He needed her. Like air and water and sunlight.
Throwing off his covers, he picked up his phone, trying to think what he’d say to her if she answered. It was midmorning in Milan. She was probably already working.
He tapped to wake the screen and read a text from Marco that stopped his heart.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT HAD ALREADY been an impossibly long day, but Luli dug deep and conjured a sultry expression, lips parted with invitation only a hair’s breadth from her fellow model’s. He was a gorgeous Italian whose smoky stare drifted toward Marco every time they took a break, but he made his passion for her seem real as he clutched her close and bent dominantly over her.
“What the hell?”
Gabriel’s voice jolted through the studio, halting the rapid click of the camera shutter. Her partner tightened his hold on her, helping her straighten and catch her balance. Then he angled her away from Gabriel as he strode toward them looking like he would take them both apart.
“Sir!” Marco raced forward to intercept him.
“Gabriel!” Luli extricated herself from the Italian’s hold. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing?”
“Working. Obviously.”
He gave the Italian a filthy look that suggested he didn’t care for her type of “work,” but only asked, “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Sir—” The photographer was taking a tone. Even worse, he was glaring at Luli as though he blamed her for the interruption.
“I’m sorry—I texted him,” Marco said, holding up his hands. “This is my fault. I was worried,” he added in a gentle apology directed at Luli. Then he smiled placatingly at Gabriel. “They’re almost finished. We can wait outside.”
“I’ll wait right here.” He crossed his arms and stood with his toes mere inches from the carpet of the set.
Luli shouldn’t have been surprised Marco had told Gabriel that her mother had died. For years, she had set alerts to pick up her mother’s name, but yesterday’s had been the first in ages to ping a headline about her. Her death after a medical complication had been noted by the Venezuelan press because she had once been a renowned beauty, but details had been scant.
Luli had mentioned it to Marco, though, and asked him to prepare a statement in the unlikely case the connection was discovered by an overzealous reporter. He had pointed out her contract allowed for family emergency and bereavement leave, but she was too early in this new career of hers to be anything but unrelentingly reliable.
Besides, the news changed nothing.
She should have realized Marco would warn Gabriel of the potential media storm. Had something leaked into the press? Was that why he was stomping in here, breathing fire?
She couldn’t think about that right now. She had to do what she was paid to do.
Thirty minutes later they wrapped. As she changed, she heard Gabriel ask Marco, “What the hell are they even selling with all that sex?”
Marco cleared his throat. “The handbag on the chair.”
The resounding silence that followed that statement told her what Gabriel thought of that.
Marco apologized to her again when she rejoined them.
“It’s fine. We both know who pays your salary.” She freed her hair from the collar of her light coat.
“Mrs. Dean.” He put out a hand in a plea. “You were upset. I could see it even if the camera couldn’t.”
And he thought she and Gabriel had a relationship that included endearments and a deeper caring than it did.
“I’m fine,” she assured Marco with a faint smile. “Take the evening off. Enjoy the city.” Enjoy the Italian.
She went back to her hotel with Gabriel, the silence between them thick as gelatin.
As the door closed behind him, Gabriel was the first to speak, asking tightly, “Why are you angry Marco told me?”