Fiancée For The Cameras (Mills & Boon Modern)

CHAPTER SEVEN

T WO EVENINGS LATER , Andrea stood waiting in the lounge of his family home, impatience and anticipation swirling through him in equal measure. He hadn’t been this...invested in even the damned merger. But then, he knew the rules of that game. He’d written most of them.

With his assistant turned temptress...all bets were off. He felt as immature and unsure of himself as he’d felt with Chiara all those years ago. But for entirely different reasons.

For one thing, she was late.

Which was uncharacteristic enough of Monica that he couldn’t help wondering if she’d changed her mind in the two days since they’d seen each other, since she’d declared with a steely resolve that she was going to be a part of the solution for the mess they had both had a hand in creating.

He wouldn’t blame her if she did back out, though. He would even try to see it as the better outcome—notwithstanding the problem of Brunetti and the merger—because then he wouldn’t have to spend God only knew how many months trying to avoid giving in to temptation.

How do I seduce a man who makes my knees quake?

Dio mio , that innocent and yet infinitely provocative question of hers had haunted him for two days and nights. An echo of her sunflowers-and-vanilla scent had lingered in the air long after she had left his bedroom. He’d woken up close to dawn, hard as nails, the sheets tangled around his lower body feeling like those fingers that had tingled against the base of his palm. That was all the contact they’d had and yet it felt like she had left the echoes of her tentative touch all over his body.

For the first time in years, he’d thrown off the sheets, sunk back into the bed and taken his erection in hand. Eyes closed, he’d spent long minutes running through the images of her in his head, like a slow reel he’d been saving up for his leisure.

The upswell of her breasts when she’d leaned over the desk, all anger and outrage that he was changing his mind. The lean, muscled lengths of her thighs as he’d carried her to the car. The relentless flutter of the pulse at her neck when he was close. The soft gasp that fell from her sensuous mouth when he touched her.

He flicked through every image while he pumped himself in his hand, reveling in the pinpricks of pleasure sparking all over his body and corralling down his spine, coalescing into a storm that made him thrust his hips up off the bed. The moment he reached the image of her gaze lingering on his mouth...he spilled all over his sheets, his climax a sudden, riotous explosion that had left him shaking.

For long seconds after, he’d lain against the sheets, his skin damp, his breaths bellowing through his lungs, lingering aftershocks making his muscles shake. It was a luxury of time, of experience, of mind and body, he never allowed himself anymore. Had not for more than a decade.

And as he’d gathered the sheets and thrown them into the laundry hamper, as he’d checked his phone like some gauche emo teenager after a first date to see if she’d texted him, as he’d padded naked into his shower and turned the water to an icy blast to cool down his overheated skin and suddenly rampaging libido, he wondered if that was why he was so attracted to Monica. Not just attracted, but attuned...in a way he had never been to another woman. If he’d deprived himself of even the smallest pleasures, like lying in bed thinking of a beautiful woman, of feeling the silk sheets against his skin, of the blood- tingling chase of wanting a woman, of letting his mind and body linger and revel in all that he’d built through sweat and tears.

He decided that was it, as a man who needed things to sit in clear, defined boxes. He’d been driving himself at a relentless speed, working eighty-hour weeks, pushing himself and the company and his staff to put out more products, more innovative designs, more investments, for thirteen long years...until Brunetti himself had reached out to him with interest in a merger. Driving himself toward another milestone, another million, another meteoric development, until his father’s dream became true. Until he built enough wealth and power that Romeo and his mother would never need anything. Until Valentini Luxury Goods had become synonymous indeed with luxury and design and innovation. All the while, he... He had never learned to rest on his laurels, to celebrate his achievements, to simply enjoy the hard-won pleasures.

No wonder Brunetti’s ridiculous condition had driven him to the brink so easily. No wonder he felt so...burned out. No wonder a delicate, inexperienced, almost fragile woman like Monica was catching him unawares, knocking him to his knees without even trying. God help him the day she decided she wanted to flex her sensuality, though.

“Andrea! What has come over you? That is the third glass of wine you have drunk in twenty minutes.”

His mother’s probing pulled Andrea out of the reverie. He turned to her and for the first time that evening noted the bright red lipstick, the complicated chignon, the navy blue designer dress and the simple diamond choker at her neck that had been a present from his father.

She was dressed up to the hilt, not something he’d seen in years. Her skin glowed with health and there was a simple joy to her gaze that made his heart swell in his chest. “What a beast I am, Mama, for not telling you how pretty you look this evening. Papa loved you in that color, I remember.”

His mother blushed, scoffed and then slapped his arm, making sure he knew that she knew what he was doing. Romeo chuckled on her other side.

“ Grazie mile , Andrea. But what is making you so restless that you drink so much?” At whatever she saw in his face, her words drifted away. “You are impatient to see her. You...like her. More than for—”

Andrea groaned. “Have we traveled in time back to my eighth grade, Mama?”

Turning so that she could see him fully, his mother clasped his cheek. He chafed under her scrutiny, not because he was thirty-four damned years old and she was trying to fix his hair, but because he couldn’t bear to see the flash of grief the cut of his features usually brought her.

For all he teased Romeo about it, he was the one who looked so much like their father. He also remembered that, for almost a year after the accident, she’d been unable to look upon his face fully or meet his eyes or speak a sentence in his direction. Her grief at losing her husband had been so great that it had choked her to speak of their father for a long while. On some dark days, he’d even wondered if she hated him for causing the accident, if she would ever forgive him.

“Romeo reminded me that I am unfair to you,” she said, her eyes shining with a suspicious sheen. “Judging you for this affair, real or fake, as if you were some...jungle predator, when in truth, you have not looked this interested in anything in a long time.”

Andrea gritted his teeth, feeling more than discomfited under her scrutiny. “I would prefer it if you didn’t discuss my personal stuff with him. Or with me. Or at all. There are certain things a man cannot continue to discuss with his mother.”

“So it is personal?”

He groaned out loud.

She laughed and the soft sound snagged at his chest. “I forgot, momentarily, that you’re your father’s son, Andrea. That you would never knowingly hurt another. As for when it comes to your...manly affairs and desires...remember what he—”

“Mama,” he groaned, clasping her cheeks in return. “This is worse than when Papa and you gave me the sex talk. At least then, I was remunerated for sitting through it.”

His mother blushed but relented, nevertheless, by going on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I want you to be happy, Andrea. In whatever form it takes. I am sorry I...neglected you all these years.”

“ Cristo , Mama,” Andrea said, enfolding her in his arms, his throat tight and aching. She was so small and had always been mostly unaware of the world’s schemes, but hid a spine of steel. Just like another woman he knew. “I am a grown man and it is my turn to look after you. As it is Romeo’s right, too.”

She nodded, hiding her tears in his suit jacket. “I will not push you, but if you truly like her so much, why not turn this into a more—”

“You nicked yourself in two spots while shaving,” Romeo said, coming to his rescue, his eyes full of devilish humor. “Mama’s right. I haven’t seen you drink a glass of wine that fast before, much less three, and now this. If it is this bad now, I cannot wait to see your condition once you two—”

Leaning away from his mother, Andrea pushed at Romeo’s shoulder, hard enough that the wheelchair squeaked on the polished marble tiles. “ Basta! You won’t speak of her like that.”

To the background of his mother’s outraged gasp, Romeo not only recovered but also delivered a solid punch to Andrea’s gut that he hadn’t seen coming, and did so with a resounding cackle.

Eyes wide, his mother stared between them, and then shouted, “Basta!” just as Andrea decided to retaliate in kind. “You’re behaving like dogs and I know your father and I have taught you better manners.” At least she hadn’t grabbed the tops of their ears and twisted them around like she used to do when they had been kids.

Whatever Andrea had been about to shout into Romeo’s face died as a vision in pink appeared at the top of the steps of the circular balcony.

Her amber eyes widened, her pink mouth open on a gasp, Monica stared at Andrea’s crooked jacket and Romeo’s ruffled hair and Flora standing between them with her arms spread out like a referee at a particularly nasty soccer match. “What’s going on?”

Andrea jerked his jacket down, his head feeling woozy as if he’d received a pounding to his head rather than to his gut. In a hot pink sleeveless dress that hugged her breasts and then flared out from under them, Monica looked like some lush, exotic flower at full bloom. The rich pink made her shoulders and neck gleam like burnished gold, while the upper swells of her breasts rose and fell with her shallow breaths. With each step she took down the stairs, the almost thigh-high slit bared the lean length of her thigh, her legs even longer than usual in gold-strapped stilettos that Andrea had to swallow and look away from, counting his breaths. Her dark, silky hair had been curled into long waves and they slithered over and away from her chest, as if beckoning him for a closer look.

She neared them and a subtle scent overlaid with her own hit his nostrils.

“What’s happening?” she asked, slowly but definitely moving toward Romeo.

Andrea gritted his teeth, while his brother wriggled his brows in a childish taunt, meant for him.

Monica’s hands went to Romeo’s ruffled hair and in a smooth move, she pushed at the thick, wavy strands until they settled back into his designer haircut. Jealousy at the open affection clung to Andrea’s throat like the thick brew Mama used to make them drink to ward off colds.

“The Valentini brothers forgot that they’re full-grown men and instead decided to fight like ruffians.” His mother took the younger woman’s hand and pulled her close for a better look. “You look beautiful, cara . I know you’re nervous about this whole...drama that you and Andrea are cooking up, but do not be, si ? Anyone who talks to me and Romeo will know that we wish it were the truth.”

Alarm flickered through her eyes but Monica nodded. Still not meeting his eyes. “Thank you. I want to be of help.”

“You’ve always been more than that to me,” his mother said, tapping Monica’s cheek. Then she stepped back and gave her a once-over. “I would recommend a piece of jewelry with your outfit but I will leave that in Andrea’s capable hands.”

As he watched, Romeo pulled Monica to him and kissed her on the cheek—a little too close to the corner of her mouth for Andrea’s liking, but he had already given his far too intrusive family too much ammunition against him. Then his brother whispered something in her ear that made her cheeks flush the same color as her dress.

A slow, thunderous beat seemed to take up in his blood as his mother and Romeo left the lounge, intending to arrive at the gala separately from him and Monica. Finally, when Monica set that liquid gaze on him, something he couldn’t recognize shimmered there. Her slender arms spread in a welcoming stance, she asked, “What do you think? Will I do as Andrea Valentini’s fiancée?”

“What did Romeo say to you?” he bit out, instead of acknowledging her question.

Her expression shuttered and her chin rose with that willful streak he was coming to recognize and like. Although not so much at this particular minute. “That’s between me and your brother.”

Cristo , no wonder his family was teasing him like they did. He behaved like a hormone-ridden, angsty teenager around her. And he should have known she’d clam up when he demanded an answer to such an inane question.

In nearly two years of working intimately for him and with him, she had never cowered or bent at his criticisms or his demands or his perfectionist, workaholic tendencies. She didn’t engage in an argument, but always brought him around to her point of view in the end. Slowly, but surely, as she was driving him out of his mind now.

Sighing, he said, “Mama is right. We need jewelry for you.”

He didn’t wait to see if she followed him, leading the way to his father’s old study. Like his mother had rightly guessed, he’d already had a jewelry showroom that he knew Chiara had always liked send him some pieces in advance. Now he regretted not asking Romeo to look through the selection and eliminate the worst options. He knew nothing of the current trends in jewelry—design and fashion had always been Romeo’s field of expertise—nor of Monica’s tastes. But there were at least a dozen pieces for her to pick from.

He turned to find her looking around with wide eyes. The study was a remnant from his father’s time and while Mama constantly asked him to redo it, he hadn’t found the heart to erase memories of his father.

“This is different from your study at work. Or upstairs,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “It’s so full of...character and charm.”

Beyond the smooth, silky skin of her shoulders, he saw the tightness with which she held herself. And Andrea suspected he had hurt her by not complimenting her, even after she’d specifically asked it of him. A part of him found it maddening that he couldn’t give her a simple compliment that she could appreciate, but a bigger part of him was almost resentful of her for reducing him to such peevish behavior.

“It was Papa’s,” he said, gentling his tone. “He was an avid reader and a fan of woodworking. Many of the pieces are his.”

She nodded, her long neck tilting forward to look at the pieces up close. “He was very talented.”

“Si.”

“But this one...” She bent and leaned close and Andrea didn’t look away fast enough to miss the delectable sight of how the silk moved over the swell of her buttocks.

She touched the one he had carved of a wood nymph from a dark wood that Romeo had acquired from some trader a couple of years after Papa’s death. In turn, Andrea had put a sketchbook into his brother’s hands, determined to provoke him from the deep, dangerous fugue state Romeo had slipped into. It was the first step they had both taken to carve their way back to each other and to life itself.

While Andrea had worked on that particular piece during the nights Romeo had sketched, he hadn’t taken it up again since. Not until this past year. He had had very little time for woodwork, after he’d taken over the company full-time, especially when all his risks and strategies had exploded it beyond even his own vision.

Or was that another lie he had told himself?

Maybe because it was the one thing where he and his father had seen eye to eye, had understood each other, had met each other without the usual frustration and animosity that had colored their relationship when he’d turned eighteen and his ambitions and vision for life had veered completely away from his father’s dreams for him.

“This is yours,” she said, awe in her tone.

“How do you know that?” he said, his voice sharp from the sudden, overwhelming flush of pleasure that bathed him. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Answer me.”

She turned, but her arms crisscrossed over her belly in a defensive posture he hated. “The style is different from the others. Also similar to the almost finished one, the mermaid that you keep hidden away in your drawer at work. The detail in such a tiny piece is...magnificent.”

“You went snooping?”

She stood ramrod, her eyes going wide. “Of course not. I was just curious if you had—” now she was blushing again “—liked it.”

“What do you mean?”

Her lush mouth puffed out in a frustrated exhale. “I was snooping, si . Fire me for my sins.”

“I have worse punishments in mind if you don’t give me the answers I want, Ms. D’Souza.”

A lick of heat dawned through her yellow eyes, making them burn bright and hot. An answering heat punched through Andrea, knowing that she understood him, knowing that her mind had gone there just as his did.

“That would have frightened me a few months ago, Mr. Valentini. Now whatever you deal out...” She swallowed, the pulse at her neck thrashing at her own boldness. “I’m more than willing and ready.”

He cursed. “Tell me, per piacere .”

Even his “please” was apparently not enough. Her gaze searched his, looking for reassurance, he thought. Finally, she sighed and gave in. “I asked Romeo what you might appreciate for your birthday last year and he told me about your hobby. That dark African wood...” Her words came out rushed now. “I found a dealer online and had it shipped. But it was so expensive that I could only afford a small piece. For weeks after, I was curious to see if you’d worked on it. Even then, I didn’t snoop on purpose. I... You gave me the locker combination one night eight months ago in the middle of the Japanese buyout and it was there. Not fully formed and yet already incredibly beautiful in the promise emerging. I couldn’t help going back to check on its progress.”

“Why?” he asked, floored by her admission. He had assumed the gift had been Romeo’s doing.

“Why what?”

“Why did you ask Romeo?”

“Am I not allowed to gift you a small thing, Andrea?” Her tone was soft, whisper-thin, but the thrust of her question so deep and precise that he found himself floundering.

“Why didn’t you just contribute to the staff pool?” he said, sounding churlish to his own ears.

“I... I wanted to give you something meaningful. Do you remember how Flora had been sick for weeks with that cough and we worried it might be pneumonia?”

“ Si. You stayed with her and nursed her through four nights. Through the worst. Romeo said you slept in that armchair.”

She shook her head. “That was nothing. You... You were so worried about her and I wanted to—” she licked her lips again “—make you feel better, I guess. Obviously, I couldn’t afford any of the good stuff like your favorite liquor or cuff links or a tie. But when Romeo told me you used to woodwork quite a bit... I was surprised and went researching.”

“ Grazie for the gift,” he said, staring at her in spiraling consternation. “It distracted me from...everything.”

Resentful bastard that he was, he didn’t tell her that it had done so much more. It had brought him back to his hobby again. To the thing he had shared with his father and loved. Even to a part of himself that he had lost. He had worked on two more pieces since then and even commissioned a woodworking shed to be built on his property. Something that had remained only a dream for his father.

Her throat moved on a swallow as she nodded. “I’m glad. When I saw the finished piece, I realized Romeo hadn’t been exaggerating out of brotherly love.”

He laughed at that, as she intended him to. And he wondered how much she must have managed his moods, his uneven temper in the throes of a project or his demands and his criticism, without his noticing it for so many months. “As you probably know by now, he is the very opposite. More along the lines of my critic and my mirror,” he said, meeting her eyes again.

Her teeth dug into her lower lip, her eyes flaring with understanding. “I appreciate that he looks out for me. But he also knows I need to make my own decisions, right or wrong. Even the stupid ones.”

Luckily for them both, his watch beeped before he could pick up the gauntlet she threw down and pounce on her right there in what had been his father’s study. “We will be late. Take a look and pick what you want,” he said gruffly.

Dutifully, she sauntered toward the dark mahogany desk where everything from necklaces to diamond studs were lying open in dark green velvet cases. She gasped. “I... These are real diamonds and sapphires and...emeralds. I can’t pick one out of these. If you really think I need jewelry, I have some costume jewelry pieces in my—”

“That won’t do for my fiancée,” he said, taking her wrist in his hand and tugging her forward when she staggered back. “And you promised to accept a gift or two from Mama, remember?”

“Yes. But these aren’t from your mother. These are from you. And way too expensive.”

He sighed. “Do not turn this into a fight.”

“Do not order me around, then.”

When he turned to face her, she gripped the desk and stayed where she was. Her beauty hit him with the force of a tsunami. “This will never work if you won’t accept gifts from me. Or if you jump every time I touch you.”

“I didn’t jump. I just... I’ve never been so aware of another person’s...nearness. I’m trying, Andrea.”

As if to prove her point, she covered the distance between them until a flying lock of her hair hit his chest. This close, he could see the yellow-amber flecks in her big eyes. Could see the tiny beads of moisture over her upper lip.

“Let’s make a deal. If you grant me what I ask for,” she said sweetly, “I’ll pick a piece and be the most obedient fiancée you could ever want.”

Every muscle turned flint-hard in his body. “What do you want, bella ?”

“One of your sculptures.”

“What?” he repeated, as if he was hard of hearing.

“If you promise me one of your sculptures, then I’ll accept one piece of jewelry tonight. I won’t even try to return it.”

“That’s the most ridiculous negotiation I’ve ever witnessed.”

“I don’t care what you think,” she said, setting her mouth into that mulish set. “I want what I want.”

“Give me one good reason why.”

“Those are beautiful and they’re a piece of you. A piece of Andrea Valentini that only a few know. A piece I will cherish for a long time, whatever and wherever this farce leaves us.”

With that simple request, she reminded Andrea exactly who she was and who she would always be. Of how a fundamental part of her makeup meant she’d always see the world in terms of emotions he could not afford. She was already asking for pieces of him that he was loath to part with and soon, she’d ask for something he couldn’t give.

Cristo , she was far too innocent and good for the likes of him. She had no idea what an affair with him would cost her. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was... fond of her in a way that precluded ruining his relationship with her by adding sex to it.

Suddenly, he hated the very idea of having to parade her in front of guests and friends and family, letting them stare her up and down as if she was a prime cut of meat. He hated the idea of anyone destroying that fragile, deep-rooted sense of kindness and generosity with which she greeted the world.

“Bene,” he said, turning her around to face the necklaces with a hand on her shoulder. “It is a done deal. You’ll have one sculpture of my choice. Now, choose something.”

Leaning forward, she bumped her side into his front, pointing to the farthest one in the top corner. He should have guessed that it would be her choice, given it was the most delicate and smallest of the lot. He almost pointed out to her that it was the most expensive one, given its intricate flower and leaf-like work with platinum and tiny high-carat diamonds by one of the most exclusive jewelry designers in all of Italy. He’d only been able to acquire it because the designer was a friend of Romeo’s.

“Turn around,” he ordered briskly, once he had the delicate thing in hand.

When she tugged her hair away from the nape of her neck, he noticed the expanse of smooth, silky flesh exposed by the plunging cut of the dress in the back. Instant goose bumps rose on her flesh and the most overwhelming impulse to run his mouth down the line of her spine rode him hard.

Hands shaking, as if he had been whittling away at wood for hours, he clipped the necklace at her nape. Then without meeting her eyes, he checked his watch and barked out that they were late, thanks to her arguments.

Determined not to feel her hurt as she tried to keep up behind him, he turned himself into one of those sculptures he carved. He wanted her too much to keep this in his control and she... Madre mio , she was made for a different kind of man.