Fiancée For The Cameras (Mills & Boon Modern)

CHAPTER EIGHT

I T HAD BECOME astoundingly clear to Monica over the ever-stretching evening that she was a complete disaster on her first outing as Andrea Valentini’s fiancée.

Beginning with the moment they had entered the huge ballroom, when she had immediately drawn the eyes of every guest. Which was bad enough, because, in her determination to help Andrea out of this mess, she’d forgotten how much she disliked being the center of attention. And being Andrea Valentini’s fiancée meant all the eyes of the Milanese high society would be on her.

When she’d frozen at the top of the steps to the huge ballroom, Andrea had gently rubbed her hip with his fingers, his expression patiently inquiring. It was the patience, as if he were afraid that she might fall apart, that had her straightening her spine. Especially when she knew he was not happy with her.

He hadn’t liked it that she knew about his hobby earlier or that she’d demanded a piece of his art. She’d known that he was an intensely private man but she hadn’t thought she’d come up against a boundary that soon. He’d been quiet all through the drive to the gala, barely even meeting her eyes. So the downfall of the evening had begun even before they had arrived.

Then, with each step they took, she sensed something off in the large room with its high domed ceiling and crystal chandeliers. Once people began to flock toward them and Andrea began introducing her, she got it. Everyone was dressed in very somber navy blues and beiges and even browns. The only splash of color she’d seen other than her own was a dark purple belt on one of the navy blue dresses.

Why hadn’t he asked her to change when she’d shown up in the garish pink thing from the freebie closet at the Valentini design studio? Why hadn’t he told her that the charity gala was a sober affair?

She looked like a weed—wild, overgrown, forced to bloom an unnatural color by fertilizer—among the rows and rows of perfectly manicured prize flowers. That had thrown her off completely. Even then, she might not have cared, could have simply told herself that no one would expect poise or sophistication of the gauche, awkward American Andrea had saddled himself with. Only, after the awkward dance where she hadn’t been able to shed the embarrassment and had more than once trampled on his feet and slammed into him with her full body, Andrea had begun progressively freezing her out. To which she had reacted by spilling champagne over herself. After that, she’d barely held off tears.

The worst part, Monica told herself, rubbing at the already spreading stain of champagne from near her boob, was that Andrea had spent the rest of the evening with his ex. She’d have preferred if somehow Mrs. Rossi had been responsible for Monica’s various faux pas through the evening. But all the woman had done, having been seated at the same table as her and Andrea, had been to answer his questions about a mutual friend’s wedding. Their conversation had progressed from there naturally. Clearly, Mrs. Rossi had learned from her mistake and was trying to correct it, even at this stage.

Not that anyone would blink an eyelash if Andrea announced tomorrow morning that a connection had been reignited with his ex and he was dumping the little mouse. So here she was, emerging from the restroom, where she had tried her best to get rid of the stain and only ended up smearing it across the fabric, to find Andrea dancing with Mrs. Rossi.

Monica stilled, the flash of Andrea’s genuine smile piercing her skin like a thorn even across the ballroom. Whatever embarrassment she had felt through the evening weighed nothing in comparison to the hurt she felt at seeing him happy with his ex.

She wondered if whatever attraction he’d admitted to feeling for her had already passed under the weight of something older, deeper and more real. And she knew that she had to get away before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

Andrea barely waited for the lift car to open as he stepped into his penthouse. He’d never been so angry with Romeo before, not even when they had constantly fought in their younger years—so badly that Papa had to threaten them with dire punishments.

To calmly and quietly send Monica away from the gala, without even telling Andrea...it was a miracle he hadn’t lost his temper. All he’d wanted was to run after her, but somehow, he’d kept his common sense. The annual charity gala was to honor his father, to raise funds to donate to a children’s charity that had been close to Papa’s heart.

It would have been the height of distaste for Andrea to leave the guests. So he had bidden his time. For a while, a very short while, he’d even forgotten about her absence thanks to an interesting conversation with Chiara, who had made a smart turnaround and admitted that she’d considered him an easy prize and persuaded her father to add her as a clause.

It had been both refreshing and unsurprising to know that after all these years Chiara hadn’t lost her ambition or her ability to see through to his mood. Just when he’d spent almost five minutes without thinking of his fleeing assistant, she’d dipped her head toward him and whispered, “I don’t remember seeing you this out of sorts even when I announced my engagement.”

He had nothing to say to that because he was , over a slip of a woman who kept surprising him at every turn.

He scanned the expansive lounge that gave a three-sixty-degree view of the living room, dining space and the kitchenette, and beyond it the glittering lights of Milan, to find it empty. Monica’s pink dress was lying on the plush leather sofa under the glare of a tall designer lamp. Then he saw her, his assistant slash fake fiancée, on the floor, on her knees, her white teeth gritted tight.

Her long, wavy hair hung in a thick, loose braid down her back. Andrea had the most insane fantasy of wrapping that thick braid around his hand while he... As if aware of his filthy thoughts, she turned around.

“What the hell are you doing on the floor?” he asked, barely restraining his temper.

“Andrea...what are you doing here?” Her eyes were wide in her face and a little red-rimmed.

The passing thought that she might have been crying only made his answer sharper. “Seeing as this is my penthouse , my private space, that is my question, si ?”

“Fair enough,” she said, and shied her gaze away. When she tugged a thread and bit it off, he realized she’d been sewing the hem. Then, with infinite care, she folded the dress into a garment bag and pushed to her feet.

He stared.

She was wearing a white dress shirt, his shirt , the cuffs folded to her elbows but still falling down to cover her fingers. Since she was almost as tall as he was, the edges fell to her thighs and Dios mio , her legs went on and on. With a few buttons undone, he could see the silky swath of her neck and chest and all he wanted was to touch and kiss and lick her.

Picking up the bag, she walked toward him. “I never meant to invade your privacy. I thought Romeo was sending me to his friend’s place. If you can call a cab, I’ll get out of your way.”

“Not before you tell me why it was so important that you leave the gala. Are you already regretting making all those promises to me?”

He sounded so irate that he could see her mouth tremble, then stiffen to a taut line. “I wanted to leave before I embarrassed you even more.”

It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. And he could see the truth of it in her face. Why was it that suddenly they were on two different wavelengths? Why the hell was this so...hard? “I never said that you embarrassed me.”

“It was only a matter of time. Two minutes in, I knew it was the most ridiculous plan. We should have never...” She swallowed and met his gaze. “Will you call a cab for me, please?”

“And where will you go dressed in my shirt, looking like you do, bella ? Crying into Romeo’s arms again? You reach for him even as you tell me you can take me on.”

Frustration and something more danced across her face. “Fine, he’s become a safety net. I’ll sleep on the sofa here and before you’re up, I’ll be gone. Then—”

“Why are you upset, Monica? Why leave without telling me?”

“I told you, I didn’t—”

“And I have told you that I wasn’t embarrassed by you and—”

“How the hell would I know that?”

“You know me well enough to know I would tell you if you were embarrassing me, bella .”

“Would you? Andrea, I trod on your feet during the dance and I slammed into you twice so hard it’s a miracle I didn’t take us both to the floor for everyone to laugh at. And then I dropped a glass of champagne on myself during the silent bidding and there was the fact that I looked like a tacky weed among your guests and my God, why didn’t you tell me the gala was to honor your father and—”

He pressed his hand to her mouth and felt her warm exhale. “Tacky weed? What has that got to do with the fact that it was to honor my father and—”

She shoved his hand aside but he refused to let her go. “I dressed like I was the main act at a carnival. Didn’t you see how I stood out among the others? I never thought you a liar, of all things.”

“I did notice how you stood out, si ,” he said, taking the garment bag from her and throwing it aside. “How does that make me a liar?”

“Because you’re pretending now as if nothing was wrong,” she said, pink cresting her cheeks. “You could barely look at me the entire time we were dancing and then the rest of the dinner, you were deep in conversation with your... Mrs. Rossi. You know, it’s not too late.”

“Not too late for what?”

“You could claim that this was all a misunderstanding and you realized that you and she have...reconnected. It was clear that you are...”

“We are what?”

“You will make me say it? Make me sound even more foolish?”

“ Si. I do,” he said, unrelenting.

“You enjoyed her company so much that you ignored ‘your fiancée.’ You could barely look at me after you two struck up a conversation. What was I going to do? Sit there with a stained dress and let everyone see how miserable and jealous I felt?”

Admission of jealousy would have sent him running if it had been anyone else. But with her... Andrea wanted to understand it. “So instead of confronting me about it, or demanding that I pay attention, you hid behind Romeo? Did you think for a second how it would look that my fiancée ran away from me?”

“Demand your attention?” she said, eyes wide, as if it was such an alien concept that most of Andrea’s anger melted away.

“Is that so shocking?”

“When you would barely look at me, yes.”

Andrea cursed. “I know I’m closed off enough to make a lover feel ignored. And I take full responsibility for our crossed signals tonight. But you know me, Monica. You know I’m not so fickle as to change my mind about you or to lose myself in Chiara all of a sudden. So explain to me why it is so hard for you to demand attention when it is your right.”

“You want to know? Really?”

Some hard shell that had formed around his heart broke open at her shocked tone. Did she expect so little from him, for herself? He ran a hand over her cheek, feeling that intense protective urge again. “Yes, bella .”

“I’m not used to...attention,” she said, her mouth pinched. “All my life, I’ve done my best to deflect it, to keep away wandering eyes and hands. When we walked into the ballroom, all those eyes on me...it was like my worst nightmare come true. I desperately didn’t want to disappoint you and then I went and did exactly that because I was so anxious with all the attention.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“It took me four years and a near-lethal rash and a botched wedding to admit that I... I’m attracted to you. But before we left your house, you...didn’t like that I encroached on your personal life.”

Andrea rubbed a hand over his jaw, knowing she was right. Guilt settled like a hard weight on his chest. “I’m not used to sharing personal stuff.”

“I know that. But you barely even paid me a compliment, although I know now it’s because I dressed like—”

“I didn’t compliment you because you rendered me speechless. I avoided looking at you because I wanted nothing more than to take you to the floor, as you put it, and have my wicked way with you, right there for the entire world to see. As for standing out, you would have stood out if you had gone there wearing what you are in now, bella . There was not a person there that doubted why the ruthless mogul, Andrea Valentini, was suddenly, secretly engaged to a woman out of nowhere. No one who saw you this evening could doubt how much I want you.”

“Oh...” she said, pink tingeing her cheeks. “You really liked me in that dress? It wasn’t too much?”

“However you dress, whatever you say, you are never too much, bella .”

“This event, going out as your...fiancée...felt like a safe way to put myself out there, to try something new. But it was hard. And then when I learned that the gala is to support a foundation that was very dear to your father... I wondered why even Flora didn’t tell me to change.”

“Because, like me, Mama found nothing wrong with how you dressed. Chiara might have turned her snotty nose up at you but that’s because she knows she can’t carry that color.”

A frown marred her brow and Andrea knew there was more. A thread of tenderness wrapped tight around his chest at how little she expected of the world while still meeting it with all the generosity she could muster. “Mrs. Rossi... You genuinely seemed to enjoy her company. I won’t stand in the way of something real and good and—”

“My overwhelming reaction when you walked in this evening looking like you do and my jealousy about how close you are to Romeo... It made me angry with myself.” He thrust a hand through his hair, knowing she deserved more. Vulnerability, he could not do, but honesty, he could. “I’m not used to being out of control and I don’t share what’s in my head easily.”

“But you and—”

He clasped her cheek then, forcing her to look at him, hating that he had caused her so many doubts. “Chiara knew me well enough to see I was having a tantrum and teased me about it.”

“Teased you? About what?”

“That, uncharacteristically, I was denying myself something I really wanted, that I suddenly possessed an overdeveloped sense of honor.”

Her yellow eyes met his, her breath a sudden rasp in the quiet. “Honor... Ah, yes. Because you pity me. You think I’m not strong enough to handle you. Or she’s wrong and you just don’t want this at all.” She stood close enough that he could smell the faint scent of vanilla and sweat, could see the drops of perspiration on that bow-shaped upper lip. “All I asked Romeo was to—”

Andrea tugged her to him suddenly enough that her chest slammed into his. His own breath punched out of him at the delicious press of her soft curves. “You should have told me you wanted to leave. Not him.”

Her gaze searched his, some new understanding dawning there. “You don’t like it when I ask you for things.”

It was close enough to the uncomfortable truth and yet he couldn’t back down. “That’s not—”

“Maybe because you think I’ll ask for too much or because—” she tilted her chin up, her openly wanting gaze hitting him square in the gut “—you’re afraid you can’t truly give me what I need. Maybe this is not about me at all.”

“The little mouse is turning into a cat with claws?”

She shrugged and the shirt fell off, revealing one smooth brown shoulder. “Or I’m realizing that I should stop pursuing men who think I’m not good enough for—”

“I will give you what you want, bella ,” he whispered, his words thick with desire. “Anything you want. Ask me, Monica.”

She didn’t say anything for so long that Andrea thought she’d lost her nerve. Then she exhaled and her hands came up to clasp his cheeks and she brought that luscious mouth to his. That first soft press of her lips against his drained away all the anger he’d felt at her leaving and all the resolve he’d shored up the entire evening to resist her.

Yes, this would only be a fling, but she knew the score and who the hell was he to decide what she could or could not handle?

He had behaved like a donkey’s ass all evening—ignoring her, cursing himself for the possessiveness he felt—but the moment he had realized she had left, he’d known it was useless to try to resist this heat between them. He wanted her too much.

Her kiss was gentle and exploratory, as if she still didn’t believe that he wouldn’t push her away. When Andrea pulled his head back, she followed with a protest, lips clinging to his, fingers digging deep into his shoulders to keep him tethered to her. A chuckle emerged from his chest but she swallowed that, her mouth opening wider, her tongue swiping at his with tentative but wanton strokes. Her fingers went to the nape of his neck, the tips digging into his hair and pulling, and when she pressed herself flush against his body and moaned, every little lie he’d told himself collapsed.

Wrapping his arm around her waist, Andrea tugged her to him. A soft oof escaped her mouth as he circled her nape and tilted her mouth just so for his liking. Dio mio , she was sweet like the thickest of honeys and responded like quicksilver. When was the last time he’d known such pure, sweet passion, the last time he had even allowed a woman to touch him with such abandon, the last time he’d truly looked for a connection and not just easy sex?

“More, please, Andrea. More,” she whispered against his lips.

He ravished her mouth, desire licking through him like an inferno, as she responded to every stroke and lick and nip without backing down, demanding in that breathy little voice that he not stop. When he sucked on the tip of her tongue, her nails dug into his nape, egging him on. He didn’t remember the last time a kiss had revved him up this fast; didn’t remember when it had become the end rather than the means.

He could have gone on kissing her for the rest of the night, if that was all they could have. He felt dizzy like he used to when he’d beaten a previous speed or taken to a new racetrack and broken records.

Slowly, he pulled back, their breaths choppy and fast around them. Pupils blown wide enough to eat up the unique yellow, Monica clung to him.

Andrea kept his hand around her neck, loving the way she burrowed into his touch, loving how she molded herself against him like a climbing vine, loving how she trembled from head to toe. Finally, she looked up, and a lazy smile stretched her swollen lips. Without looking at him, she rubbed the pad of her thumb against his lower lip, the touch exploring and gentle.

Andrea opened his mouth and sucked the digit in. Her rough rasp sent his blood pooling south. He released her finger with a pop.

“That was...” She blinked, pulled back and searched his gaze. “That was the best kiss I’ve ever had,” she said, chin risen almost belligerently.

“If you’re looking for disagreement,” he said, his hands stroking over the planes of her back, loving how she pushed toward him, seeking more, “you will not find it here. Tell me, bella , did you get what you wanted?”

She nodded. Then, leaning forward, she pressed her cheek against his and rubbed, like a cat. Her skin was like the softest velvet against his rough jaw, and slowly, as if in beat to his drugged pulse, she brought her mouth to his ear and said, “Yes, but I’m greedy, Andrea. I want more.”

“Spell it out for me.”

“I want to go to bed with you. I want to touch you as I’ve wanted to for three weeks. I want to see if reality can stand up to my feverish, delirious dreams of you. I want to explore this between you and me and I want so much pleasure that I—”

His hands on her hips, Andrea picked her up and she instantly wrapped her arms around his back. He kissed her roughly, deeply, even as he maneuvered through the lounge to his bedroom. He bit her lip and when she jerked against him, nudging her sweet core against his thick shaft, he told her in filthy words all the stuff he’d wanted to do to her the moment he’d seen her in the dress earlier that evening; all the things he’d thought when she’d slammed into him during the dance; all the possessiveness that had swirled through him when she’d danced with a colleague who had a reputation for wandering hands.