Perfect Match (Vice Club Nights #2)

4. Tori

Chapter four

Tori

W ow. It’s not hard to see the difference between this five-star hotel and my basic three-star one down the road. Even the shoes of the guests don’t make a noise as they glide across the shiny white-tiled floor. I stroll toward the seating area, skirting the edges of the vast space rather than the shortest possible route across the middle. My backpacking wardrobe of jean shorts and a loose pink shirt with Birkenstocks is completely out of place among the opulent surroundings.

Two women in Valimare resort wear saunter by with identical Gucci bags slung over their shoulders. They glance my way and then, in the blink of an eye, dismiss me as unimportant, averting their gazes and proving my point. I’m an anomaly in this fancy hotel foyer.

Bitches!

Maybe agreeing to meet Gio here was a bad idea when he’s obviously way out of my league. But I’ll admit I have a weak spot for sexy, smooth-talking Italian men, and when one invites me to spend the day with him on the Isle of Capri, then I’m going to jump at the chance.

As I sink into the buttery-soft tan leather chair, I struggle to hold in the sigh of pleasure. I don’t feel so conspicuous hidden in the generous proportions of a piece of furniture that probably cost a small fortune.

I check the time on my phone; he should be here any minute, and at the distant ping of an arriving elevator, I look up to see Gio striding toward me. He looks even more handsome than I remember from last night: His dark-chocolate hair no longer slicked back but falling in loose strands over his forehead. His Henry-Cavil-like chiseled jaw softened by a day’s worth of stubble. His eyes are more sapphire than gray today, probably picking up the color from his navy linen shirt, the top three buttons undone to give a teasing glimpse of a muscular chest, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing corded, bronzed arms. One hand is tucked into the pocket of his white cargo shorts, contrasting his tanned athletic legs in two-toned leather loafers. Today, he’s got the more casual look of the cover of GQ magazine, and it’s as droolworthy as the suit last night.

The two Valimare women from earlier track his progress across the foyer. I stand, and when he reaches me, the butterflies in my belly scatter. Gio leans in to kiss my cheek in a friendly greeting. He smells so good, a fresh forest-pine scent like he’s showered in a mountain stream rather than a fancy hotel.

Those women continue to stare with their overfilled Botox lips pouting like a goldfish. They can’t believe that he is meeting me, the girl in the outlet shirt and shorts. I can’t resist reaching up to hook my hands on his shoulders, staking my claim. It was meant to be a light, casual touch, insignificant, but the moment his warm hands land on my hips, it becomes so much more. My skin tingles where our bodies touch, and when our lips brush, we linger. His mouth pressing more firmly to mine. Until, reluctantly, we pull apart.

“Good morning,” he says in a smooth, deep voice that zaps another blast of heat through my already-buzzing nerve endings.

“Hi,” I murmur on a sigh.

One dark eyebrow quirks in amusement. “Are you ready for a day in Capri?”

“So ready.” I grin up at him, realizing that I’m still holding on to him. I withdraw my hands, dropping my arms to my sides, at the same time as he removes his from my hips.

“Let’s go, then.” He bends and scoops up my bag like it weighs nothing, which is impossible given the souvenirs I’ve already collected along the way, then takes my hand in his much larger one.

We exit through the rotating doors onto the street, where a Porsche SUV is waiting. A man dressed casually in shorts and a polo shirt stands beside the open rear door.

“Thank you,” I mumble, climbing into the back seat. Gio hands my bag to the man and then hops in behind me, and I quickly shuffle across, my legs sticking uncomfortably to the leather.

After a short ride along the Riviera di Chiaia to the other end of the harbor, we pull up to a marina. There are no pretty little fishing boats tied up here. This is where the big yachts are moored. A blast of hot, salty air hits me once I exit the car’s cool interior. It’s still early, and already, the sun’s heat has the power to burn. I move to the back of the car to get my bag, but Gio takes my hand, tugging me gently in the opposite direction.

“It’s all right. Rocco will carry your bag on board.”

The wooden decking of the pontoon sways gently beneath our feet as he leads me to a gleaming white luxury yacht that sparkles with the brilliance of a diamond on the azure water. It’s huge—at least two hundred feet long—and more impressive than any of the yachts I’ve ever seen cruising on Sydney Harbour. I stagger to a stop, causing Gio to pause beside me.

“Is this your boat?” I stutter, surprised I can even get the question out. “I mean, yacht.” Something that big deserves a title, like luxury cruiser or super yacht.

“Not technically,” he admits, then takes a pair of Aviators from the top pocket of his shirt and pops them on, hiding his gaze from mine. I give him a side-eyed look, which he chooses to ignore.

“Come on,” he encourages with another tug on my hand, propelling my feet forward.

If I felt out of place in the hotel lobby, this is going to be even more awkward.

At the gangway, he stands aside for me to go first, and curling my hand around the shiny silver handrail, I walk on board.

Wow! This is the next level of luxury, and I wish I had my sunglasses handy to cover my wide-eyed expression. I want to play it cool in front of Gio, but everywhere I look, I’m blown away by how shiny and fancy everything is.

“Would you like me to show you around?”

I nod, then follow him mutely into a sitting area. Dark wood paneling runs from floor to ceiling anywhere there aren’t smokey glass windows and doors. The bright sunshine from outside is dimmer and certainly cooler in here. On one side is a U-shaped, built-in cream leather sofa, with a low square coffee table in the middle. The other side has a bar and an oval dining table with eight chairs around it. A pretty blonde woman around the same age as me appears from behind a partition.

“Mr. Barbieri, would you like refreshments?”

Gio turns to me. “Would you like a drink or something to eat?”

“No thank you. I’m fine.” I smile my reply toward the hostess, who shoots hate back at me like the Valimare women. But when Gio turns from me to her, she transforms from nasty bitchface into an angel. What is it with these people who seem to think I’m some kind of threat to them? It’s almost laughable, and Gio, of course, has no idea.

I brush off the incident; instead, turning my thoughts to enjoying my day on this stunning boat with a handsome, attentive Italian man.

The blonde continues to stare at him, and only when he says, “That will be all. Thank you, Inga,” does she leave us alone again.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs close to my ear. So he did notice. I’m impressed.

He walks to the left, where a spiral staircase leads to a lower level. “Down there are four staterooms. Would you like to see them?”

I’m tempted to take him up on the offer, but I don’t trust myself not to tackle him on one of the beds after our kiss this morning, so instead, I say, “Maybe later.” He grins at my teasing comment before I add, “I think I’d like to sit on the deck and enjoy the fresh air.”

A soft chuckle rumbles like distant thunder from him. “Let’s do that, then.”

***

A few hours later, we are ashore on the Isle of Capri, sitting on the terrace of a hotel restaurant overlooking the deep-blue waters of the bay. The yacht is so far below at the base of the cliff that it looks more like a toy.

Earlier, Gio went to his meeting while I wandered around the shopping area, buying a couple of little painted pottery Capri bells for my sister and cousin. And this time I could get them posted directly to the States rather than risking them in my bag.

I turn back from the view to face him. “Do you come to Capri often?” Tipping my glass of Aperol Spritz at the spectacular view on the other side of the low stone wall, I add, “This is all pretty amazing.”

“It is, isn’t it? But sadly, I haven’t been here in years. When I was growing up, my brothers and I spent every summer vacation here.”

His gaze remains hidden behind his sunglasses, which is a damn shame because I noticed on board earlier that his sea-colored eyes are like an incoming tide awash with expressions that tell me more about the man than his guarded words do. Eyes are the window to the soul , as the saying goes. I bet they are currently sparkling with remembered fun times.

“Tell me about your summers in Capri.”

“Well, there was a big group of us with my three younger brothers and dozens of cousins, so it was always loud and a lot of fun. We spent our days in the ocean and our nights playing games of tag around my nonno’s home.”

“Nonno?”

“My grandfather had a villa on Capri,” he clarifies. “I hated returning to Manhattan at the end of the summer.”

“You didn’t like school.”

He grins. “No, I liked school. But in Manhattan, we had to be inside all the time. While here, we had so much freedom.”

“I get that. After all, I grew up in Australia, and we spent a lot of time outdoors too.”

“All those beaches and nice weather.” He nods. “You said you’ve a twin sister, but did you have any other family around?” He rests his elbows on the table, bringing his face closer to mine. It’s hard not to get lost in the blue depths that stare back at me, the few tiny creases spreading out from the corners, softening his look. I’m learning those lines come from smiles that regularly paint his features, not just his sexy mouth.

“It was only Charli—and Jane, my mother.” I take another sip of my Aperol as I debate in my head whether to tell him more. I guess he was open with me, so I continue. “We grew up in a small country town north of Sydney, nowhere near the beaches you’re imagining. It wasn’t quite so idyllic.”

A waiter arrives with steamy bowls of pasta at just the right time, saving me from having to add any more.

And when we’re alone again, he asks, “Are your sister and mother still in Sydney?”

“My sister is in New York. I came to Europe for a grand adventure, while she went to America in search of her dreams.”

“What is your sister doing in New York?”

“She’s a mixologist in a bar called Lost Paradise, though from what she tells me, it’s a long way from being a paradise.”

“I’ve heard of that place, and the comments haven’t been good. Why doesn’t she like it?”

“There’s a guy she works with who she dated a couple of times, and now that she doesn’t want it to continue, he’s being a jerk about it. She’s thinking that she’ll have to find something else.”

As I talk, Gio expertly swirls the long strands of pasta coated in the creamy sauce on his fork.

“That’s not good.” He stops mid-twirl. “Hey, my friend owns a club in Manhattan, and they’re always looking for experienced bar staff. What did you say she was?”

“A mixologist, which is a cocktail-maker specialist. She’s always coming up with the most amazing combinations of herbs and spices in drinks that are absolutely delicious.”

“Well, I think that’s exactly what my friend’s club needs. It’s called The Vice Club, and it’s a private sex club.”

My jaw drops. “A sex club? I’m pretty sure my sister doesn’t want to work in that type of club.”

He again gathers the pasta like the mention of a sex club over lunch is perfectly normal.

“No, hear me out. It’s not seedy at all. I promise. In fact, it’s a very exclusive club, frequented by many of the wealthy and elite of New York. Ryan, my friend who runs the club, is former military and very strict about what is and isn’t acceptable behavior.”

“Where is the club?” I ask for no reason other than I don’t really know what else to say. Although I can’t help wondering what goes on in a sex club, other than the obvious answer: sex.

Should I put, visit a sex club, on my bucket list of adventures?

“It’s in Midtown, on a very nice street. Why, do you want to visit?”

“Maybe I do.”

He chuckles, the laughter lines around his mouth deepening and a dimple on his left cheek showing itself for the first time.

For a minute, his fork sits suspended in midair, with the pasta still coiled around it, before he brings it to his mouth, no strands slipping off.

Now, that’s a skill that would be useful. When I try to do the same, I’m lucky if one strand remains clinging before I can get it to my mouth.

“How do you get the pasta to stay on your fork like that?” I ask, placing my fork back on my plate.

He chokes out a laugh, the pasta plopping back into the bowl this time. After a big gulp of water, he reaches across the table, picks up my discarded fork, and places it upright at the edge of my bowl of pasta.

“Let me show you,” he says, twirling it slowly, then lifting the coated fork to my mouth. “Open for me, bella.”

Damn, when he calls me bella with a hint of an Italian accent, I want to crawl across the table and curl into his chest.

My mouth pops open so he can feed me the creamy wrapped bundle, and when the sauce touches my tongue, my mouth waters and a moan of appreciation slips out, my lips closing around the metal prongs. “That’s so good,” I murmur, and when I meet his gaze, heat flows through my body all the way down to the juncture of my thighs. I almost moan again, though for a completely different reason this time.

Slowly, he retreats, leaving me wanting more. And I don’t mean pasta. To hide the flush that I’m sure is painting my cheeks pink, I pick up my glass and take a refreshing sip, then hold its frosty surface against my skin.

“The sauce. It’s so good. There must be some special ingredient because my carbonara never tastes like that.” I babble on for a full minute while Gio continues to stare at me. He must think I’m the most socially awkward idiot he’s ever met.

“I’m glad you like it.”