“You consider the time wasted?”
“Yes.”
“What changed, for him?”
“Great question.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. I doubt I ever will. It’s as though one day he just decided he didn’t want to be with me anymore. There was no one else involved. I believe him one hundred per cent on that score; Ashton’s not a good liar; he’s not capable of it.”
“What reason did he give you then?”
Her smile was a weak facsimile. “He didn’t love me anymore.” She blinked as she stared at him. “He said he didn’t know what he wanted but that it wasn’t this.” She pointed to the table but it was clear she was speaking about her relationship. “He was bored of our life. Bored of the domesticity of it all. He wanted to travel, to ‘live’,” she said, lifting her fingers to either side of her head and gesturing with air quotes.
“And this he could not do with you?”
“He didn’t want to do it with me. Look at the woman he’s replaced me with! We couldn’t be more different.”
He frowned, trying to remember anything he could about the woman he’d noticed waiting for Ashton.
“What about her?”
“She’s gorgeous,” she snapped, draining her cocktail and pushing the glass away. “Elegant and tall and all blonde and perfect.”
“You think you’re not gorgeous and elegant?”
She shook her head. “I know I’m not. And I don’t really care – but seeing him with someone like that, seeing the kind of woman he’s with now –,”
“Stop.” He reached across and pressed a finger to her lips, forgetting for a moment that they worked together, forgetting this was all just an elaborate ruse, and treating Bronte as he would any woman he was spending time with. It was a mistake though. Her lips were soft to the touch, and her breath was warm, flooding him with a rush of desire that came out of nowhere.
“You are smart, and kind, and very, very beautiful, so do not talk down about yourself in comparison to this other woman.”
Her eyes were on the table. “You don’t have to say that.”
“Apparently I do, if you can look at his new girlfriend and feel inferior in any way.”
But Bronte wasn’t easily convinced. She shook her head, dislodging his finger. He let his hand drop between them, even as his fingertip was aching to be back against her lips, moving between the soft, pillowy flesh, pushing into the moist warmth of her mouth…Cristo. Get a grip.
“You don’t need to do this. I’m okay.”
“Would you like anything to eat? Drink?” A young waiter approached the table, interrupting their conversation.
“You should eat,” he said, thinking of the glasses of champagne she’d had and the cocktail that had disappeared quickly.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be later. And I’m starving. Can you grab us some menus?” He directed the question to the waiter.
“And another one of these?” She lifted the empty cocktail glass.
He turned back to face her.
“It’s just strange to feel like your life was on one path and then suddenly it took a different turn, you know?”
“Si.”
“I really thought we were going to get married.”
“And that’s what you wanted?”
She opened her mouth to speak then closed it again, frowning. “Do you know what? No one’s asked me that. I don’t… know how to answer.”
“Isn’t that all the answer you need?”
“I guess six months ago I would have said a definitive yes. But now?”
He waited as she tried to corral her thoughts. “I see things more clearly. Habits of his I used to tolerate would drive me crazy now. I was young when we started dating. I guess I’ve grown up since then. We both have. Maybe he was right to end it; perhaps he just saw what I wasn’t brave enough to admit.”
“Or perhaps he’s just stupido.”
“Stupid, yes,” she smiled then shifted her gaze past him as the waiter returned with her drink and a couple of menus.
“Wait a moment,” Luca said, holding a hand up, scanning the menu. “Is there anything you don’t eat?”
“Meat.”
He turned to face her. “Meat?”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“I didn’t know that about you.”
“Why would you? It’s not like we’ve spent a lot of time together before this.”
He frowned. That was true, and yet he felt that he did know Bronte in many ways. He knew that she liked black coffee and drank out of a mug with a picture of The Little Mermaid on it. He knew that she wore a scarf at her desk all through Autumn and Winter and that she had a photo above her computer of a beach in Australia. He knew she whistled while she typed, that she went out of her way to make conversation with the security guard on their floor – an elderly man whose wife had died a few years earlier – and that she always worked well beyond the hours that were expected.
“True,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as if to rid himself of the direction of his thoughts. “What do you feel like?”
“Nothing, I’m not hungry.”
He scanned the menu. “The pumpkin risotto and a burger. Thanks.”
He passed the menu back and returned his focus to Bronte, who was regarding him with a quizzical look.
“What?”
“You’re –,”
He waited.
She shook her head, though, apparently thinking better of whatever she’d been about to say.
“Go on.”
She scrunched up her nose. “You’re bossy.” Then, her hand lifted, clasping over her mouth, her eyes looking at him apologetically. “I didn’t mean that.”
He laughed. “Yeah, you did.”
“Okay, I did,” she dropped her hand, grimacing a little. “But I still shouldn’t have said it.”
“Why not? What you say is bossy, I say is authoritative. I’m okay with that.”
She nodded slowly.
“It suits you.” Another look of surprise. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.” In contradiction of that, she lifted the straw between her lips, taking another sip. He stared at her mouth, the perfect ‘o’ formed by the movement, his cock shifting against the seam of his pants.
Cazzo!
What the hell was happening? This was his assistant. Not just his assistant. She worked for him, his brothers, his cousins. She was an invaluable employee and he was sitting an inch away from her, staring at her beautiful mouth and fantasising about – things he couldn’t fantasise about.
He shifted away a little, subtly moving his body towards the edge of the booth, disguising the action by taking a drink of water.
But the distance didn’t really help, especially not when she lifted her hand to prop her cheek and the strap of her dress slipped down a little, revealing her creamy, pale shoulder and more than a hint of cleavage.
This was a lost cause.
Suddenly, the idea of sharing a bed with this woman and not touching her felt like a form of torture.
“Shit.” She swore as she fumbled the hotel key, crouching to the ground at the same time Luca did, his hand rescuing it, closing over hers so she looked up and their eyes met, and something burst inside of her. “God, you’re handsome.”
Stop talking. Please, for the love of God, stop talking now.
His laugh was muffled. “Thanks.”
“I just meant –,”
Nope. There was no way to salvage that one. No clever misunderstanding she could suggest had taken place. She’d just told her boss he was handsome. As they were preparing to walk into a hotel room together.
“I didn’t mean that as an invitation,” she added, her tone haughty. Smooth.
“I didn’t take it as such.” Was he still laughing at her? Embarrassment spread through her veins. She stood up as he opened the door and he held it open for her, so she could step into the room first. She did so, mo
ving towards the window because it was the farthest she could get from him in this tiny place.
“Would you like the first shower?” Her voice sounded a little uneven.
“You go ahead. I’ll check my emails.”
She nodded sharply. Emails. Work. Yes, that was better. They needed to stay on a professional footing. This had been too much. He’d been too…nice tonight. Too much like a friend, so she’d wanted to tell him everything in her heart, to laugh with him, to cry on his shoulder.
“Would you like a tea? Coffee?” He offered, as she moved towards the bathroom.
“Where from?”
“There’s a kettle here.”
“Oh. I didn’t see. Um, yes, please. A coffee. Just –,”
“Black, no sugar,” he supplied with a smile. “Off you go.”
She frowned. How did he know how she took her coffee? She must have said so earlier. She couldn’t remember but given the drinks she’d had tonight, that was hardly surprising.
“I – won’t be long.”
He was already distracted by something, his back to her. “Take your time.”
Of course, she could take her time. It wasn’t like he’d be counting the minutes until she returned. She turned the taps on, getting the water warm before stepping into the shower cubicle, foaming her body with the body wash provided, breathing in the fragrance and letting the awful night wash over her. But as she stood under the streaming water, she realised something. The night hadn’t been awful. On the contrary, the cocktail party had been fine – bearable, except for the brief meeting with Ashton and even that had been better because Luca was at her side. And as for the pub…she’d actually had fun.
Who would have thought her billionaire boss could actually be good company?
It was only when Bronte stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel that she realised her foolish mistake. Her clothes were in the bedroom. And she was in the bathroom. And the towel was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a bath sheet. It was small in size, just enough to wrap around her midsection, but there was definitely no modesty afforded by its miniscule proportions.
“Oh, crap,” she muttered, throwing a glance to the mirror in the hope it wouldn’t be that bad. Except it was that bad. Every bit as bad.
With a sinking feeling of mortification, she turned the door handle and peeked out. Her heart trembled. He was sitting against the headboard, laptop on lap, papers spread out, a pair of glasses low on the bridge of his nose. Glasses! She’d forgotten he wore them while on the computer.
“I forgot my pyjamas,” she blabbed, wincing as she quickly stepped out into the room, unable to look at him as she moved towards her suitcase.
But she felt his eyes on her and every fibre of her being went into overdrive.
“You forgot to bring pyjamas or –,”
“No, I have them in here,” she mumbled, wrenching the zipper open. “I just forgot to take them into the bathroom.”
“Ah. I see.”
Please, let this moment be over. She dug through her suitcase until she found them, clutching them to her chest before risking a glance at him. He was, as she feared, looking at her. Their eyes met and she felt a bolt of something, a connection that made her breath burn and her pulse race.
His eyes probed hers like he could read her thoughts, and maybe he could. She hoped not, because her thoughts in that moment were terrifying. Thoughts of how lovely and broad his shoulders were, how much she liked looking at his face, how well he moved, how powerful he was, how he’d no doubt be incredible in bed. She sucked in a sharp breath at the last thought, her eyes heavy but unable to move away.
He put the laptop to the side, but didn’t otherwise move. She should go to the bathroom, should get changed and move into the bed, as far as she could get from him. She definitely shouldn’t just be standing there, conscious of the thousand and one ways her body was becoming aware of him, of the way her nipples were straining against the fabric of her towel, nor of the way her brain was throwing fantasies before her, fantasies that involved her naked body and his, fantasies that were wrong and stupid and would definitely achieve nothing except regret for Bronte. She had to remember that – not act on everything she was feeling. But oh, how tempted she was to drop the towel and see his reaction!
It’s the second cocktail! She knew that was true – this was so far out of her usual behaviour but something strange was moving through her – a daring that she hadn’t felt before.
“Are you seeing anyone at the moment?”
A small line formed between his brows and he shook his head, once.
“No one? Whatsoever?”
Again he shook his head.
Why was she still standing there? Why weren’t her legs taking her back to the bathroom? What was she doing?
“Do you really think I’m beautiful?”
Her question reached inside of him, finally galvanising him into action. This was getting out of hand. He had to do something.
He stared at her, torn between what he wanted with every cell in his body and what he knew he had to do. Not once in his life had he taken advantage of a woman who’d been drinking, and he wasn’t about to start now. Especially not this woman.
If only his body would get that memo.
“Si.” The word was gruff. He cleared his throat. “I think you’re stunning.”
She blinked, his answer surprising her, and in the small part of his brain capable of rational thought he cursed the bastard who’d given her any reason to doubt that.
She was practically naked.
Her skin creamy and covered in droplets of water, her long dark hair pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head, tendrils escaping around her face. His fingertips ached to tuck them back in place. Suddenly he was moving, pushing out of the bed and taking the few steps required to bring him to her.
Her breath jagged inwards.
She’s your assistant. Your assistant. She works for you. This is not okay.
“I was thinking about dropping my towel. A moment ago.” Her words were soft, her tone shy. He swallowed a curse, his hands moving to the knot of fabric holding it in place.
“Don’t.”
Her eyes flashed with embarrassment and surprise.
“Not because I don’t want you to, but because you’ve been drinking and you’re not thinking clearly right now.”
Her cheeks bloomed pink. He moved his hand away so he could lift his thumb to her cheek, brushing across the warm skin there.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
He stared down at her, frozen to the spot when her own hands lifted to the towel and began to unfasten it. “Bronte –,”
She held his gaze as she loosened it and damn it, he couldn’t look away, despite the fact he knew how wrong this was.
“Maybe Ashton was right. Maybe the safe, predictable, boring life we were leading was a bad idea. Maybe I should do something unpredictable too.”
This was definitely unpredictable. Not for a second would he have thought Bronte capable of anything like this. Cristo.
The towel hit the ground. He felt it brush his legs as it travelled downwards and land with a soft thud. He groaned because from this vantage point, all he could see were the perfect pink tips of her rounded breasts, breasts that were screaming for his attention, breasts that he wanted to cup with his hands and draw into his mouth.
He closed his eyes before he could look any further, summoned every ounce of moral fibre he possessed then looked at her once more. And almost faltered. Her eyes were rich with invitation, her lips parted as though willing him to kiss her and hell, he wanted to.
But she was drunk, heartbroken, and she was also his employee. This was something they’d both regret if he let it happen.
“You are beautiful,” he said quietly. “But you have been drinking and there’s no way I’d take advantage of that. So I suggest you get back in that bathroom and put some clothes on.” He stared at her for several more seconds
then added, “Please.” The last word was said on a growl, because he was damned close to snapping point.
“What if I say ‘no’?”
Cristo. He was going to weaken. He was going to drag her against his body and kiss those soft pink lips senseless. He was going to push her back against the bed, pinning her there with his body weight, spreading her legs with his knee, moving his arousal between her sweet, pale thighs, all the while making her moan his name over and over again. He was going to make her wild for him.
“What if I said I want you to touch me?”
The challenge sparked every flush of desire in his body. His expression was anguished.
Her hands moved to her hips, drifting higher, her slim fingers moving in small circles over her flat stomach, towards the curves of her breasts. He bit back a curse, his breath torn from him as she glided her palms over her nipples, her teeth sinking into her lower lip to bite back her own cry of pleasure.
“Stop it, cara.”
“Why do you call me that?”
Great question. He couldn’t answer.
“I want to stop it,” she said, ignoring the question she’d just asked. “I want it to be your hands doing this. Your hands touching me.” A question filled her eyes as she dropped one hand, her fingers catching his wrist and lifting it. He could easily have pulled free but he was transfixed and tempted beyond belief. She lifted his hand towards her breasts. His cock jerked in his pants. Everything inside of him screamed in a heady sense of euphoria that he was about to touch the breasts he now realised he’d been fantasising about all night.
The second his flesh connected with hers he felt a thousand jolts of electricity flashing through him. All the contradictions exploded. She was soft to his hardness, her skin warm and a little moist, her breasts full, heavier than he’d thought, her nipples so tight. He groaned as she guided his hand over her breast, encouraging his fingers to trace the outline of her nipple, to cup her breasts. Her fingertips loosened; he was touching her of his own accord.
It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5) Page 4