It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5)

by Clare Connelly

  Heat ran through her, a heat borne of anger and frustration. This wasn’t what she’d planned. This wasn’t what her life was meant to be. Everything had been so neatly ordered, so perfectly planned out. How the hell did they end up at her sister’s wedding, each with a date?

  It was all too ridiculous.

  She pushed her chair back without warning, standing abruptly. Luca, with his ingrained good manners, echoed her movement.

  “I’m – just going – to get some fresh air.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  She wanted to tell him ‘no’. That she wanted ‘fresh air’ was a euphemism for space from him, his masculinity, his nearness, his intoxicating cologne, but her parents were looking at them, and Bronte was conscious of the lie she’d walked them into.

  “Fine.”

  She forced herself to smile, but when his arm came around her waist casually, the smile slipped, just for a second. Her pulse went into overdrive.

  “You’re behaving strangely,” he cautioned, as they left the table, guiding them through the restaurant – the same restaurant they’d been in that morning, but decorated now for the evening, with crisp white tablecloths, flower arrangements and candles. A dull hum filled the air as people made polite conversation, and the music – gentle jazz – played over the speakers.

  “Can I help you with anything?” Jane, one of the owners, appeared from the side of the restaurant, wearing a white blouse over dark denim jeans, her blonde hair braided around her head like a crown.

  “Just grabbing some fresh air,” Bronte repeated.

  “Ah. Feel free to head out onto the terrace,” she gestured to a pair of wide glass doors. “Or go for a wander through the rose garden, perhaps. Dinner’s about twenty minutes off.”

  Bronte dipped her head in acknowledgement, pushing out of the restaurant.

  It was a perfect mid-summer night. The stars twinkled overhead, each like a diamond against the velvet of the sky.

  “You’re a really bad liar.”

  She jerked her eyes to his face. “What?”

  “You stiffen every time I touch you. You can’t come up with an easy answer to any question. You’re a terrible liar.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Like being honest is a problem.” She was being snappy and she knew he didn’t deserve that, but her blood was zinging through her body, making her temper skyrocket.

  “You are not being honest though. Having committed to the lie we’re telling, you need to do it better.”

  She stopped walking, all of her frustrations rushing to the fore. “I just don’t find this as easy as you, okay?”

  His eyes darkened and for a second she wondered if he was feeling something like she was; Bronte could have sworn there was an emotion like anger in the depths of his dark eyes.

  “You think I am finding this easy?”

  He grabbed her hand, pulling her with him, away from the dimly lit terrace and down into the formal garden, boxed hedges forming rectangles on either side of a gravelled path at the end of which there was a red brick wall partially hidden by ivy. At its centre, at the end of the footpath, was a circular void, an ornate metalwork gate creating a wall. He pushed on it and because, she supposed, he was Luca Montebello and everything he wanted came to pass, the gate opened with only a slight creaking noise of resistance. A tendril of ivy dropped down, brushing him across the face.

  Once in the walled garden, he stopped walking, turning to face her, standing so close they were toe to toe, just as they’d been in the hotel room earlier.

  “This was supposed to be a favour for someone I respect and instead I find that all I want to do is kiss you. You think it’s easy for me to ignore that?” His words landed with a thud against her chest. “You think lying to your parents is easy? You think fantasising about making love to you right here, right now, knowing that I’d be using you for my own selfish desires is easy?”

  She stared at him in complete shock but adrenaline was already firing through her, making her want everything he spoke of. “So what are you so afraid of?”

  His laugh was a harsh bark, lacking humour. “Afraid of? Nothing, Bronte, and everything. I’m afraid, most of all, that I’ll hurt you, because that’s what I’m good at, and women like you don’t mix with men like me.”

  “Who says?”

  “I say.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Experience. Far greater experience than you, so just leave it.”

  “Luca, what are you talking about? You’re a nice guy. You’re speaking as though you’re a closet serial killer or something.”

  “What do you know about me, Bronte?”

  She flinched at his tone.

  “Not enough to say that I’m ‘nice’.”

  “You’re wrong,” she whispered. “I’ve known you for years. I’d know –,”

  “You’ve seen me in the office from time to time. That’s not the same thing.”

  She sucked in a breath, shocked, shaking. He was right – hadn’t she been thinking the same thing only the day before? Of all the Montebellos, he and Gabe were the two she barely knew.

  But Luca wasn’t finished. He moved closer, yet it was as though he was talking to Bronte from a long way away, his voice thick with a pain she didn’t comprehend. “I knew someone like you once. Someone beautiful and sweet, someone who only saw good in people. Someone uncomplicated and innocent who belonged in a fairy tale.”

  “And?” She prompted, holding her breath, no idea what he was talking about, ashamed that even in this moment her heart could swell with flattery at the praise he’d laid at her feet.

  “It doesn’t matter. But don’t look at me like I’m a ‘nice’ guy and don’t think anything about this isn’t complicated. You work for me and I’m doing you a favour. Everything else is just make believe.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’ve admitted you feel this chemistry between us.”

  “Chemistry is just –,” he shook his head swiftly. “Chemistry is something you could feel for twenty other guys in that room tonight.”

  “So why haven’t I? Why don’t I?” She demanded. “Why do I feel more physically attracted to you than I’ve ever been to anyone? Including the man I thought I’d marry?”

  His expression tightened, a muscle jerking in his jaw. “Stop it, Bronte. You’re going to regret saying that.”

  “To hell with it. I’m sick of regrets. I’m being honest now. I’m a big girl, Luca. I can handle myself. You think you’re going to hurt me? Well, I think the only way you can do that is if you treat me like a kid instead of a woman who can be your equal.”

  He glared at her. “Be careful.”

  “Oh?”

  “You think you want this?” He ground his teeth together. “You think you want me?”

  She felt as though she’d awoken a beast, a beast that lurked so deep beneath his outward expression that she had no idea it was there. Far from being scared she was fascinated, compelled. She nodded, her eyes holding a challenge. “Yes.”

  He swore, dragging a hand through his hair.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  He swallowed another curse then acted swiftly, his head dropping, his mouth claiming hers, and this was no chaste kiss of farewell. No, this was a kiss that exploded with passion and dynamite, a kiss that seared her to the centre of her soul, filling her with a thousand rushes of awareness. His lips separated hers, his tongue duelling with Bronte’s hard and fast, dominating her, his body pushing hers backwards, his hands holding her, lifting her, owning her, so she moaned, a muffled plea into his mouth – a plea for more, for everything.

  Passion broke around her, fierce and intense, and she whimpered because for the first time in her life she felt as though she was truly awake, being brought to life here in this magical garden by a man who thought himself a dragon.

  Her fingers curled into his hair, running through its thick lengths, her body glued to him so she could feel his burgeoning erecti
on, and a rush of power transformed her because he couldn’t fight this anymore, and nor could she.

  Holy crap, she wanted him.

  He broke his mouth free with a guttural sound, his dark eyes glittering in his head as he looked down at her, an almost feral expression on his angular features.

  “What am I afraid of?” He repeated her earlier question. “Your expectations. Your heart. And the knowledge that if I hurt you I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “You won’t hurt me.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I’m not looking to fall in love with you, Luca. I’m looking to…” she froze, admitting to herself the truth of their situation for the first time, her cheeks flushing pink. But hadn’t they both just acknowledged what they wanted? Not in so many words, but with their bodies, there was no longer any hiding the truth.

  “Fuck me,” he supplied grimly, shoving his hands in his pockets and angling his face away.

  She nodded jerkily. “I’m under no illusions about what this would be, so you don’t need to beat yourself up. I don’t know what happened with you and – the woman you were talking about a minute ago – but I’m not her. Believe me when I tell you my heart is already broken beyond repair. The worst thing that could happen is that you piece it back together, just a little bit, by making me feel like a desirable woman for the first time in my life.”

  He turned to face her, his chest heaving with the force of his breath.

  “Damn him,” Luca groaned, lifting his hands from his pockets and driving them through her hair, his fingers catching her head and holding it steady. “Damn you, Bronte. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “No,” she agreed, trembling from passion unanswered. “But it is. It’s here, between us, and I think we should deal with that.”

  He swore again, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. You work for me. This has the potential to be a disaster.”

  “You think I’m going to what? Sue you for sexual harassment? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the one who’s harassing you here.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Really? It sure as hell feels simple to me.”

  His exasperation was obvious.

  “Bronte –,”

  “Don’t.” She pressed a finger to his lips, her eyes the shade of the ocean on a stormy afternoon. “Don’t tell me leave it. Don’t tell me this isn’t going to happen. Don’t treat me like a bloody kid. I’m a woman, and I want you – as a man, not my boss. I know this is a game of make believe, I know we’re not a couple and never will be, and I don’t care. I can see that sex is separate to love, and right now, all I want is to have sex with someone who knows what they’re doing. Why can’t that happen?”

  He stared at her for several seconds.

  “Why can’t we have sex and then forget about it after this weekend? A secret we keep that no one ever has to know? Is that so ludicrous?”

  He jerked his face away, his jaw clenched tight.

  She sighed softly. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he didn’t want her anywhere nearly as badly as she wanted him. For him, this was normal. He was constantly in the papers with new women, different lovers. For Bronte it was so far out of her realm of experience, no wonder she was being blown sideways with desire.

  “Just think about it,” she said quietly, the words to save face, as much as anything else. She took a step away from him, hoping he’d prevent that, hoping he’d grab hold of her again and kiss her until there was almost no breath left in her body, but he didn’t.

  Her heart dropped as she reached the gate, and her throat hurt from unshed tears.

  6

  HE WAS SO EFFORTLESSLY charming. All throughout dinner he spoke and laughed, played the part of a doting boyfriend as though it was the easiest thing in the world. There was no hint of the tortured confession he’d almost made in the garden, the statement about having hurt a woman just like her in the past.

  It was what he’d promised he’d do – he was playing the part he’d agreed to – and while she was grateful to him, she was also irritated. Annoyed. Frustrated. How could he so easily act as though nothing had happened between them?

  Because it hadn’t. For him, this was nothing.

  Maybe he was right. She was at risk of letting this become way too big a deal for her.

  After dessert, a local band began to play popular covers, and some of the group took to the dancefloor. Before anyone could suggest Bronte and Luca do the same, she stood, excusing herself for the ladies’ room.

  She really did need a breath of fresh air now, and a moment alone to regroup. She pushed out of the glass doors, onto the terrace, moving to the railing and looking out over the formal garden, the topiarised bushes striking in the silvery moonlight.

  The sound of the door a moment later didn’t surprise her. She’d half-wondered if he’d follow her. She didn’t turn to face him, but when he approached, Bronte tilted her face a little. And sucked in a surprised breath.

  It wasn’t Luca who’d just joined her on the terrace.

  Watching her with an expression she knew all too well was the man she once would have described as the love of her life. Silly, naïve fool. Love didn’t hurt the way he’d hurt her. Someone in love didn’t wake up and ‘decide’ not to feel anything for you anymore.

  “Hey.” His voice was gentle, as he came and rested his elbows on the railing right beside her.

  She stiffened. “Hi.” It was the first time they’d been alone since the day he’d left their flat.

  “I feel like I’ve barely seen you.”

  She tilted her face to look at him fully. “What do you mean?”

  His smile was rueful – and so familiar. Everything about him struck a chord within her. Four years was a long time to care for someone.

  “It’s kind of strange, that’s all.”

  She stared at him. “What is?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Being here without you.”

  A shiver ran down her spine. She turned to look out over the garden once more, just as the moon was swallowed by a cloud, darkening the view.

  “You’re not here without me. I mean, I’m here, right?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes. And you’re also here with someone else,” she said pointedly.

  “As are you.”

  “Right.” Her heart stammered. Luca. Without her intention, Bronte’s eyes strayed towards the walled garden. Heat spread through her body. “That’s what happens when people break up, I guess.”

  He kicked his toe against the railing, not speaking. Bronte’s stomach swooped. Suddenly, she didn’t want to be here. Not alone with Ashton and whatever soul searching he was doing. She straightened, pushing away from the balcony purposefully.

  “Do you –?” His voice arrested her, somewhere near the door. She froze, not turning to face him.

  “Do I what?”

  He sighed heavily, a sigh she knew well. “Never mind.”

  He was baiting her. She recognised that now – with the clarity that came from hindsight and perspective. It was a trick he’d implored often in their relationship, a way to make her the conversational aggressor, the one who said too much and encouraged him to speak. She’d changed though. Now, she didn’t take the bait. And she wasn’t really interested in anything he had to say, she realised as she walked away with a sense of unconcern.

  With her shoulders squared, she walked back into the restaurant, her eyes immediately colliding with Luca’s. He was in conversation with her parents but he was evidently watching for her and the second their eyes met, something hot and urgent ran the length of her spine. His eyes narrowed when Ashton entered behind her, and for a second she felt some emotion bursting from him, something she didn’t recognise, before he turned to Charles and said something that made the older man laugh and nod.

  As Bronte approached the table, Luca stood.

  “Let’s dance.” The words were banal
on the surface but she felt the pull of something more in his suggestion.

  She looked towards the centre of the room, where a dozen or so couples were moving slowly to the strains of a famous ballad, then nodded. But her approval was presumed; Luca was already leading her towards the dance floor, a firm hand in the small of her back.

  “Are you okay?”

  She blinked up at him, nodding. But she wasn’t. Seeing Ashton had unsettled her, and she couldn’t fathom why. Not for the reasons she might have expected. It hadn’t hurt to see him and know they were no longer a couple. It hadn’t hurt to know he was here with someone else.

  There was something else moving through her, some other emotional response that made no sense. She lifted her shoulders. “It’s all just – strange.”

  He drew her close, his arms low in the small of her back, so she lifted her hands around his neck, clasping her fingers there. The pose crushed her breasts to his chest and the nearness was a form of torture, a sensual question she knew he wouldn’t respond to.

  “He followed you out there pretty fast.”

  “Yeah.” She looked up at Luca, distracted. “I don’t know why.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. He didn’t have anything to say – except that it was strange being here but not being together.”

  His laugh was a cynical burst. “Charming.”

  “What?”

  “Sounds like a guy who wants his cake and to eat it too.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he’s here with his new girlfriend but he’d like to know you’re still pining for him.”

  Bronte nodded. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. Guys like him are always the same.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “I got a read on him the minute I met him.”

  Despite the tone of their conversation, she smiled, his arrogant assertion and bald confidence both so completely ‘Luca’. “Oh, yeah?”

  He made a deep, rumbling noise of agreement. The song slowed down and then changed to another gentle ballad.

  “He’s selfish. Vain. Definitely someone who flatters his higher-ups in the interest of getting ahead. I bet he plays golf or something similar with his boss on the weekends, and tells you it’s in the name of a ‘promotion’.”