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

by Clare Connelly

  Her feet stopped working. Her legs stayed glued to the spot. The air was too thick to wade through. The ground was tipping, or was it rushing up towards her? She couldn’t tell. Only nothing made sense. She stared at him and her pulse went into overdrive, a fine bead of perspiration forming between her breasts. She was drowning; she couldn’t breathe.

  He wasn’t alone. Fiero sat beside him, the table covered in papers.

  “Bronte.” Luca stood, his innate good manners something she instantly recognised. Fiero did the same, a moment later.

  “Ciao,” Fiero greeted her with a smile.

  She nodded curtly and moved towards Luca’s desk. “You needed a file?”

  Luca didn’t sit down, and she felt his eyes on her as she moved the mouse and brought his computer back to life.

  “Gianfelice’s trust information,” Luca said quietly.

  She couldn’t look at him. She pretended fascination with the screen, navigating her way through the complex system of servers and files – all designed to keep the most private Montebello information secure.

  “It won’t take me long,” she murmured, double clicking, trying not to think about the fact his fingers had been on this mouse earlier, that his body had been in the chair. It was a lost cause. She couldn’t concentrate.

  Fiero said something and Luca responded. She heard his chair scraping against the carpet; it wasn’t loud but all her senses were on high alert.

  Focus, she warned herself. You should be done by now.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled, then returned her gaze to the screen with renewed intent.

  What the hell was Fiero going on about? Luca tried to keep up but it was a lost cause when four fifths of his brain – and body – were screaming at him to close the goddamned distance between him and Bronte and kiss her, hold her.

  “That depends on the taxation treaties,” he heard himself say, hoping he was in the ballpark of correct.

  Bronte’s eyes swept closed, her lashes like dark, glistening feathers against her creamy, pale cheeks. A flash of memory sliced through him – the way she’d closed her eyes when she’d come, overpowered by pleasure, unable to breathe, to speak, just existing for the pleasure he could give her.

  His hands tightened around his pen, squeezing it hard. Her fingers moved the mouse.

  “Luca?”

  Fiero’s voice was sharp.

  Anger burst through Luca as he drew his attention back to his younger brother.

  “Che?”

  Fiero switched to Italian. “What the hell are you staring at her like that? You’re going to make her think she’s doing something wrong.”

  Luca dug his fingers into his thigh, beneath the table. “I wasn’t staring. I was thinking,” he replied in their native language.

  “Well, think and look this way,” Fiero instructed, his tone doing nothing for Luca’s anger.

  She’d never been so relieved as when she located the document. Encrypted and behind a firewall, it was little wonder the junior assistant hadn’t been able to find it.

  The brothers exchanged rapid fire Italian, the sound of Luca’s words in that musical language reminding her of the way he’d spoken to her in Italian as they’d made love, the words – unknown and somehow magical – curling around her like vapour. She cleared her throat, wishing the memories away.

  “Would you like these printed or airdropped?”

  “Printed,” Fiero responded, and she was glad, because it meant she could look solely at him, ignoring Luca completely. “Better to only have one print file. Would you bring them back when they’re done?”

  “Of course,” she dipped her head in agreement, hiding her chagrin at not being able to pawn the job off on someone else. “Two minutes.”

  She hit print and moved quickly from the office, her legs unsteady as she entered the print room.

  Her document was first in the queue – as was anything that came from a Montebello director’s office. She grabbed the stack of papers off the printer as soon as they were done, carrying them back to Luca’s office. She didn’t knock this time; there was no need.

  Once again she paid attention only to Fiero. He held his hand out for the documents and she crossed to him. There was no way to avoid going close to Luca – it would have been incredibly strange to walk the long way around a boardroom table when Fiero was only a few metres away from her.

  It did, though, bring her right beside Luca. She stood there, her body vibrating her senses on high alert, as she placed the papers down.

  “Was there anything else?”

  The touch was light. So light she could almost have told herself she imagined it. The feeling of fingers brushing the back of her leg. Had it been an accident? She almost startled as though electrified.

  “No. Thanks.” Fiero looked up at her, oblivious to the explosion of awareness that had paralysed Bronte. “I’ll buzz you if that changes.”

  She couldn’t move. Her body was liquid. She nodded jerkily and finally stumbled back. At the door, she risked a look at the table. Fiero’s dark head was bent, scanning the papers. Luca was staring at his hand.

  Of all the short-sighted, messed up things to have done. Luca stared at his hand in a mix of outrage and disbelief. What the hell had he been thinking?

  That was the problem. He hadn’t been thinking. He hadn’t been thinking since he’d come to the office and heard Bronte crying, and he sure as hell wasn’t thinking thirty seconds ago when he brushed his hand over the soft flesh just behind her knee. Flesh he’d been kissing only four nights earlier.

  Jesus Christ.

  None of that mattered. Her agreeing to have sex with him on the weekend gave him no goddamned right to touch her leg while she was at work – or ever. He knew that. He knew that.

  His fingers had moved of their own volition, and before he could stop them. He’d drawn his hand away quickly, but not fast enough.

  Merda. He needed to get the hell out of England.

  Her cheeks felt as though they were burning up. She stared at the whiteboard, trying to seem normal even though no one else was around to witness her spectacular performance. But she was far from normal. Her heart was clutching inside of her so that if she didn’t know better, she might have thought she was having a heart attack.

  Her light was still on when he left the office. It was stupid, but again, without his approval or intention, his legs moved, dragging him to her office. He paused at the door then opened it, just wide enough to push his head through the gap.

  He didn’t know what he’d been planning to say, but the words died on his lips.

  She was gone.

  She’d simply forgotten to switch the light out.

  She should let it go. She knew she should let it go, but overnight, frustration had morphed into anger and it was now an uncontained force beating through her, a livewire of electricity she couldn’t control.

  Nothing calmed it.

  She checked her emails, triaged them as usual, responded to only the most essential, and then, a little before nine, gave up completely on going through the motions of her usual day. This was her job and she needed – clarity. Or something.

  Before she could second guess herself, she stood up and moved to Luca’s office. Only the thought he might not be alone had her pausing on the threshold, knocking once and pushing the door inwards. Her eyes swept the table – it was empty.

  Luca was the sole occupant of the office, his back turned as he pushed a coffee pod into the machine.

  Good. Alone was perfect.

  “Bronte.” His smile didn’t ring true but that was beside the point. She clicked the door shut behind her, locking it for good measure.

  “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  His expression gave nothing away.

  “You touched me yesterday.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and then he nodded, once. “Yes.”

  “You can’t do that.” To her frustration, her voice wobbled. “You c
an’t – you don’t – that’s not –,”

  He made a sound, a gruff, impossible noise and shook his head. “I know.” His fingers pushed through his hair. “Believe me, I know. I goddamned know, and yet I did.”

  Anger was better than anything else so she held onto it hard. “Is that your way of apologising?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is an apology what you came in here for?”

  Her knees knocked together. Damn him. Damn him to hell for knowing her so well, for understanding what she really wanted.

  She bit down on her lower lip, refusing to acknowledge the primal, biological urges that were running rampant inside of her, demanding she run to him, feel his whole body pressed to hers.

  “I just think we need to be professional,” she whispered, the words halfway to prim.

  “No, it was far better when you asked for an apology,” he said with a dangerous tone to his voice, abandoning the coffee and pacing towards her, his stride long. “Then I could tell you that I am sorry. Sorry for touching you yesterday.” He stopped right in front of her, so close but not touching. “Sorry that you were close to me and all I wanted was to feel your skin one last time. Sorry that you are standing here now, so cross with me, your little face pale and your breasts moving with every indignant breath and all I want is to kiss you, Bronte. Sorry that I find myself wishing we never said we would only see each other for the weekend. Sorry that I find myself wanting to bring you home with me tonight, for more of you, more of this.” He gestured from his chest to hers.

  Bronte was sinking again.

  She made a soft noise and then she was lifting up, her lips seeking his, her body moulded completely to Luca’s, his breathing as hard as hers, their pain, their ache, mutual and shared.

  “I’m sorry,” he groaned into her mouth, his fingers spread wide on her cheeks, his tongue invading her completely, making speech impossible. “This is so wrong but God help me, I can’t stop wanting you.”

  She made a soft noise of acknowledgement, her hands pushing at his shirt, needing, wanting, with the same urgency he felt, to touch his bare skin.

  She ripped her mouth away just so she could stare at him. “Then don’t.”

  It was the sealing of their fate, a invitation, a plea, and he answered it, pulling her away from the door as he undid his pants and stepped out of them, his fingers lifting her skirt, finding the lace of her thong and pushing at it, crouching at her feet to remove it, his dark head bent, her body awash with sensations. He stood, pulling her with him, drawing her to one of the dark leather armchairs; she straddled him, his body so achingly familiar to hers. She lifted up on her haunches, preparing to take him deep inside but he lifted a finger to her lips, halting her, stilling her, even as the torrent of her desire refused to be silenced.

  “You’re sure about this, Bronte?”

  Her laugh was half-maniacal.

  “Of course. What do you think?”

  He paused only so long as it took him to sheathe his length and then he moved, thrusting into her at the same time she sunk down on him, the feeling of this euphoric, blissful, heaven-sent.

  He moved quickly and she pressed down hard, her muscles clamping around him, clinging to him, her body finally making her mind accept what she should have realised much sooner.

  This was perfect.

  Bliss.

  Passion, yes, but so much more. Bronte was home.

  This wasn’t just sex. It was so much more. She kissed him as though that kiss could explain what she was feeling, and the kiss he returned it with answered the questions of her soul.

  She loved him.

  There was no other explanation for why he’d taken up residence in her brain and heart and refused to leave. She loved him and everything was right in the world.

  Pleasures pushed thought aside; it wasn’t possible to think rationally, to acknowledge her thoughts in such reasonable terms, but it was enough to know they were there and real, and enough to allow for the blossoming of hope that he felt it too. There’d be time after —later— to make sense of her realisation, to measure his feelings; their bodies were taking over.

  She dug her nails into his shoulders as he pushed up, so deep, so hard inside of her that she gasped and then moaned as her hips wiggled down. His hands cupped her bottom, guiding her, his fingers digging into her rounded flesh, the intimacy of the touch sending goose bumps over her skin so she whimpered.

  “Good?” He bit the word out, pausing and scanning her face. “I’m not hurting you?”

  His fears slammed into her. She ran her fingers over his cheek gently, lightly, tears misting her eyes. “You could never hurt me.”

  She hoped, more than anything, it was true.

  12

  “I DEFINITELY DIDN’T COME in here thinking that would happen,” she laughed as she pulled her underpants back on, the smile genuine as relief gradually overtook everything else in her body.

  Pain receded.

  Everything was going to be fine.

  Of course what they’d shared in the countryside hadn’t simple ceased to exist because they’d come back to London. Of course they were still them – the chemistry and attraction that had driven them together as tangible as ever.

  “No,” he drawled, and when she looked up, he’d dressed fully, looking as suave and untouchable as ever. But she knew better now. “That wasn’t on my agenda at all.”

  She lifted her shoulders, moving towards him, happiness keeping her steps light. “Wasn’t it?”

  He frowned.

  “Don’t you think there was something inevitable about that?”

  He cocked his head in what she took to be agreement.

  “This has been so stupid. The last few days, ignoring each other, feeling like we were walking on eggshells. How can we go from that,” she pointed to the chair, “ to pretending we don’t exist?”

  He didn’t respond. His eyes were haunted, watchful.

  “Bronte –,”

  She shook her head, pressing a finger to his lips. “We don’t need to discuss it. Let’s just pretend the beginning of this week never happened, and pick up where we just left off.”

  It all made sense. She wasn’t going to analyse where it was going, it was enough to know how she felt about him, and to suspect he felt the same way about her, even if he might not be ready to admit that. Yet.

  “How about tonight,” she prompted, thinking ahead to how they could spend their time. Dinner in, definitely, with a bed only a few steps away at all times. Or maybe a lounge room – they’d just proven a bed was an optional extra.

  He shook his head. “I can’t.”

  The words stilled her momentarily.

  “I’m having dinner with Fiero.”

  Her heart skipped a beat but she refused to listen to the nagging doubts that were breathing through her. Doubts had given her hell the last few days. The best thing to do was listen to her body, and his, and on that score she had all the information she needed.

  “Then afterwards,” she said, tucking her finger in the waistband of his pants and pulling him towards her. He was too big; she couldn’t pull him, but he stepped towards her of his own accord.

  “I’ll message you,” he said throatily, dropping his lips to hers and brushing them quickly. “Bene?”

  Bene? Good? No. Some time later that night, having not heard from Luca, she suspected things were not ‘bene’. She scanned her phone, her heart in her throat, pride holding her back from texting him, the certainty she’d felt earlier that day that they were meant to be together eroding easily, now that their bodies’ intimacy was further away from her. Maybe it was a post-sex high. Maybe it was just damned wishful thinking.

  Bronte squeezed her eyes shut, but it did nothing to blot her thoughts or memories. “How stupid are you?” She groaned, banging her hand against her forehead. “How bloody stupid?”

  Coward.

  He stared at the email from one of his assistants in Rome, the flight confirmation for later that da
y staring at him accusingly. This was a dick move.

  Or was it a kind move? Removing himself quickly from Bronte before she could get any more of the wrong idea about him and what he wanted?

  Hadn’t he been honest with her? Hadn’t he told her all along what he could – and couldn’t – offer?

  Sure, in between dragging her into bed at the drop of a hat.

  He swore to himself as he stepped out of the car, riding the elevator to the executive level, barely taking in his surrounds. He stalked into his office, shut the door with a bang and strode to his desk.

  A button on his phone connected straight to her office.

  “Yes?” Her voice was cool. It told him all he needed to know. One syllable and he heard it. Hurt. Confusion.

  His heart squeezed as though it were in a vice.

  “Do you have a second?”

  A lengthy pause. He heard her hurt there, too, even when she said nothing.

  “Do you need me?”

  I don’t need anyone, and no one with half a brain would let themselves need me.

  “Just for a moment.”

  “Fine. I’ll – see you soon.”

  He paced until she knocked on his door a few moments later.

  “Bronte, come in.”

  She was wearing pale pink, just like at the wedding. He ignored his body’s immediate response.

  “How was your evening?”

  Don’t apologise. Don’t give her any false hopes. Cut to the chase.

  “I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.”

  Her hands fidgeted at her sides; she was otherwise still. “Go on.”

  He had to get this over with. It was for the best. The only way to stop her from being hurt by him – this – was to be brutally honest. Even more honest than was necessary.

  “It shouldn’t have happened.”