“Yes.” His answer is simple, and I absolutely believe him.
“Who are you, anyway?” Squinting, I study his face. He’s hot enough to be a movie star or a musician, absolutely. But I don’t recognize him—and some strange little tug inside of me tells me that I would, if I had seen him before.
He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to tell me—like he wants to keep what’s between us the way that it is now. Unbalanced.
“My name is Matteo Benenati.” Pausing, he cocks his head to one side, and I know that I’m not imagining that he is watching me for my response.
His last name sounds vaguely familiar, true enough. But I could be making that up. To my American ears, everyone in Italy has names with a similar tone. Benenati. Agnelli. Fiori. Leoni.
So probably it’s not familiar at all.
“I’m Riley.” I offer my hand, a very American custom, I know, and realize the absurdity of the gesture when he arches an eyebrow at my proffered hand, which I snatch back.
I’m naked in a bed in his house, with a stab wound on my shoulder. We’re a little bit past the introductions phase of our relationship.
“Riley Tremaine. Twenty-one years old, from Coal Creek, Colorado. Here on an exchange program for your final year of college, where you have just finished studies in fine arts. Speciality is oil painting. Currently of no fixed address.” Sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks, he rocks back on his heels, studies my face as I gape at him. I shouldn’t be shocked that he knows any of this about me—I have a Facebook account, though I rarely use it.
But I’m a bit startled that he bothered to look. That I, a stranger to him—and a troublesome one at that—was important enough to dig for information on.
He doesn’t smile as he regards my obvious confusion. Instead, I get the sense that he’s just pulled some kind of power play.
He is in charge here. Not like I needed the reminder. And it makes me mad, even though I suppose I should be thanking him profusely for his help.
I don’t like needing help. Don’t care for being weak.
To his credit, he doesn’t rub in the fact that, at that moment, I have no choice but to stay here, as he has ordered me to do. I’m out of options. Out of money. Across the word from my home, simply because I wanted a taste of life in a town of three hundred that saw my mother every time they looked at me.
“Rest.” He turns, strides to the door. “I will be back later.”
The rational part of my brain tries to stop the next question from leaving my mouth, but then, if that part of my grey matter was strong, I wouldn’t have gotten stabbed, wouldn’t be here in the first place.
“Matteo.” My voice still sounds rusty, and to my surprise, tired. I suddenly want nothing more than to fall back on the softest bed I’ve ever been in in my life and crash. “Who undressed me?”
Looking over his shoulder, he smirks and winks, a small gesture that nevertheless sends a flock of hormonal butterflies crashing around in my stomach.
“Sweet dreams, Miss Tremaine.” And then he is gone, though the scents of his cologne, of the musk of his skin, linger.
Holy hell.
Sweet dreams, indeed.
Chapter Three
MATTEO
THE IMAGE OF RILEY TREMAINE, nearly naked and flushed from my words, lingers in my mind as my driver, Franco, pulls to a stop in front of the towering building that houses Benenati Enterprises. I instruct him to wait for a moment before he gets out of the vehicle, before he comes to open my door.
I need a second to compose myself, and that irritates me greatly. I know that the second that I step outside of this car, I need to portray myself as Matteo Benenati, son of the legendary Carmine. A man who might be young, but who is nevertheless as controlled and ruthless as my own father always was.
Often, I play the role so well that even I am fooled. Even today, knowing that I will be facing the entire board that my father hand-picked, people who will look at me and see him, I might have been able to pull it off, but for the guilt that is dogging my steps.
“Dio.” Watching that knife slide into Miss Riley Tremaine’s flesh made my well-repressed demons jump out of the dark in which I force them to hide. It was like watching my father with my mother—the lack of power swamping me all over again.
And it had only happened because I had hesitated—because I had, even just for a moment, acted as he would have. Even dead, he is still influencing my actions, molding me in his image.
For a long, agonizing moment in which I bury my head in my hands, I wonder if I will ever truly be free.
In my pocket my phone vibrates. I don’t have to look to see who it is—it will be a text from Emilia, wondering where the hell I am. Since I no longer have the excuse of being out of town, I am expected to attend this meeting, and not even helping a damsel in distress—a sexy, albeit puzzling one—will be an excuse in Emilia’s books.
While I am the acting CEO of the company, I know that my stepsister will use any excuse that she can to undermine me. And, heaven help me, I admire the ambition.
Sucking in a deep breath, I push out of the sleek black vehicle without waiting for Franco to open my door for me. As I stride toward the tower of glass and chrome, I try to think of something besides this meeting, which, despite my best efforts, fills me with dread.
This, of course, brings my thoughts circling straight back around to the puzzling woman lying naked in one of my guest rooms.
And thinking about that soft ivory skin beneath the clinging silk of the bed sheets has my pants starting to feel a bit tight. I didn’t undress the girl—I had one of the maids do it. Mostly because I was a little too interested in what lay beneath those dreadful cheap clothes that she wore.
I had plenty of time to study her while she lay unconscious in the ambulance. She is an attractive young woman, of that there is no doubt. But her beauty is of the wide-eyed, innocent type—a far cry from the sleek, predatory women I usually date.
I call it dating, because I am happy to provide dinner, tickets to fancy functions, and pricey gifts... even though the only part of a woman’s companionship that I truly desire is the sex. Which is why I choose the women I do.
They are happy to take what I can give them, and do not sulk when we part ways.
The American girl—she is different. She is sweet. Untainted by my darkness.
It makes me want to possess her.
It would ruin her.
Inside the vast building now, I stride through the lobby, past reception, past security. From the corner of my eye I see them scramble to stand at attention, to show me the very best sides of themselves.
I do not care. They are not individuals to me, and never will be, and that is because when they look at me, they do not see Matteo the person. They simply see Carmine’s heir, the man they think I am.
Most days I could care less. I have vast wealth, great power. Anything a man of twenty-five could ever dream of.
But today—today as I enter the packed boardroom on the highest floor, I feel like a poor imitation of the man whose loins gave me life. Like I will never live up to his greatness. A sad thing, when I am one of the few people who knows that behind closed doors he was not great at all.
“Matteo.” The company lawyer, Fabio Rossi, nods at me over his laptop as I suck in a deep breath and push through the thick glass doors of the massive conference room. I could frost over the transparent walls of the room with the press of a button for privacy, but I never do. I have found that people work harder when they are nervous, and watching large meetings like this take place make them so, even though they have no reason to be.
“Rossi.” Nodding back at the lawyer, I stride to the head of the table, take a seat in the plush chair that was once my father’s. It irritates me that he addresses me by my first name in front of the board, but then again, he has known me since I was a small child. I could make it an issue, insist he address me with more respect.
I know that it will not br
eak his habit, and so I do not push. But it is one of many ways in which the people who surround me show me that they do not think me my father’s equal.
Emilia is seated to my left. She has come straight here from the airport, I know, but must have changed in her office. She is wearing a snakeskin suit, her hair pulled back in the severe style that she favors at work. She wears no blouse beneath her blazer, a trap of sorts, I know.
Those men she meets who dismiss her as just another pretty face, who allow themselves to be distracted by the view that she offers down the front of that suit jacket—in her opinion, they deserve to be crushed by her razor sharp intelligence and her ruthless method of doing business.
I don’t disagree. In fact, I approve. Really, she is the perfect match for me, and I have lusted after her ever since my father married her mother.
Apart from a few steamy kisses, some petting before we were old enough to gain control of our hormones, I haven’t touched her. Not that I am not tempted to, every day. Her body is a work of art, and mutual lust underlies our entire relationship.
But after ten years I know that she is fully capable of consuming my soul, of dragging me fully into the dark that I have battled my entire life. It isn’t worth the risk.
Still, she is a valuable employee. And my stepsister, though neither of us have any parents left. So I nod to her as I settle back in my chair, then direct my attention to the lawyer.
“What is so important that it could not wait for next month’s meeting, Rossi? I’m all ears.” I smile, coldly. Not only does this man refuse to address me with respect, but he has forced my hand here, called for another of the meetings that I hate, though it is only two weeks until the next.
I’m not happy, and I want him to know it.
Rossi sputters a bit, pushing his glasses up on his nose. I see him the bruise on my cheekbone left by Riley’s fist, and just dare him to say something.
He does not, instead drawing in a deep breath, much as I did before entering the board room, and suddenly I’m certain that I’m not going to like whatever it is he needs to say.
“Your twenty-five birthday was yesterday,” he starts, and from his briefcase pulls a folder. When he opens it I see that the top sheet of paper looks like a legal document of some sort, something fancy and embossed.
I nod, feeling a gentle trickle of relief. The last details of Carmine’s will are still being addressed. I have always known that I would inherit the lion’s share of the company when my father died, but if that happened before I turned twenty-five—which it did—I would serve as the CEO with a board of directors until I came of age.
The relief now, as I turn it over in my head, is huge. Coming of age—being the legal head of the company...
No more board to answer to. I can make any change that want.
I can stop feeling as though I am playing dress up in my father’s shoes. Emilia stands to inherit shares as well—she and my father were always frustratingly close—but the majority comes to me.
“What papers do I need to sign?” I hold out a hand for the folder. Rossi meets my stare and holds on to it.
The relief begins to chill into dread as he shifts, clearly uncomfortable.
“I would like you to understand that I advised your father against adding this clause. It is highly unusual and not, to my mind at least, something on which he should hang the future of his empire.”
Pinpricks of cold rise on my skin, and I slowly lower my hand.
“Out with it.” I order, doing my best to ignore the rest of the board. I wish that I could order them from the room, but if they are here during the unveiling of a clause from Carmine’s will, then I am certain that it is because he insisted it be so.
Still controlling me, even from beyond the grave.
“The company is yours, Matteo, in its entirety.” I feel shock like a punch to my stomach, even though Rossi is still eyeing me with apprehension. “Provided you fulfill one requirement.”
It’s all mine? What?
And what requirement?
“What is it?” My stomach sinks. I know I’m not going to like this.
“You must marry within thirty days of your twenty-fifth birthday.”
The world drops out from beneath me. Stunned, I turn to look at Emilia. She looks as outraged as I feel, though for different reasons, I’m sure.
For a split second I feel a surge of triumph—despite how close she and Carmine always were, I have won—but then the enormity of the terms hits me.
“And if I won’t marry?” I won’t. I can’t. My mother was destroyed from the inside out by marriage to my father. I won’t do that to any woman.
And my reasons aren’t selfless. I like the decadence of my life—I like the money, and even more, the women. I have no intention of changing it. Bringing a wife into it, a wife who will surely suffer as my mother did—I do not want to feel the guilt.
My eyes meet Rossi’s. His lips are pinched in a thin line.
“If you do not comply with the terms that your father has set forth,” he starts carefully, holding his breath—the calm before the storm.
“Then Emilia inherits the company in full. You will get nothing.”
“The mother fucking bastard!” I am on my feet, the chair crashing to the floor behind me, before I know that I have moved. I can feel my face draining of color as I turn, lock stares with Emilia.
Though she demonstrates the same shock that I do, it is also easy to see the glint in her eyes. I know that I have just gained a formidable enemy—after all, she stands to gain so much more than she ever hoped for.
“Rossi. Is this kind of term even legal?” Ignoring the buzzing of the other stunned board members around the rest of the room, I cross to the lawyer, plant myself in front of him so that he has no choice but to look directly at me.
I need him to change this. I will not do it. Carmine is barely cold in his grave, which means that I have only just tasted freedom. Hard, perhaps, but when you spend your childhood watching your father beat your mother within an inch of her life, only to heal and then repeat the cycle, you might rejoice to be free of the tyrant, as well.
But it seems that he will not relinquish his hold on my life, not even from hell.
“Your father was free to attach whatever terms he wanted in regards to the collection of his estate, Matteo.” Rossi’s mousy face is resigned, but also set in steel, and this sends ice water running through my veins. “And—ah—there is one addition to the term.”
I close my eyes as a massive headache begins to build behind my eyes. The years that I put into this company, ever since I was a teen—the shit and abuse that I took from Carmine while doing it—it was all done with eyes on the prize, knowing that it would all be worth it in the end.
Now I don’t even know what to think. Do I take a wife in name only? Can the wedding be annulled once I have control of the company? How can I maneuver this to my advantage?
My mind whirling, I barely hear Rossi as he starts to talk again, my brain occupied with finding a loophole, some way to both follow my father’s order and get the company that I feel I deserve.
Then I make out what he is saying, and the world that hasn’t already crumpled beneath my feet falls away.
“As I have said, you must take a wife in the next thirty days. You must remain married to her for a minimum of one month. And you must remain faithful to her for that time frame, or you forfeit everything to your sister.”
Wordlessly, I let my stare swing to where Emilia stands, her hands not planted on the glossy wood of the conference room table. The hunger that I see in her eyes chills me to the bone, as does the small smile that curves her lips.
But it is only a moment before I feel my own competitive nature rise—one predator ready to battle another for supremacy.
I know Emilia, and I know that she is about to throw every dirty trick in the book at me to trip me up.
But I am a Benenati. I have survived my father’s hand for too many years t
o give up now.
I will win. And my legacy will be mine.
Chapter Four
RILEY
I WAKE WITH A START from a fitful sleep, my heart pounding. Even before I open my eyes, I know that I’m not alone.
The scent teasing my nostrils tells me that it’s Matteo. When I turn to see, I find him slouched in the chair that he pulled up beside the bed that afternoon. The pale blueberry hues slanting in through the window tell me that twilight has fallen, and yet he is dressed in a suit—well, part of it, anyway. He has removed the jacket, which is slung over the back of his chair, and his tie, which is nowhere to be seen.
The sleeves of his once crisp white dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, offering me a view of well muscled forearms tanned the color of gold. The top two buttons at his neck are undone as well, revealing the hollow of his throat. When I squint, I think I can make out the flutter of his pulse under that skin, an unexpectedly soft spot in the middle of all of this masculinity, and all I can think about is pressing a kiss there.
Rein in those hormones, Tremaine. A man like this is only going to be interested in a girl like me for one thing. And while, over the course of the afternoon, I’ve grudgingly decided that I’m grateful that he insisted on getting me stitched up, I have no intention of paying for the favor that way.
It rides a little too close to home. And whether I might enjoy it or not won’t change that.
“Did you sleep well?” He leans back in his chair, and I hear the clink of ice against glass. He lifts a small snifter of golden liquid to his lips, regarding me over the edge of his drink.
I note that the bruise around his eye looks worse than it did earlier, the purple tones having darkened over the course of the day. There are matching semi circles beneath his eyes, and he smells ever so faintly of cigar smoke.
Despite his generally dishevelled appearance, as he sits there, regarding me steadily as he sips at his scotch, I feel my long dormant libido roar to life.
Hours ago I unearthed a men’s shirt in one of the bureau drawers, and am now wearing that. It falls to mid-thigh, and I’ve rolled the sleeves up to my elbows. But when he looks at me like that I’m ridiculously aware of the fact that the buttons strain across my rather ample chest.
A Bride for a Billionaire Page 3