Maybe she shouldn’t have blown Adam off when he’d tried to lure her into his. But as she’d made crystal clear, she only showered with a man when they both wanted hot, slippery sex.
Not so they could, like, bathe.
He definitely had a head full of wrong ideas about this little affair, but she’d knock them out of there. She’d have to, because she didn’t want to give up the sex, not yet. It was extreme, the best she’d had by a mile. It was almost spooky how they knew where to bite, where to squeeze, exactly how to pull the trigger.
It helped that they both went balls out, so to speak. They were adventurous, their bodies interlocking like puzzle pieces no matter how they twisted. They got into it, totally lost in each other.
But physically. Not, like, emotionally.
Drying off with a fluffy towel, she checked the floor-to-ceiling mirror, not surprised to see eight purple fingerprints on her ass. Her pale skin bruised like ripe peaches. Hence the bite mark on her left breast, another on her right thigh.
It had been that kind of night. The out-of-their-minds kind, with no judging or worrying or thinking about tomorrow.
Which was now today. And already they’d been at it again. Half an hour later, she still felt his weight pressing her into the cushions. His quick, careless strength, his skin slick under her palms.
She rolled her shoulders. It was like she’d had an itch between them she couldn’t reach, and then Adam scratched it and it felt better than anything, a huge relief, total gratification. But as soon as he stopped scratching, right away it started itching again.
Well, she had a week to get scratched. And scratched and scratched. As hard as possible, as often as possible.
But if Adam thought he could scratch his way to her heart, he’d soon find out how wrong he was.
She was immune to romance.
Food, though, was another story. Adam had ordered calamari over fresh pasta for dinner, and she’d worked up quite an appetite. Wearing the only frivolous garment she’d packed, a sleeveless navy dress with beaded fringe at the neckline, she set out for the terrace at a clip, zooming over terrazzo floors and under elegant archways, past statuary and friezes and tapestries woven by women whose great-granddaughters’ great-granddaughters were long dead and buried.
Bursting out through the wide double doors, she saw Lucy and Crash standing at the far edge of the candlelit terrace, arms twined like vines. Adam stood with them, the three of them chatting companionably, looking down at the colorful lights of Portofino encircling the bay far below.
Adam was probably bamboozling them with ultra-suave billionaire small talk, which annoyed her enough that she would have rolled in and busted them apart like bowling pins, except that six inches past where they stood, the world ended in an inky abyss.
No light, no shadow, nothing between them and Portofino below.
Detouring to a table instead, where votives cast a soft glow over the mosaic surface, she poured a tall glass of Prosecco and looked everywhere but toward the pit of doom.
Again, she couldn’t fault Adam’s taste. The terrace was the size of a supermarket, but stone urns holding flowering trees and terra-cotta pots spilling over with blossoms subtly divided it into intimate areas. Lounge chairs and café tables were spread around for socializing or privacy as desired.
At one end, the terrace widened out around a swimming pool glowing with underwater lights, an aqua oasis in the darkness. And the dining area held not one large table, but five smaller ones, each suitable for four people. Theirs was angled so everyone could enjoy the view.
All in all, it was a perfect setting for a romantic girl like Lucy to fall more deeply in love.
Grimly, Maddie forced a few steps in her sister’s direction. All three of them turned their heads. Adam held out a hand. “Maddie, darling, come and see the view.”
“I can see it fine from here.”
Lucy skipped to her side and linked arms. “It’s okay, Mads. It’s just a few inches down to the grass, and the slope’s really gentle. Nothing to be scared of.”
“I’m not scared,” Maddie muttered, letting Lucy lead her forward. At the edge, she made herself look down. Not a precipice after all. She wouldn’t tumble into the darkness tonight.
Adam stroked a hand down her back, let it settle on the curve. She thought about stepping away, but the breeze was chilly and his palm was warm.
“Dude,” said Crash, “this place is incredible. If you need another gardener or butler or whatever, I’m your man. I could live here forever.”
“Mmm,” hummed Lucy, leaning into the circle of his arm, “I can’t imagine anyplace more romantic.”
Maddie scoffed. “It’s just a big house with a nice view.” She wasn’t getting on the romance train. It wasn’t going anywhere good.
Lucy gave her an are-you-tripping stare. “Mads, look around. They could set a movie here. And it would absolutely be a love story.”
“Yeah.” Crash gave Adam an approving nod. “It’s, like, built for seduction.”
Maddie jumped on it. “Seduction, yes. Not the same thing as love. Way different.” She did the wise older sister. “Sex isn’t love, Luce. It’s just sex.”
“Not always,” said Adam.
“You stay out of it.” Maddie tried to step away from him, but he curled his hand around her waist and pulled her hip-to-hip.
“You’re just being contrary. You know very well that sex can be empty and meaningless—if still enjoyable—or it can be part of something deeper.”
She fought back with her best weapon, the sneer. “Is that your advice for the lovelorn, Dr. Phil? Screw as many women as you can, preferably supermodels, until you find one where it feels meaningful?”
He studied her with hooded eyes. “It worked for me.”
Annoyed out of all proportion, she brushed his arm off with her elbow. “I guess I’ll have to keep trying, because it hasn’t worked for me yet.”
He smiled, an infuriating curve of delicious lips. “Liar.”
“Oh please. If you think a couple of”—she bit back meaningless sexual romps—“hot Italian supermodels—and make mine men, please—can show me the light, then send them to my room. I’ll report back tomorrow.”
He just gave her that smug smile.
Damn him.
Lucy and Crash drifted away, snuggling. She would have pursued, but Adam moved in on her. “Stop treating her like a child.”
“She is a child.” She pushed it through her teeth.
He rubbed her arm lightly. It was more comforting than sexy, so she didn’t belt him. “Madeline, look at her.” He turned to stand beside her, giving both of them a clear view. “Imagine seeing her on the street, a stranger. Would you think, Ah, there goes a pretty child, or would you simply admire a lovely young woman, mature enough to manage her own heart?”
“If she was hanging all over some stud like Crash, I’d think, There goes another sucker, heading for heartache and despair.”
“He seems as smitten with her as she is with him. In any case, you interfere at your peril.”
He had a point, damn him. Breaking them up—even if she could—wouldn’t endear her to Lucy. But maybe if she glared at Crash hard enough, long enough he’d think twice about leaving home without a raincoat.
A broken heart would mend; a kid was forever.
Adam touched her jaw, turned her face to his. His eyes were almost black in the candlelight. “What happened to you, Maddie? Why did you stop believing in love?”
“Who said I ever started?”
He tilted his head. “I thought I was jaded. I’m a wide-eyed optimist next to you.”
“I’m not jaded. I’m realistic. I thought that was one thing we had in common.”
“We have many things in common.”
“Like what?”
“A love for food and wine. An icy Prosecco. Calamari fresh from the sea.”
Okay, maybe that. “Pfft. Who doesn’t like good food and drink?”
&nb
sp; “All right then. The Bugatti. How many people would even recognize it, much less appreciate it?”
“Lots,” she said too fast. Then, “Okay, the Bugatti. Speaking of which, what do you drive around here?”
“Usually the Ferrari.”
Her pulse b-bumped. “Which model?”
“Four-fifty-eight Spider.”
“Red?”
“Is there another color?”
She wet her lips. “Um, do we have to go anywhere? For work, I mean?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “Not for work, darling. For pleasure.” He ran those fingertips up her arm again. A tingle she’d rather deny raced from the point of contact straight to her belly, then lower.
“I have a place on Lake Como,” he said. “Small, quiet, with a view you’ll never forget. We’ll spend the night, just the two of us.” His voice was exotic as a jungle. As low and deep as a drum. “We’ll eat pasta and drink Brunello and make love under the stars.”
A thrill shivered up her spine. She shook it off. “You mean we’ll fuck under the stars.”
“Oh, we’ll do that too. But first we’ll make love.”
“Not happening.” She did a slow side-to-side headshake. “If it’s sex, I’m in. If it’s romance you’re looking for, keep your Ferrari in the barn. You’re not gonna need it.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HENRY POURED TWO mugs of coffee, passed one to Adam. “Forget about stealing the Matisse. It’s a foolish risk.”
Adam set the mug on his desk without drinking, paced to the window, and gazed down at the pool. Lucy and Crash romped in the water with John. And Maddie—he swallowed—Maddie lounged on a chaise in a pink thong bikini half the size of a Kleenex.
He made himself look away. “Gio will have the thief by Friday.” And then he—or she—would answer for the crime. To him, not the police.
“It’s not only that, Adam. You’re involved with Maddie now—”
“Maddie’s not a factor.” He raked a hand through his hair, made the ego-shriveling admission. “She’s not involved with me. She just wants to fuck me.”
“Well, well.” Henry snorted a laugh. “I’ve lived to see it. Ninety pounds and she’s taken you down at the knees.”
Adam glanced out the window again. What could he say? He’d finally found a woman who touched him, whose mysteries he wanted to unravel, and she treated him like every other man who’d passed through her life, good for a few fast orgasms before kissing him good-bye.
“Cut her off.”
Adam turned to stare at his friend. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, don’t fuck her anymore. She’s got a hard shell, that one. You won’t break it with your dick.”
Which was exactly what he’d been trying to do.
“You can’t be sure I won’t wear her down.”
“You won’t,” Henry promised. “So don’t give her what she wants until she gives you something in exchange. Stop fucking her.”
“Impossible.” After a second scorching night plundering her body, feeding on the intimacy she allowed only in the dark, all he could think of this morning was getting inside her again.
Henry gave a hopeless shrug.
“Fine.” Desperation made Adam snappish. “If you’re such an expert, advise me.”
“Do what you were doing. Keep her close. Tempt her with the things she loves. Share yourself with her, make her part of your world. It was working, wasn’t it? It got you into her bed.”
“Which you’re telling me was a mistake. Make up your mind.”
“Giving her a taste wasn’t your mistake. Handing her your dick like a schoolboy, that’s where you went astray. Now she’ll lead you around by it.”
“Perhaps I’ll lead her around.”
“The dream of men through the ages.” Henry shook his head. “Make her work for it, Adam. Make her come out from inside that shell to get it. Or send her home now before you fall any deeper in love.”
“JOHN HAS NO skills.” Lucy bounced the ball in her hand as John gazed up at her with clueless devotion. “He can’t catch, or fetch. I won’t even bother with a Frisbee.”
“He can swim.” That from Crash, sprawled on a poolside chaise. Shirtless, he looked lean instead of skinny. Lucy ate him up with her eyes.
“You threw him in,” Maddie grumped. “What choice did he have?”
“Sink or swim, so he swam.” Adam strolled into view. Her gaze skimmed his long length, from the sapphire silk shirt that slipped and slid over his chest, down to his package wrapped in snug faded denim.
He moved closer, and her gaze tracked back up to his face. His smile said he could read her mind. Well, good for him. Maybe he could tell her what she was thinking, because she couldn’t make sense of her thoughts.
They’d ended up in the sack again last night, burning up the sheets till they collapsed from exhaustion. Which was all well and good, until she’d woken up between bouts spooned against his chest, his arm tucked around her, hand cupping her breast.
Snuggling wasn’t her style, but he’d worked so hard and was sleeping so peacefully it would have been heartless to disturb him. So she lay quietly instead, feeling, of all things, peaceful, even happy.
It was all wrong, of course, dangerously deceptive, and eventually it freaked her out enough that she took the bull by the horn, so to speak, and got things moving again.
But now, watching him saunter her way, she realized she was still freaked out.
Hooking a hand under her crossed ankles, he lifted them without asking and sat himself down on the foot of her chaise, propping her heels on his thigh.
So familiar, so sure of himself, when she was a bundle of doubts and misgivings.
“We’ll teach him to play,” he said, stroking her sole with his knuckles. His other hand caressed the top of her foot, a slow slide of his palm from her toes to her ankle and back again.
Saliva pooled in her mouth. She couldn’t make herself pull her feet away, but she managed a sour puss.
“Life’s not all fun and games,” she informed him. “You dragged me over here to work.”
“You’re right,” he said. “You should be hunched over a desk under fluorescent bulbs, squinting at small print. Instead you’re lazing in the sun, admiring the sea view. I don’t know why I allow it.”
She glowered. “I’m not here to lounge around your fancy pool. Do I look like a Playboy bunny to you?”
Stupid, stupid question.
His gaze inched up her torso from her way-too-high-cut bikini bottoms to her way-too-low-cut top. The suit had appeared on her bed while she was showering. The price tag was still attached, apparently to prove it hadn’t been worn, but it also had the effect of dropping her jaw.
Who in their right mind would pay nine hundred and ninety-five dollars for two scraps of nylon that, sewn together, wouldn’t cover a ham sandwich?
She suppressed a flush by main force. “I meant,” she added stiffly, “why am I idling around the pool instead of working?”
His lips quirked. “Because it’s fun?”
“It’s not fun.” She pulled her feet away from his seductive hands, swung them around, and planted them on the ground. “Quit handling me.”
“I can’t.” His finger trailed up the back of her arm. “I love how you feel. Velvet over steel.”
He traced a lacy pattern on her shoulder.
She should stand up. Stamp across the terrace and storm inside. She could picture herself doing it.
Instead, she closed her eyes. Goose bumps shivered up her spine.
His knuckles brushed her neck, then her cheek, as light as feathers, softer than silk. She swallowed, throat tight, willing them to dip lower, to scorch a fiery trail down to the swell of her breast . . .
And then they were gone.
She leaned in, infinitesimally, seeking what she’d lost. When it wasn’t forthcoming, she opened her eyes to find him on his feet looking down at her, his sunglasses hiding his expression.
&n
bsp; “We have a lunch meeting in the village,” he said.
“Okay. Good.” She pulled her shoulders back, shook off his sexual mojo. “When?”
He glanced at his watch. “Forty minutes, under the portico. You’ll find what you need in your closet.”
She stiffened. “I’m not Barbie. You can’t dress me.”
“I think you’ll approve of my taste.” He half smiled. “In any case, it’s that or go naked. Your choice, but you can imagine where I come down.”
“You did not get rid of my clothes.” She stated it as fact.
“Every stitch.”
She popped up like a cork. “Give them back.”
“Too late. They’re headed to New York, where they’re eminently suitable. You’ll find a different climate here.”
“Is that so? People don’t wear suits on the Riviera?”
“Not to lunch they don’t.” He held up a hand to belay her next volley. “We’re taking the Ferrari.”
FROM THE CLOSETFUL of designer clothes Adam had tasked Raquel with providing, Maddie had chosen a halter dress as white as the fair-weather clouds. The silky fabric crossed over her breasts, then wrapped around behind her, leaving her taut belly bare.
It crossed again at a spot just below the small of her back, then came together in a shallow V two inches south of her belly button. From there, layers of filmy scarves fell in a scalloped skirt that fluttered like butterflies around her thighs.
The effect was magical.
She’d tried to hold on to her annoyance, but the Ferrari had taken the edge off her temper. The catcalled compliments as they strolled through the village had silenced her wardrobe rant. And when she realized that lunch would be served aboard his yacht, she threw up her hands and claimed she’d make the best of it.
Now, standing on the deck of the Signora in Rosso, the aqua Mediterranean tinting her eyes the same spectacular sea green, she looked like a movie star. And she was smiling.
Around them, Portofino’s parti-colored shops and houses clung to the coastline, an Impressionist painting come to life. Forested hills rose steeply in the background, dotted with villas, including his own, windows flashing in the noonday sun.
The Wedding Vow Page 17