by Anthology
“Why?” He demands, the hand still fisted in my hair tugging until I have no choice but to look him right in the eyes. “You want me as much as I want you. So why not take the money that you need, and explore this?”
I’m mortified to feel a tremble working its way over my skin.
Why is a good question. We may know next to nothing about each other, but still, something in me recognizes something in him.
And yet…
“What is it, exactly, that you want to explore?” I have seen that there’s more to this man that the veneer he shows to the world, but he’s still a man, and thanks to my mother’s… profession… I have a healthy distrust of the creatures.
Matteo smiles, that seductive little half curve of his lips, then reaches over to brush his lips over mine once more. His fingers remain tangled in my hair, and I’m shocked to discover that I like the bite of pain.
His touch has ruined me for every other man, before I’ve even gotten started. Damn him.
“If you have to ask, then I’m clearly not doing it right.” Again, that smile, but this time it makes me feel a bit sick.
If I do this, even if it’s something that I think I want…
Won’t that make me just like her?
I can’t. I won’t.
“I’m sorry.” Jerking out of his grasp, I shake my head and step away. A chill seeps into my bones as I move away from his heat. “If you’ll show me where my bags are, I’ll just go.”
Matteo presses his lips together, clearly not pleased. But he nods calmly, places a hand at the small of my back, and guides me forward, toward the door. But underneath that calm…
I don’t know him well enough to say for certain, but I don’t think he’s taking this news quite as passively as he seems to be. I wonder at that, because Matteo Benenati does not strike me as the kind of man to take no for an answer.
I tense, wondering if he’s going to kiss me again in an attempt to change my mind. I can’t lie… part of me… okay most of me… is hoping for it.
He doesn’t.
“I will have your bags brought down. My driver will take you wherever you need to go.” I want to protest, but truthfully, I don’t have the cash for a cab.
“Thanks.” Our stares catch and hold, and a tangible wave of heat pulses between us. When he clenches his jaw I have to fight the urge to reach out and smooth my fingers over the hard planes of his cheek.
“Be well, Riley Tremaine.” Reaching around me, Matteo opens the heavy wooden door, and the bright sunlight of morning in Italy floods in.
I should be proud of myself, should march straight out into that sunshine with my head held high.
Instead it’s everything I can do to not shout that I’ve changed my mind, that for once in my life I want to be wild and free from the shadows that haunt me.
But that’s not who I am. Even if it’s hard to remember that with Matteo’s pricey cologne teasing my nostrils and his heat warming my skin. If it hurts to walk away, well, this is all my own damn fault.
Coming to Italy in the first place, going to art school—those are not things that a sensible young woman does. I should have known better.
Unbidden, depression washes over me, a grey sheet of rain. I push forward, desperate to be outside, for fresh air, but all of a sudden Matteo’s arm is in front of me, holding me back.
“May I help you?” His voice has lost all of the warmth that it held just moments ago, and I crane my neck to look at him, startled. What is he talking about?
But then I see that his attention is trained not on me, but on two large men that have appeared on the front steps of this mansion.
“Miss Riley Tremaine?” The two men are dressed in what are unmistakably uniforms of la policia—the police, even if they differ slightly from the ones I’m used to seeing back in the States. The navy uniforms, the gun belts, the narrow eyed look… I’ve seen it before, more often than I’d care to admit, always trained on my mother.
But this time their attention is focused on me, and though I know I haven’t done anything to warrant their attention, I can feel my pulse stutter.
“That’s me.” My voice sounds like it is coming from beneath a sheet of ice, and I would believe it, because my toes and fingers have suddenly gone numb. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Miss Tremaine, may we come inside? We need to have a talk with you.”
I try to conjure up a smile—again, I know I have nothing to worry about—but when I feel those disapproving eyes roam over me, standing in the doorway of this monstrous home, dressed in my cheap Walmart yoga pants and T-shirt, I feel like I’m being instantly dragged back to the trailer that I’ve called home, the small, stinking hovel where my mother sells her body to anyone who’ll have it, just to earn her next hit.
I’m not her. But in that moment, I feel like I could be.
“That’s fine.” I smile as calmly as I can—what’s going on?—and step back to let them in. But Matteo’s arm, still in front of me—protecting me?—tenses, flexes. His free hand comes to rest protectively on the small of my back, anchoring me, and I’m instantly focused on the small square of heat.
“Whatever you have to say, can be said right here.” Matteo’s voice is calm, yet deadly, and I look up at him with surprise.
Why is he protecting me? He should be furious with me.
“Mr. Benenati, we’re sorry to have to bring this business into your home.” The one police officer, the younger one, nods at Matteo with something akin to respect on his face. The other one, who is older with a shock of wiry grey hair, barely manages to withhold a sneer of disgust. He pushes slightly in front of his partner, attention trained on me.
I feel like a rabbit, cornered in a yard. Feel like I did when I was a teenager and one of my mom’s johns would get a little too close for comfort.
“Then spit it out.”
I can barely reconcile the man that I’ve spent time with over the last two days with the one who stands behind me now. I’ve heard him be cruel, but the razor edge in his voice now takes it to an entirely new level.
“Very well, Signor Benenati.” The older cop smirks, and I wonder if he’s someone who once knew Matteo’s father, or if he just doesn’t like people younger than him in positions of power. But then his hawk-like gaze is trained on me, and unease trails ghostly fingers down my spine.
“Signorina Tremaine, would you care to elaborate on where you received the million dollars that appeared in your account last night?”
MATTEO
My front is pressed to Riley’s back, and I can feel that curvy little body of hers stiffen. Since most of the women in my life have been interested in two things—my money and my body, in that order—I could be cynical and suspicious and immediately suspect that she has somehow swindled me out of part of my empire.
But I just don’t think so. One, while she’s clearly a very smart woman, I’m not sure that this art student from Colorado is hiding ninja like hacking skills beneath her fresh faced exterior. And she clearly doesn’t have the money to hire someone else to do it.
Plus… a woman capable of stealing from me would be greedy. And greedy women don’t turn down six figure offers, no matter what form those offers come in.
No, little Miss Riley Tremaine had nothing to do with this. But I don’t doubt that the money is in the account, or la policia wouldn’t be here.
That leaves Emilia. Emilia, who has gotten it into her twisted little brain that she is meant to be my bride.
Emilia, who considers Riley little more than a bug to be squished beneath her Prada pumps.
And while this animosity between my stepsister and I is nothing new, the announcement yesterday put us on a whole new playing field. Benenati Enterprises is worth billions of dollars, and it’s at stake.
Emilia is a stubborn, sneaky bitch, but I never expected this from her. And my vision hazes with violet rage.
“All money in Miss Tremaine’s account was a gift from me.” I
say smoothly, thinking fast.
I’m absolutely certain that this is a trick of Emilia’s. And if so, the money will trace back to Benenati Enterprises.
Riley squeaks in protest.
“And why, exactly, would you give this woman so much money?” The older cop lets his gaze wander up and down Riley, his lip curled in a sneer that he doesn’t bother to conceal, and I feel my rage building.
Without thinking, I pull Riley into my arms. Her skin is cold and clammy against my own, and the officer’s last words have her shaking like a leaf in the wind. A bit of an overreaction, I think, but then I don’t imagine a woman like her has been around many cops before.
I’m surprised when, rather than sinking passively back into my arms, she struggles against them, her cheeks flushing crimson.
“I’m not a whore, if that’s what you’re implying.” Unable to break my grip, her fingers curl into my forearms, the bite of her nails just a bit painful. And though it’s so not an appropriate time, I can feel my cock stirring to life.
Dio, but this woman is different. And I’m drawn to it like a child to candy.
“No,” I add calmly, tightening my grip on her slim waist. Calm down, I tell her with the embrace. “You most certainly are not a whore. You are my fiancée.”
Riley makes that little noise again, and it makes me wonder what sounds she would make if she was underneath me in my bed. At the very least, I want to kiss her, and even though this isn’t the time or place, I’m not afraid of these men.
As much power as they think they have, I have more. And so, to please myself even though I’m enraged at Emilia, I brush a slow, damp kiss over Riley’s temple, savor the jolt that works through her body.
“Your fiancée?” The younger cop repeats, and I’m not above feeling grimly pleased when he looks Riley over with an appraising eye.
The older one looks her over too, his eyes lingering on her breasts, which are clearly outlined in the cheap T-shirt that’s stretched over her torso. He sneers.
“I don’t see a ring.” His eyes meet my own, and he smirks. I simply stare back, letting the darkness inside of me pulse out in waves until he finally turns away.
“I just proposed last night. Didn’t I, cara mia?” This time when I kiss her, I turn her chin in my direction, allow myself a brief sample of those lips. It’s all I can do not to just press her against the doorframe and tear those ugly pants from her body. Fully aware of the two men whose gazes are fixed on us, I allow my lips to play leisurely over Riley’s, sampling her sweetness until her lips part and her body softens against mine.
When I finally turn back to the cops, my actions slow and deliberate, I can see that I’ve won. The younger one just looks dazzled to be here, and the older…
The older clearly has some issues, and I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that he’d had dealings with Carmine in the past. But I’m sure he’ll be handled easily enough.
“I trust these unfound accusations will be kept out of the press?” I don’t try to hide the implied threat. Young cop nods eagerly. Old cop bares his teeth.
“I don’t care if you are a Benenati. We have a job to do. You can’t just order us around—”
“Can’t I?” Letting go of Riley with one hand, I reach into my pocket, pull out a money clip. I pointedly count off bills, then hand half to each, twisting my lips into a cold smile when their eyes bug out of their heads.
On a cop’s salary, what I just pulled from my pocket is surely an outrageous amount of money. I know that it will buy their silence and their cooperation.
To me? It is less than nothing. They are less than nothing.
“Go.” I meet the stare of the older cop, and though he doesn’t look at all happy about it, he tips his head in acquiescence. “I wish to spend time with my future bride.”
The door slams behind us as I pull Riley back inside, the sound echoing throughout the massive entryway, loud enough to make the Swarovski crystals in the chandelier tremble.
“Son of a bitch.” I shout, one hand raking through my hair. The other slides to Riley’s hip, squeezes once.
The touch… anchors me. It is a strange sensation.
“What was that?” When I look at her, I find Riley is no longer trembling. Her face is instead flushed with rage.
It’s sexy as hell. It takes everything I have not to grab her, to slam her back against the wall and let us both work out our rage in the only way that I know of to express emotion.
But I have things to do. Things that cannot wait.
“That,” I reply slowly, forcing myself to step away, “was my stepsister setting you up.” It pains me, but I remove my hand from Riley’s waist. To touch her is to want her, and I can’t afford the distraction right now.
“She doesn’t want you to get married.” Riley doesn’t need me to explain things to her, a welcome change from the woman I usually see, whose brains have been addled by booze and drugs. “But why bother? You could just marry someone else.”
Someone like Emilia, to my stepsister’s way of thinking. Get rid of Riley, and then make another play.
“She overplayed her hand.” I pin my stare on Riley, note the way her pupils dilate as that inexplicable connection between us pulls tight.
“What do you mean?” Riley licks her lips, and I watch, fascinated. This woman is such a refreshing change from everything that is tired and familiar, I know Emilia has unexpectedly done me a favor.
Stepping closer to Riley, I gather her hair in my fist the way I did when I kissed her. It’s a mark of possession, and while she initially stiffens, her body melts against me as she submits.
“Emilia expected me to throw you to the wolves.” I smile humorlessly, and Riley’s lips part, just a bit.
“But instead she gave me exactly what I wanted. Now, my dear, you have to marry me.”
Chapter Eight
RILEY
Surprisingly, Matteo leaves me alone after dropping his bombshell on me. He tells me to make myself at home, then strides away, stating that he has business to take care of that can’t wait.
I watch his ass as he leaves. The realization that somehow, someway, I’m about to marry that ass seems like something from the Twilight Zone.
It’s not a real marriage, Tremaine. Get it through your head before you get hurt. I know this, and yet… I can’t help but feel a tremor of excitement.
The choice has been taken out of my hands—I’m embarking on this wild ride. And I know I could protest further, but let’s be honest here.
What just happened, with the police? It scared the ever living hell out of me. Somehow, someway, I’ve found myself in way over my head. And marrying Matteo serves the dual purpose of letting me have the adventure that I not so secretly want, as well as protecting me.
But I only need so much protecting—maybe it’s the trailer park trash in me, but the more I think about the way Matteo’s bitch of a stepsister set me up, the more I feel the need to prove myself.
If I’m going to be married to someone like Matteo Benenati, then I’ll earn my keep by refusing to be an easy target. If I was in possession of my right mind, I’d never even dream of doing what I’m about to. But one thing I’ve never been able to tame, no matter how much I’ve tried, is my kneejerk reaction to all things unjust. It got the best of me in the airport, and it’s getting the better of me now.
I don’t care if Matteo’s stepsister is a rich, powerful woman. I only care that she tried to get me sent to prison.
Oh, hell to the no.
The blind fury carries me right out the door of that monstrosity of a house, right into the car that’s still waiting, and all the way to Benenati Enterprises, which is where Franco, the driver, thinks that Signorina Emilia will be today. I’m almost thwarted when I get inside the giant tower that houses my soon to be husband’s empire—I’m dressed like a bum, after all, and security doesn’t think I have any business there, strangely enough.
But as I argue with security, I note that,
behind the lobby reception desk, an icy cool blonde has pressed a phone to her ear. She’s one of those ones who is tall, slim, and effortlessly stylish, and just looking at her makes me want to turn and run.
That’s the kind of woman that Matteo should marry, not a penniless American student with a whore—a literal whore—for a mother.
But though I can tell that she thinks she’s being sneaky about it, this woman is very, very interested in me. And when she puts the phone down and approaches the place where I’m standing, hands on my hips, glaring at the security guards, I know that I don’t mistake the slight glare that shoots out of her eyes.
I wonder if she’s slept with Matteo.
I tell myself that it’s none of my business, but I once again feel my self esteem take a hit. I can see it all over her face...
She’s heard of me. But what, exactly, has she heard? Whatever it was, she’s clearly not that impressed. I wouldn’t be, either—I’m not who I would pick as a bride for a billionaire, either.
“Signorina Guerra says to send the American up.” The woman’s voice drips with disdain. Watching her wraithlike eyes look me over and effectively dismiss me, as if she’s decided she has nothing to worry about, rids me of the worst of my self-consciousness, stiffening my spine once again, reminding me of why I’m here.
I may not run with the rich and famous. I may not have been born with a silver spoon up my ass. But that doesn’t make me less. I know this, even if I sometimes have to work to believe it myself.
“Thank you.” I arch an eyebrow, staring the girl right in the eye as the guards tell me which floor to go to. She seems startled that I’m being so direct, but I’m gratified when she flushes and looks away.
“Won the battle, but not the war,” I mutter to myself as I head for the elevator. The snotty girl at the front desk? I have no doubt that she’s a teddy bear compared to Matteo’s stepsister.
Eyes scrape over me as I wait for the glass elevator, abrading me, chipping away at the shield that I’ve erected around myself. I don’t blame them. I look like hell, and everyone here is a shark, dressed in suits and ties and sky high heels that still manage to scream business.