by Aimee Carson
He hadn’t been left. He’d been played.
The bitterness went deep, leaving a wide gash. And the festering wound refused to heal.
Strung out from his years on the fast track at Domingues International, he’d thought a little easy company at the end of a long day would be nice. A union with a childhood friend, his father’s goddaughter, a woman who understood the family and its dedication to the business, had seemed smart.
In retrospect, it had been anything but.
Three months after exchanging vows with Bianca in a simple ceremony, Paulo had known it had been a mistake. And even though they’d started out caring for each other, he’d been miserable. She’d been miserable. And the affection had started to wane. But he’d stuck it out because he’d made a promise. And if Bianca had simply asked for a divorce because it wasn’t working, because he refused to conform to her tastes in clothes or behavior, he’d have chalked it up as a learning experience and moved on. Instead, she’d walked out when he had threatened to leave Domingues International and hooked up with the man who inherited the company. His brother. It was then that Paulo had finally realized the truth.
Bianca had wanted the Domingues name, the money and all the status that came with it.
Resentment burned his gut, leaving another black mark on his soul.
He forced an easy expression on his face. “Nope, the country club incident had nothing to do with her leaving. Marcos and Bianca are welcome to each other.” Made for each other, more like it. Paulo hadn’t talked to either of them since. No point.
Alyssa’s face softened. “I don’t think you really mean that.”
“You’re free to believe whatever you want.”
For the first time, she looked unsure of herself. “For what it’s worth…I’m sorry.”
Her expression was so honest he almost believed she was concerned he’d been betrayed. That the only family he’d ever had that cared—his wife—had walked out on him. Turned out her affection was all an act.
His gut burned from the memory. “Nothing to be sorry about.”
“Is that why you left Domingues International when your father died?” she asked.
Another flicker of emotion came and went inside—this one just as strong, just as intense—but he locked it up tight before it could fully escape. “You used up your one question.” He kept his hands on the handlebars as he dismounted, holding the bike upright. “Time for the lesson.”
She glanced at the Ducati, a worried look creeping up her face. “Before we get started, can you explain why people who live in a state known for its tropical storms choose transportation without doors and roofs, seatbelts for safety…” Her voice died out as she looked down at her dress pants and then back at the motorcycle. “Not to mention regular seats to maintain your dignity?”
After glancing around the deserted garage, Paulo sent her a wry look. “I know it will be difficult for you, but there’s no one here you need to impress.” The frown on her face grew bigger as she eyed the motorcycle, and he had to suppress the grin. “Are you going to back out?”
Her shoulders snapped back. “Of course not.”
This woman seemed incapable of backing down from a challenge. And he was starting to enjoy himself now. The look on her face was almost worth the miserable trip down memory lane. “Why don’t you take a sec to get a feel for her?”
“Her?” Alyssa blew out a breath and stared at the motorcycle, feeling foolish. What about this monstrosity made it female? And why in God’s name had she agreed to this plan?
She knew why. Paulo and his exasperating mix of male magnetism and good looks. The more she learned, the more she wanted to know about the man. And his blithe treatment of his family’s actions was astonishing. Not once had she seen a sign the conversation disturbed him. The laid-back, carefree attitude was firmly intact.
And, dangerous as it was, she had to admit she enjoyed his company.
But the amused look in his eyes couldn’t be ignored. She wiped a damp palm down her pants. Finally giving in, she gingerly threw a leg over the bike and gripped the handles.
With a little more of a wiggle, she sat back on the seat. “She feels fine.” Alyssa glanced down at the hard concrete, and her stomach twisted with fear. “I’m not so sure I do, though.”
“Trust me. You’re going to love it.”
“I’ll admit I enjoyed the ride yesterday.” What little she remembered beyond touching him included the wind whipping by, the salty ocean air, and the bright sunshine on her skin. There was a sense of freedom that she hadn’t anticipated. “But driving one…?”
One hand on the handlebar, Paulo leaned closer. “Afraid?”
Her heart began to misbehave at his proximity and the café con leche eyes. This time she told the truth. “Yes.” She kept her voice even, resisting the urge to look at his mouth. “Especially of exotic-looking ones that are worth a bazillion dollars.”
He tipped his head quizzically, his eyes crinkling with a curious humor. “Are we still talking about my motorcycle?”
A warm flush filled her stomach. “Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t want to ruin her.”
A wry smile twisted on his lips. “Excellent point.” Paulo threw his leg over the seat behind her and, like a slice of green tomato dropped in boiling oil, her nerves came to life with a sizzle.
Well…hello. This wouldn’t help her concentration any.
Her back was pressed against his chest, her hips sandwiched between his thighs. She gripped the handles of the Ducati, her knuckles turning white. And maybe her dignity wasn’t the most important thing she had to lose right now. Maybe it was her mind.
Neither of them moved for a moment. Being wrapped in Paulo’s lean form was an odd combo of security and danger, and Alyssa’s confused senses couldn’t decide which she liked better.
“I never fully appreciated the motorcycle as a sexual symbol before,” he murmured, his mouth at her ear. Paulo turned his head, nose at her neck, and inhaled. Her breath caught as goosebumps pricked her skin, and the fiery heat left her feeling oddly damp all over. “Now I do.”
“Paulo…” The protest died when he placed his hands on her thighs and her mouth lost the ability to articulate.
“Don’t worry.” The rumble of his voice was at her ear. “I’m only here to keep the bike from falling over on you while you learn. I’ll keep my promise. No kiss.”
Shoot, who needed a mouth when hard muscle enveloped you like a second skin? In hindsight, it seemed a worthless condition. And how the heck was she supposed to follow his instructions now?
But the longer she sat frozen in place, the longer she’d be subjected to this torture.
Ignoring her body’s chaotic response, she followed Paulo’s directions and started the engine, easing the lever out. The bike crept forward. The minor accomplishment fueled her courage, and she grew more daring, gingerly twisting the throttle to pick up speed.
Over the next thirty minutes Alyssa managed to survive the distraction of Paulo’s hands on her thighs and several trips around the first level of the garage. With each pass, the triumphant feeling grew stronger until, finally, she ventured to the top of the building and back. By the time she came to a stop on the ground floor, she didn’t bother to contain her excitement.
Alyssa turned in the seat to flash Paulo a smile, her words a heavy drawl. “That was fantastic.”
The smile died the moment she met his gaze, inches from hers. Thick lashes framed hazel eyes that glowed with an intensity hot enough to burn a hole in the ozone layer. There was no grin. No shared amusement. His hands scalded her through her pants. And the sight of his sensual lips, so close to hers, had the blood howling in her veins.
And suddenly Alyssa was sorry she’d made him promise not to kiss her. Because she longed to taste him again. To feel those large hands touch her between the legs. She shifted her hips, hoping to end the agony, only to wind up pressing her backside against his hard erection. Streaks o
f white-hot desire blazed, and she nearly groaned out loud.
His hand slid higher on her thighs, holding her hips in place, his voice husky. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, you shouldn’t look at me like that.”
Heart pounding like a bass drum, Alyssa stared at him. Long denied, pent up desire demanded to be satisfied, and need finally overruled her good sense. “Maybe I’ve reconsidered my condition.”
Several beats passed before he narrowed his eyes a fraction, gaze lingering on her mouth, as if considering her blatant offer. “No,” he said softly, and her heart dropped at the word. “I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.” And with that, he dismounted.
Dazed, every cell punch-drunk with the buzz of desire, she stared at him.
Paulo looked down at her. “I think you should go to lunch.” He leaned forward to unhook his helmet from the back of the bike, his face achingly close to hers. “Before I change my mind.”
She gripped the handles hard, fighting the urge to close the distance between their lips. But pride drove her chin higher. “Who’s to say I won’t change my mind?”
He flashed her a deliberate look, as if he knew all her secrets. “We both know you won’t.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THAT was it. No more trying to get the upper hand, or any other part of her anatomy, on Paulo Domingues.
Alyssa sat at an outdoor café, ignoring the patrons droning on around her and shredding her napkin, alarmed on so many levels her mind spun from the turmoil. Down the street, the gorgeous gold marquee of the Samba glistened in the sunshine. She’d needed to get away, because eating lunch at her desk wasn’t conducive to recovery.
The kiss at the park obviously hadn’t been an aberration, and she didn’t trust herself around the man anymore. It wasn’t that she had—in a roundabout way, anyway—just asked her client for a kiss. It was worse than that.
The horribly, terribly, awful part was she’d practically begged him for it.
And not only with her words, she knew. She had begged in every possible manner. With her tone. Her gaze. In the way her body had leaned, screaming in its intent, closer to his.
She planted her elbows on the glass tabletop and groaned, dropping her face to her hands. No one could miss that blatant a come-on. And then, with desire etched in her every attitude…
He’d turned her down.
The turbulent chaos in her body intensified as she relived the sharp stab of longing followed by the crash of disappointment.
After the vow she’d insisted he take, she had shamelessly encouraged him.
How could she be so dumb?
In college, when rumors about her arrest in high school began to circulate, the effect had been swift and immediate. Labels had been attached to her faster than a game of pin the tail on the donkey.
Because if she was a thief, she must be easy too, right?
And, though the rumors weren’t true, that hadn’t stopped her classmates from indulging in a bit of fun, the stories growing more elaborate as they were passed along.
Alyssa rubbed her overheated cheeks. So what must Paulo think of her?
She’d set out to secure the account at the Samba, and then let the world’s hottest hottie muck up her priorities. Outmaneuvering him might have been fun. It might have felt good. But letting down her guard and burning it up with him between the sheets wasn’t going to impress Paulo.
Work. That was how she needed to impress the man. She was good at her job. Excelled at it. She needed to show him what she could do.
Feeling better now that she had rescrewed her head on right, she checked her phone. An email from the caterer doing the grand opening blinked on screen, reminding her about their meeting tomorrow morning to discuss the layout for the buffet. Alyssa picked up her fork and dug into her pasta salad, gazing at the message.
But, no matter how hard she worked on the last minute details of the opening, it was still someone else’s creation. She needed to solicit a new client for the Samba. And not just any event. It had to be something amazingly spectacular. Something that allowed her the creative freedom to produce a dazzling party that showcased her talent.
And she didn’t have much time.
She had to get Paulo to give up this need for a supervisory role. Because if she spent many more days in “daily direct contact” with him, who knew what she’d do next?
The following afternoon Paulo entered the lobby of the Samba and grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator behind the bar. The sound of the rock waterfall backdrop failed to calm the pulsating memory of yesterday’s ride with Alyssa.
The lilac scent of her neck.
Her hips, firmly pressed between his thighs.
After twisting the cap off the plastic, he slugged back an icy sip to ease the churn of desire, his gaze drifting across the lobby to the staff hallway. Alyssa’s first no-holds-barred smile from the day before was forever branded in his brain. And her look of unleashed desire? That particular expression had kept him up last night. Refusing to kiss her had been tough, but he wanted to prove to himself that he could.
The only thing walking away had proved was that he was deep in denial.
Their relationship was past the point of no return. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. And the more he fought it, the more securely he was caught in the web of attraction. Now the only way out he could see was to take it to its predictable conclusion. In bed with Alyssa. A few nights spent with her in his arms would free him to move beyond this frustrating fixation.
The familiar tap of heels on hardwood caught his attention, and he turned to see Alyssa crossing in his direction. Fresh, lovely, and bound up tight in a silk blouse and skirt. All he wanted was to strip the fabric away and discover the body beneath.
He rounded the bar. “Ready for another lesson?”
She came to a halt beside him, looking uneasy. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”
He was beyond ready.
Paulo propped his foot on the rung of a stainless steel barstool. At least she wasn’t freezing him out with her professional face. Definitely progress. “It’s not unusual to be a little apprehensive at first.”
“I’m not apprehensive.”
“Seemed that way yesterday.” His tone shifted lower. “Until the end, anyway.”
She ignored the innuendo and climbed onto a seat, primly crossing her legs.
Was she sending him a message?
“I have a more important matter to discuss,” she said. “The caterer for the grand opening told me the pipes burst in the Twin Palms’ ballroom today.”
He shrugged. “That’s the price one pays for working with historic hotels.”
“Yes, well, it’s left Rachel Meyer without a venue for her wedding reception.”
She waited, as if this were something that affected his life. Other than feeling sorry for the engaged woman, who clearly lacked good sense, it was nothing to him.
Alyssa went on. “She’s a best actress nominee for that indie film she did last year.”
“I know who she is.”
“She’s a hot commodity in Hollywood right now, so her wedding is sure to generate terrific coverage.”
Looking nervous, she touched the tip of her pink tongue to her lower lip, and the sight tackled his libido and pinned it to the ground. Maybe yesterday’s fantasy should be adjusted. Her desk would be good, but if he pushed up her skirt even a barstool—
“The reception is two nights before our official opening, but I want to go after the account,” she said.
His eyes still fixated on her mouth, the racy vision of the two of them dispersed with a pop.
She wanted to what?
Staring at her, he slowly lowered his foot to the floor. Long ago, when he’d still worked for Domingues International, he’d fought with his brother over the viability of the Samba. Marcos had wanted to sell it. Paulo had wanted to reinvent it.
His brother had eventually won.
And when Paulo had fina
lly set out on his own business venture, every hotel he’d bought and turned into a prosperous enterprise, every dollar he’d earned, had been to guarantee that—if the Samba came up for sale again—he was ready to prove Marcos wrong. Now he was close to unveiling his vision, and she wanted to risk a catastrophe before they even opened?
“I realize the situation is a little unusual,” she said, smoothing a silky strand of hair behind her ear. “But it’s an opportunity to really market the Samba.”
He couldn’t decide whether to strip off her clothes and make love to her or send her to have her head examined. Instead, he gripped his bottle. “Or splash a very public nightmare across the papers if it’s a disaster.”
She didn’t look discouraged. “It wouldn’t be a disaster.”
“And you know this how?”
Alyssa drew herself up to her full height. “Because I’ll be in charge of it.”
“It’s only fourteen days away.”
She opened her mouth, most likely to argue, when his Chief of Operations greeted them as he approached, saving her from herself.
When the man stopped beside him, Paulo kept his eyes on his overzealous, perplexing event planner and made the introductions. “Charles, this is Ms. Hunt. Alyssa, this is Charles Belvidere, my right-hand man.”
The manager turned to Alyssa, and instantly she felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. Middle-aged, slim, with streaks of silver in his dark hair, he was tall. Distinguished. Between his black suit and his staid nature, he exuded the aura of a funeral director.
“Ah, yes,” he said, his face was solemn. “I met your mother.”
Her mouth went dry. It was obvious he had something more to say.
“She’s quite…” Charles paused, as if searching for just the right word.
Alyssa didn’t have an English degree, but she was pretty sure such a word didn’t exist. With a small sigh, she rested her elbow on the counter, knowing this could take a while.