Seduced by the Stranger

by Allison Gatta

  Seduced by the Stranger

  A Napoline Royals Novel

  Allison Gatta

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Thanks so much for reading!

  About the Author

  Also by Allison Gatta

  By AE Gatta

  Copyright

  1

  This was, without a doubt, a mistake.

  Tess Strickland glanced at the Uber driver in the front seat, quietly wondered exactly how many customers he'd forced to listen to his weird jazz-polka fusion mix tape, and then stared at her phone.

  Probably better to focus on her imminent doom than to interact with a stranger.

  God knew by the end of tonight she'd have had her fill of small talk.

  The phone in her hand buzzed to life again with yet another message from her mother letting her know in no uncertain terms that she had better get her "Mama Fudging Butt to the hotel and fast."

  Right, as if she hadn't gotten the memo twenty minutes before when her mother'd called her up to read her the riot act--which, in her mother's cherished WASP-ish fashion meant angrily whispering to her from the ladies' room.

  Tess sighed and shoved the phone back in her seldom-used white satin clutch, then struggled to breathe with the fabric of her dress cutting into her ribs. She hadn't worn this gown since her father's last election fundraiser, and considering the fact that her boobs were already straining for freedom, she'd apparently put on a few since then.

  She glanced down at her chest, silently confirming that it did, in fact, look like she was smuggling two over-ripe honeydews under the white silk bodice. Great. Mom was bound to love that, too.

  "How long until we get there?" she asked, doing her best to be heard above the accordion and lute solo blasting through the speakers.

  "We're here, actually," the guy said, then pulled into a long, winding lane speckled with soft lighting along the path. At the very top of the street was a huge plantation-style mansion, out of place even in this little hamlet of lavish upscale New York homes.

  She shouldn't have been surprised, really. She'd been to dozens of places like this during her father's short-lived run for president. This time, though, it felt different. Maybe because this time it wasn't for her father. This was her sister's event, a huge gala celebrating some spoiled dignitary or other.

  Then again, her apprehension might also have to do with the fact that--no matter what her mother said--Tess had, most definitely, not been invited.

  She slid from the car after tipping the driver, her relief at being freed from the polka-jazz living only for a split second before dying away on the marble mansion steps.

  She tried to take a deep breath, but stopped when her dress practically screamed for mercy.

  Whatever. This was no big deal. She'd find her mother, make her appearance, and then head back to her brownstone and snuggle with her cat, Arnaldo, while watching some truly terrible television and pretending this whole night never happened.

  After all, this was her sister's event. She didn't still live with her parents. She wouldn't be subjected to the post-event breakdown of the campaign days. Who hadn't she spoken with? What had she said wrong? What did she do wrong?

  None of that.

  Tonight she was a free agent, even if the old familiar coil of dread was swirling in her stomach with every step she took. As she opened the door, a camera flashed in her face, but she ignored it.

  Yep, this had all the trademarks of the life she'd been all too willing to leave behind.

  As she made her way through the crowd, she was careful to keep her head down. Her father's friends--and enemies--from the senate were sure to be swarming a place like this, and she was definitely not going to smile and ask how their children were, and their wives, and...

  She was practically snoring just thinking about it.

  Finally, she made her way to the bar and, inevitably, found her mother about five paces away--enough to be convenient, but not so close as to be scandalous. Typical.

  The older woman looked perfect as always, the very image of Grace Kelly, simpering at one person or another while they talked about something her mother undoubtedly had no interest in.

  Tess stepped toward her and her mother made her patented escape from the congresswoman she was speaking to--a one hand touch to the bicep while nodding and whispering something encouraging. It probably felt just as fake as it looked.

  "Tess." Her mother grinned as she walked toward her, but the smile was far from reaching her eyes. Nope, her green eyes were nothing but hard flecks of fury, so bright that they could have obliterated Tess where she stood.

  "Hey, Mom. Looks like Lydia did a hell of a job with this one." She nodded toward the floor behind her, filled to the brim with chattering socialites. "She'll have her own senate seat in no time, I'm sure."

  Apparently, her mother hadn't heard her because all she said--lovingly as ever--was, "Your dress."

  "Yeah, it was the only one I had left. I gave the other ones to this prom dress drive for the high school." She shrugged.

  "You--you..." Her mother started blinking inhumanly fast--the warning signs of a too-sweet onslaught of poorly masked rage. "Okay. Well, you're here. You're in a dress you've already been photographed in, your hair is not done, but you're here. That's something."

  "Not really. I don't think Lydia invited me." A stab shot through her heart at the words, though she couldn't say why. It wasn't like she ever begged to go to these sorts of things. In fact, if anything, they'd had to drag her screaming when she'd been younger, but this was different.

  It was Lydia's first big event with the state department and she hadn't invited Tess. She hadn't wanted her there.

  "I'm sure she did. You probably just lost the invitation in that rat hole of an apartment."

  Tess closed her eyes, imagining the night she could have had. Cheetos. Netflix. Arnaldo's snuggly soft fur.

  Why had she come here again?

  "Right. Well, since you've never been there, you'll never know for sure. But there's no reason to argue. I'm here, just like you wanted." She plastered on the smile she always broke out for these events. The one she hoped looked like her mother's, but probably looked a lot more like a sociopath's dead-eyed attempt at joy. "So, what do you need me to do?"

  "Say hello to your sister. The photographers will want to see you two together."

  "Right. Of course." She inwardly cringed at the idea of posing for the photographers, but shrugged the thought away. All she had to do was stay here for an hour, then it was back home. Back to Cheetos. Back to sanity.

  "She's near the canapés, I think." Then came that bicep touch and falsely reassuring murmur, "If you'll excuse me."

  Tess nodded, though she silently wondered if anyone had ever not excused her. Then she grinned, picturing what her Emily Post Student mother would do. She'd have to try that sometime.

  But not tonight. She had roughly 49 minutes to kill, and she had to knock the next item off her list.

  This time when she bustled through the crowd, she wasn't so lucky in avoiding the people she'd used to small talk with so regularly. There were a few senators, sometimes with their wives, all asking about what had become of her and pretending to look interested rather than delighted when she told them she was a waitress living in a Brooklyn brownstone.r />
  They'd tell her it was lovely and it was so nice that she "marched to the beat of her own drummer"--though she knew they were secretly all-too-delighted to whisper about how poor Senator Strickland's daughter didn't live up to her privileged upbringing. Thank god their children had better sense than all that.

  And, of course, then they'd dive into why she wasn't as great as Senator Strickland's other daughter, perfect, bright, and charming Lydia.

  When Tess finally freed herself from the clutches of the Senator from Guam, she caught sight of her more-polished counterpart. Like their mother, Lydia had all the trademarks of Old Hollywood glamour, though her dark hair and angular face made her look much more like Audrey Hepburn than Grace Kelly.

  Not for the first time, a little twinge of jealousy shot through Tess as she surveyed her sister's slender, picturesque frame. Her sleek, straight brown hair instead of Tess' wild mane of unruly caramel curls.

  Lydia had it all, and even worse--she deserved it.

  By all accounts, she was practically perfect in every way, which left her younger sister with nothing but a bar to fall short of. And boy did she.

  Tess cut through the room, and though Lydia's expression didn't change when she caught sight of her, her body language gave the game away. She crossed her willowy arms over her chest, blinking faster in a haunting imitation of their mother.

  "Tess." She stretched her arm out in front of her. "How good of you to come."

  "Is it?" Tess smiled back at her, taking her hand and shaking it.

  "Don't. The cameras." The words were practically a hiss between her ever-smiling lips.

  "I'm not. I'm...well, I guess I'm sorry I'm here." Every part of her screamed not to apologize. After all, she was the wounded party. She was the one whose sister had practically disowned her--in front of the entire country, in fact.

  "I told mother not to call you," Lydia hissed.

  "What good is it to tell her anything?"

  This time Lydia's smile looked the slightest bit genuine. "I'm glad you understand."

  The urge to fight broke loose, and her plastered-on smile began to crack. "That's actually not what I said."

  To her surprise, Lydia's smile wavered too. For a moment, she looked pensive, her perfectly sculpted brows crinkling over her round, thoughtful eyes. "Look, Tess--"

  "Why didn't you want me here?"

  "You know why. Don't make me say it."

  Another pang of hurt. "You can't mean that."

  "This is a big night for me. I could be the youngest woman in the senate someday soon. I can't afford..." She stopped, then sighed. "Maybe it wasn't your fault, what happened back then. But I can't afford to risk it. You're your own person and that's great, but you're..." She shook her head. "Why don't we do lunch next week and talk about it then? There's plenty of food. Champagne."

  "No. I don't think so. Let's talk about it now." Tess’s throat was closing up, and she made her mouth a solid line, ready to face whatever her sister said next.

  Her perfect sister. The font of wisdom and gentility.

  The daughter her parents wanted.

  "You're a liability. Are you happy?" Lydia raised her eyebrows. "I planned this gala for months, making sure it would suit the prince's every need, and the last thing I want is for everything to get overshadowed by my screw-up sister."

  "Oh." She nodded, pushing down the lump in her throat. "Yes, that makes sense."

  It was all she could think to say. Even after all these years, her sister--hell, her entire family--blamed her for her father's political failure.

  "I didn't want it to be this way," Lydia said, and her voice was thoughtful. She reached out, ready to touch Tess' bicep and whisper some reassurance, but Tess sidestepped her.

  "I'm going to get some air and, you know, keep a low profile." What Lydia said or did after that Tess couldn't say. She was practically sprinting toward the wide, glass doors, onto the fairy-lighted patio that looked out onto a tiny, picturesque lake.

  When she reached the wrought iron gate at the end of the terrace, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and then glanced around to make sure she was alone. When she was sure the coast was clear, she practically shouted, "Shit! Dammit! Mother--"

  "You must really hate lakes." A deep voice rumbled through the darkness and she spun on her heel to find a figure emerging from the shadows in the corner of the space.

  No, not a figure. The most devastatingly handsome man she had ever seen. He was like a young John Stamos had mated with Superman and created god's gift to women. Tall, square jawed, and decked to the nines in a beautiful black suit.

  She blinked, watching as he took one step, then two toward her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. What was there to say? She was sorry? Sorry because she did exactly what everyone expected her to do--embarrass herself and everyone associated with her in front of this man who was, based on how expensive he looked, very important.

  When he was about a foot away from her, he added, "Or maybe this is a pond. I've never been very good with cartography, geology. That sort of thing." He grinned and she nearly melted into a puddle at his feet.

  Why? Why was this her life? Why couldn't she have shot her mouth off in front of a janitor or, say, the President? That would have been much less embarrassing than having to stand in front of this Calvin Klein model and explain herself.

  Heat flooded her cheeks, but she shook her head in a desperate effort to clear her mind. "I'm sorry." Then, catching herself, she added, "It's any body of water, really. It's an affliction of mine. Sometimes I just shake my fist at the sea like somebody out of Moby Dick." She smiled, and he surprised her by letting out a short, stifled laugh.

  "I'll make a note not to take you out on any boats." This time she caught the twinge of his accent--Italian, by the sound of it.

  "Appreciated." She nodded, then glanced around as the silence stretched between them. Maybe if she backed herself into one of the shadows, he wouldn't notice how poorly her dress fit. Or--god forbid--recognize who she was.

  "So, do you want to talk about what's actually going on?" He raised an eyebrow, then leaned on the balcony beside her, so close that she could smell the cherry wood smoke on him. The faint whiff of his musky aftershave...

  "Probably not any more than you want to talk about why you're out here on the patio in the dark, creeping in the shadows."

  "Creeping is a bit strong, don't you think?"

  "I call it as I see it."

  Another laugh. It was stiff, she admitted, like he wasn't used to it, but it was still miles above what she might have found inside. Usually if she took a stab at humor when she was mingling with the socialite crowd, she was met with confused and embittered faces. Like they thought she was playing a trick on them or something.

  "Right, well, I was only out here smoking a cigar."

  "And?" she pressed.

  He was quiet for a moment, then after he swept his cool dark gaze over her, he concluded, "And I can not stand these things."

  "So we come to the root of the matter." She smiled. "Well, in that you have an ally. I can't stand the way they all talk to each other. It's like a human pony show. And then when you're their kid? They get to lift up your tail and show off how good your breeding is. It's disgusting."

  "Ah, you have a pedigree." His full mouth curved into a smile.

  "You too?" She raised her eyebrows.

  He laughed again, but this time she didn't know why. Still, he shrugged it off and said, "Yes, I suppose I do."

  "You have my sympathy."

  "You don't know how much that means to me." That appraising gaze rolled over her again, though was it her imagination or was there something else there now? Something...hot? Like he was undressing her with his eyes?

  He lingered on her breasts, then when his eyes met hers again, he said, "Tell me, are you with someone tonight? Is that the reason you're cursing at the water?"

  "No. I'm just...me," she finished lamely, and then gulped hard.
>
  This was not happening. This man or whatever mythical being he was, was not asking her out in her too-tight dress while her hair frizzed out in the summer heat. It was a joke.

  And even if he did mean what she thought he meant, she certainly couldn't spend the rest of her evening with him. She had to get home to Arnaldo and Netflix. Plus, there was the fact that, even if he hated this world, he clearly belonged here.

  Then again, who said this had to be a long-term thing? She could just...

  No, she couldn't. Well, she could, she just never had. She knew if she went "there" with someone, she'd run the risk of disappointing her parents even more than she already had. The risk of being the shame of her family.

  But then...wasn't she already?

  How much worse could it be?

  It couldn't, really. And if she got some shred of pleasure out of this disaster of an evening? Well, what was so wrong with that? What was the worst that could happen?

  "Just you." His thick accent brought her back to the present and she zeroed in on his beautiful, kissable mouth. The smell of him clouding the air around her. His very presence overpowering her senses.

  Then, just when she started talking herself out of it again, he finished, "Well, for the rest of tonight, you're mine."

  How could a girl say no to that?

  2

  This woman was different. Perhaps he'd known that from the moment he set eyes on her in that ass-hugging satin dress, shouting at the gods like they owed her something. And maybe they did, but from where he was sitting, she had more than her fair share of blessings.

  Starting, of course, with her full, stunning lips and her mane of wild brown curls. Normally, the women he met at these events would have shoved their hair into some sort of painfully intricate twist. This woman, though? She let her hair frame her heart-shaped face, bringing attention to the stark contrast in her gold-rimmed green eyes.

  When they got to his room on the top floor, he opened the door for her, waiting for her to mention something about the art on the walls or the decadent architecture of the penthouse suite. This woman, though? She said nothing. She only walked into the room, her heels dragging slightly against the hardwood, before she turned and plopped unceremoniously onto the sofa.