Matteo De Campo. She wasn’t sure if she should be thrilled she wasn’t the ice queen everyone, including herself, thought she was or distraught at her incredibly bad judgment.
Her mouth compressed. Matteo was playing a game. He was playing to win. And she was acting like some silly pawn in it. She clenched her legs around Marica as they went down a steep section, her muscles crying out at the request. Crazy when she had a to-do list as long as her arm of major do-or-die issues she needed to take care of with Luxe.
She needed to get on that plane tomorrow morning with her head on straight, primed for what lay ahead.
Put temptation out of reach.
Unfortunately, her track record of late wasn’t stellar.
CHAPTER FIVE
MATTEO HAD KNOWN he was going to kiss Quinn from the moment she’d gotten down off Marica, her green eyes glowing with the exhilaration of having conquered her fear. Most definitely after he’d heard the intense vulnerability in her voice when she’d said her birth parents hadn’t been able to keep her. He’d taken action after one too many not-so-subtle invitations from the queen of mixed signals, and the result had been a scientific experiment gone horrifically right. A chemistry test he wished he could forget, but had been burned into his brain ever since Quinn had left Italy two days ago.
Not even the mountain of work he’d plowed through on the ten-hour flight to St. Lucia had been enough to banish the memory of an eager, passionate Quinn in his arms. The fact that she’d answered his question about what she’d be like when she totally let go hadn’t put his curiosity to rest. It had made it much, much worse. Because now he knew.
His low curse was drowned out by the roar of the surf below the dramatic, open wall of his suite at Paradis Entre les Montagnes, Luxe’s world-renowned luxury resort tucked between the island’s famous twin volcanoes. He straightened his bow tie in the mirror and scowled. Why in God’s name hadn’t he just packaged up the insight he’d gained from digging into her hard-to-penetrate psyche and used it to work her angles? Why had he had to kiss her?
He picked his jacket up and shrugged it on with an antagonized movement. Bad judgment seemed to be his specialty. No matter how many times he told himself Angelique Fontaine had pursued him that night in Paris, had followed him to his hotel room after his drinks with his brothers and thrown herself at him, it had been his huge error to let her in. His shortsightedness to medicate himself with a woman intimately involved with a deal that could make De Campo’s future.
His breath came out in a long hiss. Things might not always have been perfect in his family, but they were everything to each other. Family was everything. He had to find a way to rid himself of that little demon that sat on his shoulder urging him to do all the wrong things. Because the Luxe deal was his chance to rebuild his reputation with his brothers. To right his past mistakes. And he wasn’t screwing it up.
A glance at the clock told him he had five minutes before he met the others. He strode out to the edge of the patio with its mind-blowing view of the volcanoes, wrapped his fingers around the iron railing and tried to find the focus that usually came so easily to him. Tucked into the mountains directly across from the spectacular peaks, Paradis Entre les Montagnes—literally translated as Paradise Between the Mountains—had proven to be as beautiful as its namesake. A lush, green haven perched above the Caribbean Sea, it disappeared into the mountainside with its tropical hardwoods, stone and tile chosen to blend in with its surroundings.
He moved his gaze over the layered blues of the Caribbean Sea that sparkled at the bottom of the cliff, over the tropical flowers of every hue and variety that bathed the resort in a jumble of color. The two mighty volcanoes loomed over it all, a vivid reminder of the power of nature. They were, apparently, still active. What would it be like if they roared back to life? Would they match the combustive feeling inside of him? Like he was ready to blow...
He shook his arms and legs out, the long flight from Italy leaving him stiff and sluggish. His head throbbed with that low, insistent pulse that had been with him all day. The three-year anniversary of Giancarlo’s death was tomorrow. And as usual, nothing or no one had been able to wipe it from his mind.
Three years ago his best friend had perished because of a stupid bet. His bet.
It rested just below the surface, ready to push Matteo into inconsolability whenever he began to feel a measure of peace. Had been the driving force of every mistake he’d made since. Had driven his frenzied partying and out of control lifestyle until he’d shut it all down.
Without that oblivion, he felt like a man with enough burning lava inside of him to destroy an entire civilization.
He braced his hands against the railing and looked out over the water. A desert island would be preferable right about now. Instead, he had a manager’s cocktail party to attend with Quinn and Daniel. A head chef and sommelier to win over. Perhaps a good thing since drinking himself into a stupor was no longer an option.
Something else he had banned from his life.
He clenched his hands by his sides. He would do this like he always did. By pretending to the world he didn’t care. By being Matteo the Charming. Matteo who lit up a room when he walked into it. It was like switching on a lightbulb. Declaring it showtime.
The sky was transforming into a potent cocktail of pink and orange as he took the path down to the terrace that overlooked the sea. A small group of exquisitely dressed men and women chosen to enjoy cocktails with the manager sipped champagne in the sultry tropical air that still steamed from the heat of the day, a calypso band lending a distinctly West Indian flavor to the party. He stopped at the edge of the crowd and took in the scene. Daniel Williams was schmoozing the resort’s manager, Thomas Golding, with that same smarmy smile he seemed to have constantly painted across his face.
Margarite, Quinn’s head sommelier from New York, looked cool and elegant in a sleek royal-blue dress as she spoke with Paradis’s head chef, François Marin, Quinn and a tall, distinguished-looking male in his early fifties. The gray-haired man’s attention was riveted on Quinn. Matteo didn’t blame him. Margarite had French chic, but Quinn looked...drool-inducing.
Gone was the conservative style of dress he was used to. In its place was a figure-hugging fuchsia sheath with a slit up the side just far enough to make a man look twice. Spaghetti straps made a mockery of the gravity required to wear the dress, because it was not the straps holding it up, it was the full-on perfection of Quinn’s voluptuous curves that was doing it.
Damn. His mouth went dry. Why choose now, after that kiss, to pull out this new weapon in her arsenal? She’d even left all of that soft, silky hair down, sliding against the bare skin of her back. It took very little imagination to picture it spread across the ivory silk sheets of his suite’s king-size bed. Less still to picture himself picking up where that kiss had left off, indulging the urge to explore every inch of her creamy flesh.
He shut the fantasy down in the middle of its full glory and grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray. Get a goddamned handle on yourself, De Campo. Tonight was the night he was going to master the devil inside of him. Not let it loose.
Work the room. Get François Marin and Margarite Bellamy on your side. And then get out.
* * *
Quinn told herself the dress was absolutely appropriate as she watched Matteo’s jaw hit the ground. She hadn’t had time to shop for the sweltering St. Lucian temperatures before she’d left Chicago, so she’d turned herself over to Manon in the hotel’s boutique to outfit her with a few dresses. Manon had assured her this soft, gorgeous designer dress in the finest silk was perfect for the cocktail party, but Quinn had felt it clung far too much.
She was now sure of it.
She smoothed the silky material over her hips and gave him her most professional smile. Margarite caught the nervous movement, her gaze
sweeping over her. “So what’s with the dress? You never wear anything like that.”
“New addition to my wardrobe,” she muttered.
Margarite’s thin mouth quirked upward. “I heard François say it was a definite improvement.”
Quinn bristled. “He did?”
“He’s a French male, Quinn. By the way, he’s right. You should play up your natural assets, not hide them.”
Quinn wasn’t sure what to do with that so she pushed her hair out of her face and directed a glance at the hottest man in the room. “I should introduce you to Matteo.”
“Oh, I don’t need an introduction.” Her blonde, very young, very talented sommelier’s blue eyes glittered. “I met him on the beach earlier. He had the whole place in an uproar. It’s cruel and unusual punishment making me do business with him, Quinn.”
She wasn’t the only one. Quinn had the distinct feeling the sight of Matteo De Campo in swim trunks would be as impossible to eradicate from her memory as that kiss.
“He brought me a bottle of the Brunello,” Margarite crowed. “Too bad I can’t invite him back to my suite to share it with me.”
Quinn shot her a look that told her what she thought of that. Margarite waved a hand at her. “God, you’ve got to loosen up and learn how to take a joke, Quinn.”
She bit down on her lip. Another of Julian’s complaints about her. How dull and uninspiring a wife she’d turned out to be.
“Focus on business,” she said shortly. “You wanted to be a part of this process. Make the best decision for Luxe.”
Quinn started across the room toward Matteo, her sommelier trailing after her, a bemused look on her face. She knew she came across like a bitch sometimes but that’s what happened when your husband verbally abused you for a year. You shut down. You just didn’t care.
Whatever electricity she’d sensed between her and Matteo was nowhere in sight as he bent down to kiss her on both cheeks. He looked focused, all business, and kept his gaze on Margarite as he grilled her with questions, interspersed with enough charm that her sommelier just kept spilling the goods. Why that hurt her feelings she didn’t know. She should be glad he seemed to be taking their agreement seriously.
Except there was a part of her that had come alive with him on that mountain. That kiss had blown her perception of herself apart—made her wonder exactly who she was. Because not once had she ever kissed her husband like that. Or wanted to for that matter.
Was she Quinn the ice queen or Quinn, a woman capable of more?
She blinked and gave her head a shake. That was all inconsequential right now. Why was she devoting even a tenth of her brain to her ill-advised attraction to a playboy she couldn’t have anything to do with when she had at least two hours of paperwork to do after this cocktail party and a report to give to her father? She ought to be taking a page out of Matteo’s book and not going there.
They finished their cocktails and sat down to dinner on the outdoor terrace with François, Margarite, Daniel and Thomas Golding. There was no lack of conversation at the table of extroverts as the sun slid down behind the mountains and dusk settled over the island. Daniel was his usual smooth, conversational self, regaling them with his tall tales from the Outback; François, with his equally tall tales from the kitchens of Paris. Matteo won the chef and Margarite over with his charm and extensive knowledge of the hospitality and wine industries. But there was an edge to him tonight she couldn’t put a finger on. A tension to his demeanor that took her back to that night in the cellar.
“Quinn tells me we’ll get to explore the kitchens tomorrow and see the new menus you have planned,” Matteo said to François. “I’m very much looking forward to it.”
“Oui, in the morning.” The chef nodded. “In the afternoon we must prepare for the celebrity chef challenge we’re hosting.”
“Every year we host a prestigious competition amongst all the chefs on the island to raise money for the schools here,” Margarite explained. She nodded toward Matteo. “François is down a sous chef. Didn’t you say you trained with Henry Thiboult in New York?”
Matteo inclined his head. “Not really formal training. I like to cook. He was kind enough to let me work in the kitchen with him a few times.”
Quinn’s mouth dropped open. “When in the world did you have time to do that?”
He let loose one of those flirtatious smiles she hadn’t seen much of this evening. “Here and there. I told you I liked to cook.”
François’s sun-aged face split in a wide smile. “Anyone who has trained in Henry’s kitchen is welcome in mine.”
Margarite arched a brow at Matteo. “Are you up for it?”
“I’d be honored. As long as you don’t mind my amateurism.”
The chef beamed. “Mais, oui. I need you. It’s all set then.”
Daniel Williams looked dumbfounded. “I’d like to do it, too, then.”
François looked down his nose at him. “Do you have any training?”
“Well, no, but—”
“So sorry.” François waved a hand at him. “Only trained chefs in my kitchen. You’ll cut off a finger and I’ll lose my license.”
A pout twisted Daniel’s lips, if that was possible for a man. He sat and watched Matteo talk about working in Henry’s kitchen, the famous Manhattan chef notorious for his culinary theatrics. François’s booming laughter lit up the night. By the time dinner had stretched past the two-hour mark, Daniel Williams was distinctly red in the face.
“I hear De Campo’s expanding into Chicago next year.” The Silver Kangaroo CEO picked up his beer and took a sip. “Y’all are doing great. Next thing you know you’ll be pushing that top-chef guy right out on his skinny behind.”
“I hope so,” Matteo agreed evenly. “We are focused on that very niche segment of the market.”
Daniel shrugged. “You’re making a lot of money in the restaurant business. Can’t imagine De Campo’s going to stop there.”
“But we are.” Matteo set down his beer, his gaze locked on his opposition. “Organizations that spread themselves too thin ultimately fail. You should know that, Williams. Your first venture collapsed, didn’t it?”
Daniel flinched. “I consider that a war wound. Gotta take the hard knocks to get where you’re going.”
Matteo shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, poor management was to blame.”
And the gloves were off. Quinn set down her coffee cup. “Perhaps we should call it a night. We have an early start tomorrow.”
“I think I’d like an after-dinner drink,” Daniel interjected, a belligerent tilt to his chin. “Care to join me, De Campo?”
Matteo started to decline, but Margarite jumped in. “We have some amazing ports at the bar. Let’s have one then call it a night.”
What was she doing? Quinn shot Margarite a warning look, but the other woman was already standing up, smiling at Matteo. Quinn set her mouth in a grim line. One drink and they were breaking this up.
At the bar near the cascading waterfall, she tried to slide onto the empty stool beside Matteo, intent on keeping the two men apart, but Daniel beat her to it. She took the one on the other side of the Australian while Margarite moved behind the bar and started picking out the ports.
“I might have something harder,” Daniel drawled. “How about some Armagnac?”
“Sure.” Margarite plucked the bottle out. “Matteo?”
“Not for me, grazie. The port is fine.”
The rough, uneven tone of his voice drew Quinn’s gaze. She stared at his face. His tanned skin had lost all its color, his gray eyes vacant.
“Oh, come on, De Campo,” Williams boomed. “Be a man. Have one with me.”
“I said no.”
Three set of eyes gaped as Matteo stood up. “I’m going to turn in. Good night.”
He was gone before Quinn had a chance to register what had happened. Margarite frowned. “Is he okay?”
No, he was not. He was far from okay. Heart pounding, Quinn stood up. “I’ll go check on him. You two enjoy your drink.”
* * *
In his suite, Matteo pulled off his jacket and the tie that threatened to choke him. Yanked the top buttons of his shirt loose. He stared at the bottles of the fully stocked bar for a long moment, the heated rush of a hard shot calling to him like a siren’s song. Then jerked away. The keys of the grand piano in his suite, undoubtedly Quinn’s idea, would normally have beckoned but he was too far gone even for that.
He kicked his shoes and socks off and walked down to the private beach. Strode through the powdery white sand to the water’s edge. Giancarlo had been drinking cognac the night of the accident. That big smile of his on full display, his friend had slapped him on the back and gestured for the bartender. “Come on, De Campo, let’s close it off with the good stuff. A perfect drink to end a perfect night.”
He could have saved things right there. Instead he had gone along with the insanity. Fed his best friend’s death wish.
The contents of his stomach rose up to the back of his mouth. Why didn’t you stop it? You were supposed to be the sensible one.
Or had he had his own death wish?
“Matteo.”
Quinn’s voice penetrated his haze. He stayed where he was, his back to her, because he didn’t want her to see him like this. Didn’t want anyone to see him like this.
“I’m fine. Go back to the others.”
“You aren’t fine. You haven’t been fine all night. What happened back there?”
He turned around. “It was nothing,” he said harshly. “Go back to the others.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not leaving until you tell me. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
A harsh bark of laughter escaped him. “I have.”
The Truth About De Campo Page 7