Bought by Her Italian Boss

by Dani Collins

  She had started to think of his beautiful apartment as her home.

  Vittorio had modern tastes and liked space around him. The penthouse had high white ceilings and three bedrooms, one that he used as an office, off a tiled upper hallway that he called a loft. It was nothing so modest as that. It was a second story. The main bathroom had His and Hers powder rooms on opposite ends of a tub that they easily, and frequently, shared. This flat was wall-to-wall understated luxury, from the designer furniture to the kitchen that sparkled with stainless steel functionality, positioned to allow the cook to visit with guests while stirring and chopping.

  High-end art, lush plants and family photos rounded off the space into a haven of warmth and welcome. Her snapshot of her almost family, her own image with her arms around Henry and her mother, sat on the night table next to her side of the bed.

  Gwyn swallowed, trying to hide her devastation at leaving all of this, along with the man who lived here, by kicking off her heels beside the front closet, then realized she would have to pack them. She couldn’t wrap her brain around what that would entail so she moved to where she’d left her tablet on the sectional before the big screen TV, pretending she was checking email.

  “Are you hungry?” Vito asked behind her, shrugging out of his suit jacket and tossing it across the back of the sofa. “I’m going to make coffee.”

  She wasn’t, but she loved cooking with him, enjoying the foreplay of brushing bodies, senses stimulated by the aroma of fresh ingredients, the sizzle of a pan and the rich textures and flavors they seemed to create together.

  The full scope of all that she was losing gripped her and she lifted her head to stare blindly through the bright windows.

  “Cara?” He was right behind her, making her start. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Everything.

  His gaze dropped to her tablet. “Something has upset you? Do not tell me you’re reading reactions to today’s press conference. Stop polluting your head that way.”

  “No, um—” She glanced at the tablet, saw Travis’s latest message, started to gloss past it, then decided to confront it. Just pull the bandage off in one ruthless yank. She showed him what Travis had written.

  I saw the press conference. Does this mean you’re coming home?

  Vito’s gaze came up and slammed into hers. He was so handsome. Brutally, impossibly handsome with his white shirt and striped tie and tailored pants with their knifelike creases, then black leather shoes glossed to a mirror finish. She didn’t know any other man who could wear a vest with the buttons offset at an angle like that, the edge piped in silver, and look so suave.

  She longed to trace that piping, touch those buttons. She very much needed the connection that seemed to have been building between them with each physical encounter, but what did they really have? Sex. That was all.

  “We haven’t really talked about the next steps. I imagine I will be leaving?” she said, insides hollow. “Now that we don’t have to pretend anymore?”

  They weren’t pretending. That’s what his cocked brow said.

  She licked her lips. “Because it would make it pretty obvious we got together just for show if I left right away, wouldn’t it?” Tossing the tablet onto the sofa, she jerked a shoulder. “I could say I’m going to see family and we could let it die off from there.”

  “We could,” he said carefully, so emotionless a scalding pain rose behind her breastbone.

  For a moment she couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak or move. Then she found a smile of false bravado and brought her hands to the sides of his head.

  His hot palms settled on her hips, holding her off as he gave her a questioning look.

  She didn’t have a very strong grip on her emotions, and keeping anything from him these days was pretty much impossible, but she tried to affect nonchalance.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not staking a claim. I’ll figure it out in a little while. But I’d like to leave you with something to remember.”

  Then, because she had spent a great deal of time devoting herself to learning what turned him on, she did everything she could to arouse him. She rarely instigated lovemaking unless they were in bed. It was shyness and lack of confidence, but today she left inhibition at the door and pressed herself against him suggestively.

  She ran her hands over him with the proprietary touch she usually suppressed. His shoulders were a landscape of masculinity, appealing to the primal woman in her that sought protection and provision. His buttons opened to, first, the warm silk of his shirt, then the satin of his skin, with the fine hairs on his breastbone and a dark arrow to his navel that teased her lips as she kissed what she exposed. His nipples were sharp against her tongue and her teasing made him suck in a quick breath.

  She kissed him, not just letting him know she was receptive, but taking the initiative, not hinting that she wanted to make love, but demanding it. It was exhilarating to be this assertive.

  He let her bare his chest and open his pants, swiveling so he leaned his hips against the back of the sofa and stepped his feet apart, drawing her into the space. Then he cupped her face so he could kiss her, not taking control, but not passive. Never passive.

  Her own clothes loosened, suit jacket falling away, bow at her neck tugging then falling into ribbons of blue polka dots on white. Vito drew back long enough to pull the sheer confection over her head then brought her against him again, skin to skin, both of them murmuring approving noises.

  Vito had experienced the advances of women in the past. Often it was a power play or a quid pro quo of some kind. Sometimes he relaxed and enjoyed it, other times he set the pace that suited him.

  Gwyn, guileless, sensual Gwyn, undid him. She was so very entrancing in her conservative exterior and her abandonment to lovemaking, especially today as she licked into his mouth, rubbing against him in a way that was not so much practiced as pure. She was trying to turn him on, but the way she grew bright-eyed and flushed with hectic color was even more arousing.

  When she released his belt and opened his pants, he let her drag them down his thighs, watching her drop to her knees and loving the sight of her taking him in hand. The sensations of her wet worship, the encompassing heat and delicate suction, had him tempted to let her take him all the way. This was something he would remember for the rest of his life. He would never forget her. He had known that before she’d begun anointing him this way.

  But if they were saying goodbye, he wanted to do the same to her. To make this last. To create the sort of memory that would sustain them both for the rest of their lives.

  That knowledge was a sharp twist in his gut that allowed him to pull her to her feet, turning her so she faced the back of the sofa.

  “Wait. I want—”

  “Are you not doing what I want, mia bella?” He paused in bringing her skirt up, waiting. “Giving me something to remember you by?”

  Her knuckles were white where she gripped the leather. “Yes,” she whispered. “But I want to see you. Kiss you.”

  “You will,” he promised her, kissing her bare shoulder, then drawing back to memorize the sight of plum wool bunched on the small of her back as he pressed her to bend forward. He stroked his hand over pale white cheeks wearing a line of amethyst lace. Those he dispatched to around her ankles in a moment, caressing her where she was plump and wet, hearing her whimper under his touch, back arching, shoulders shuddering with pleasure.

  “We will always have this,” he vowed, pressing into her. “Now come for me.” He shifted his hand so he was giving her all the pleasure she could bear. “Surrender to me. It’s what I love the most,” he told her, opening his mouth on her nape, losing himself to the delight of thrusting into her, barely holding on as she suddenly gasped and clenched in strong pulses around him. Her gorgeous cries of fulfillment went through him like church bells.

  He petted her as he carefully withdrew and kicked out of his pants. Then he scooped up her still-quivering body and carried her toward
the stairs.

  “You didn’t—”

  “I know exactly what I have and haven’t done, mia bella.” His ears were ringing with the pulse hammering upward from the damp, urgent flesh between his thighs. “If you think I’m going to let our last time be a one-sided dalliance in the front room, you haven’t learned one damned thing about me or what I expect from my mistress.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t unusual for them to make love two or three times in a day. Sometimes it was a rush of passion, sometimes a slow, sultry buildup.

  It had never been quite such a complete immersion. They ignored the phone when it rang, ignored the growl of their stomachs, barely even spoke except to encourage or compliment or groan incomprehensibly.

  Finally, when it was well and truly dark beyond the windows, they landed weak and sated and aching with sensual exhaustion, limbs tangled, quiet and still at last.

  The sense of closeness between them was so acute that Gwyn could barely comprehend that it was over, but it was. Those panting moments when their hearts had beat in unison had merely been physical compatibility. Nothing more.

  Shifting her arm off her stinging eyes, she decided a trip to the ladies room might be in order to keep herself from revealing how hard this was for her.

  “Stay,” he said as she began to rise.

  A helpless noise escaped her. “Honestly, Vito, I don’t think I can. That was...a lot.” Her loins were stinging and tender, her muscles quivering with overuse.

  A gruff noise escaped him, part humor, part apology. He came up on an elbow and scooped her beneath him, heavy on her as he pinned her to the mattress. “That’s quite a compliment if you think I have anything left in me,” he growled, nose going into her neck and inhaling. “I mean stay in Milan. This doesn’t have to end here and now.”

  She stilled. “You’re asking me to stay as your mistress?”

  “Sì.”

  The room was dark shadows and rumpled blankets; her world narrowed to the warmth of his lips against her collarbone. He didn’t see her wince of agony at the term. He might sometimes refer to her as his lover, but that was a euphemism for what she really was. She knew that and she had justified what she was letting herself become as necessary for their ruse.

  But that was no longer necessary.

  “Because it would look better for the press?” she asked.

  “Because we’re good together.”

  That surprised her, making her heart leap as though he’d admitted to deep, abiding affection even though she knew he only meant they knocked each other off the bed with the intensity of physical pleasure they gave each other.

  If she stayed with him, wouldn’t that allow time for him to develop deeper feelings toward her, though? It was the kind of treacherous, self-delusion all women were capable of, when they were half in love with a man who didn’t love them back. She knew it, but she was still tempted to let him talk her into staying. To see.

  She traced the line of his spine and lightly searched for proof that he might already be harboring feelings toward her.

  “What if I don’t want to?” she asked.

  His turn to go completely still. He lifted his head and in the muted light she saw his hard mouth twist. “I’m not a man who begs, cara. Be careful about bluffing. I’ll call you on it.”

  She ought to be happy he’d gone so far as to tell her he wanted her to stay, she supposed. It was quite an admission from such a self-sufficient man. One who could have his choice among women.

  “It’s not an ultimatum,” she said, trying to hide her hurt behind a neutral tone. “I told you when we first met that I don’t have affairs. Relying on you goes against everything I’ve tried to become. I ought to start salvaging my life, not leave it on hold.”

  His tense hand on her waist grew heavy. “I respect your independence. I do,” he assured her. “But your life is already on hold, I carry some of the fault for that and I have the means to support you while you give real thought to your next steps. Let me do this for you, cara.”

  I respect you. Such a small phrase and it moved her so very deeply to hear it. How could she not stay and try to nurture that into something even more meaningful?

  “I don’t want to lose that respect,” she said, hearing his breath catch and taking heart from it. It almost sounded like he was bracing himself. “But I do enjoy the sex.”

  If the noise he made sounded to her like relief, she knew that was wishful thinking. He was amused, which had been her goal. Keep it light. Don’t let him know how emotionally dependent she really was.

  “And I’m going to have to insist on more frequent feedings,” she added, trying to rise. “I suppose I have to cook again?”

  “Two words, cara,” he growled, flattening her on her back and setting his teeth against her shoulder. “Bite me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “GOOD JOB ON the lawyer,” Paolo said dryly as he opened the door to his home to them a few nights later.

  Gwyn was a bundle of nerves, not quite believing this was a mere social dinner, but Vito assured her it was. All she had done was ask casually how Lauren and the baby were getting on. Vito had called to ask and it had turned into a dinner invitation. Now, here they were.

  “She’s really nice, isn’t she?” she said to Paolo, barely tracking the conversation as the old-world beauty of the house dazzled her. Vito had told her as they drove in that the house had been in the family for generations. It was set on a property that had to be worth millions of euros given its size and location. What charmed her more was the way the high ceilings and Renaissance architecture and formal furniture was peppered with colorful children’s toys, a baby swing and the sleek lines of a laptop on an antique escritoire.

  “Nice,” Paolo repeated under his breath, saying to Vito, “Did you have anything to do with her choice?”

  “I’ve stayed out of it. Why? Are we likely to lose these?” Vito plucked at his shirt.

  “My stepbrother found her for me,” Gwyn hurried to say. “I didn’t know who else to ask. Why? Is she awful?”

  “Depends which side of the table you’re on,” Paolo said smoothly. “You’re on the side where she is very nice. But she’s already setting a high bar for our own legal team. It will be a good exercise for them in staying sharp.”

  Lauren came down the stairs at that point, newborn in her arm.

  After a greeting of kisses all around, she brought them through the house to the back to greet the children who were playing outside under the eye of the nanny.

  “Ignore the boxes,” Lauren said as they came back in, waving at the dozens piled near the back stairs. “One of the aunts has embarked on a family history book. Paolo and I have been digging relics out of attics and pantries that haven’t been opened in years. It’s fascinating! So many old photos and diaries. Love letters.”

  Gwyn had just taken the baby from Lauren, gathering his warm body close and glancing at Vito like she was the first person to ever cuddle a baby. It was a vulnerable moment of wanting to share her excitement and joy, maybe see what he thought of the sight of her with an infant against her heart, but he wasn’t looking at her.

  He and Paolo had a lightning exchange that consisted of one look of inquiry and another of an infinitesimal shake of Paolo’s head replying, No.

  If Vito realized she had seen what had just transpired, he betrayed nothing. In fact, his direct gaze, so forceful as he met hers, was a silent declaration that he had nothing to hide.

  But she’d seen something. She knew it.

  “That’s what brought me to Italy, you know,” Lauren said, moving through to the lounge where she gathered toys. “Looking up family. My grandmother had a scandalous affair with a married man and went home pregnant.”

  “Here I thought you came to Italy for me,” Paolo said, holding up a red plastic bin so Lauren could drop her collection of stuffed toys and books into it.

  “You’re why I stayed, mio bello,” she said, offering her lips for a kiss.


  The rest of the evening passed in entertaining conversation, excellent food and an invitation from the children to read bedtime stories. It was sweet, yet poignant, making Gwyn recall the way Vito had told her this would never be her life.

  Later, as they were readying for bed, she asked him, “Did you ever live in that house?” She was still thinking about that odd moment when Lauren had mentioned love letters. Had he left some evidence of a lost crush?

  “I stayed with Paolo’s family at different times as a child, wherever they happened to be living. Both of our families traveled a lot, but my sisters and I were well matched in ages to Paolo and his sisters. We often had summer vacations together, that kind of thing. They were our favorite cousins and my uncle...” Vito shrugged. “I looked to him as much of a father figure as my own,” he said with a hint of private irony.

  “That must have been so idyllic,” she said wistfully. “Did you and Paolo play with the girls? Or were you horrible sexists?”

  “A little of both,” he said dryly, unbuttoning his shirt. “We were never going to play with dolls without lighting their hair on fire, but if the girls wanted to play tag or hide-and-seek, we were up for it.”

  “And once you discovered real girls, the ones you weren’t related to, I’m guessing you were never seen again?”

  He didn’t say anything, only left his shirt on a chair and bent to peel off his socks, leaving them on the floor. Where did he think those went? She always wound up putting them in the hamper because the housekeeper only came in every other day.

  “You’re not going to admit to having girlfriends back then?” she asked, brushing out her hair.

  “I’m wondering why you need confirmation.”

  “Okay, I’ll just admit that I saw you and Paolo have a silent conversation when Lauren mentioned finding letters. I wondered if you had some kind of scandalous affair in your past.”

  “I’ve always left it to Paolo to create the publicity stirs, keeping my own behavior to run-of-the-mill, pedestrian affairs that aren’t very interesting.” He held her gaze as he pulled his belt loose. “Current one being the exception.”