The Italian Billionaire's Betrayal: What if you fell in love with the one person you couldn't have? A story of forbidden love and overpowering need.

by Clare Connelly

  “I wanted to tell you so badly.” She whispered, bringing her hand up and cocooning his cheek. He shut his eyes and leant into the soft palm of her hand. “I have known Pete a long time, and I respect our friendship. I begged him to tell you. Selflessness is not his strong suit.” She said prosaically.

  “Got that right. I think he realises he messed up.” He drawled. “But I messed up more. I should never have said what I did. I was hurting so much, it just seemed instinctive to lash out at you. On some level, I wanted to make you hurt like I was hurting.”

  “You succeeded,” She murmured, and his eyes flew open, locking with hers.

  “I am, from the bottom of my heart, so sorry for what I said. For how I behaved. I’ve heard that love can make a man act like a fool, but I never thought it would happen to me.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Love, huh?” Her heart raced as she took in what he was saying.

  “Love.” He nodded firmly. “I love you. Please, Meghan, tell me I haven’t ruined everything between us.”

  Meghan smiled sweetly at him. “You haven’t ruined everything between us,” she promised.

  “I will do anything I can to make it up to you.” He kissed her on the lips, tasting her, and instantly his desire flamed his body.

  “I can think of one thing...” she said, pulling away from him and standing suddenly.

  “Anything,” he reiterated.

  She reached down and pulled him to a standing position, then led him to her bedroom. “You know,” she said innocently, as they walked, “I was wondering what the name is for a male mistress?”

  He laughed. “Why, my precious Meghan, were you wondering such a thing?”

  She pouted. “It just seems odd that women are labelled as mistresses all the time, but men are just men.”

  “Actually,” he said conspiratorially, “and I can tell I’ll regret telling you this, but I believe a male mistress might be called a gigolo.”

  “Uh huh!” She smiled. “I think you might be right.”

  She crossed her arms across her chest and pretended to inspect him from head to toe. “Well, Matteo Maratelli, if you want to show me how sorry you are, you can accept my proposition.”

  His lips quirked. “And what exactly is your proposition.”

  Meghan pushed him forward so that he fell with a laugh onto the bed. “You are to my gigolo.” She straddled his hips and began to unbutton his shirt. He watched her from eyes that glowed with passion.

  “I could get used to that.” He drawled.

  “It’s only for one night.” She said firmly as she pushed his shirt away and revealed his naked torso.

  “What happens after tonight?” He asked urgently.

  She paused what she was doing and looked into his eyes. “You tell me.”

  He exhaled, and brought his hands to hold her thighs. “We marry. Immediately.”

  She threw her head back on a laugh. “Immediately?”

  “Yes. I want to enjoy you for years before we think about having children. The sooner we start our married life, the better.” He was deadpan, and she felt her eyes mist over.

  “Okay, gigolo. Enough talking. Make love to me.”

  His grin was wolfish. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “No.” She corrected seductively. “It will be our pleasure.”

  THE END.