Electricity jolts through me. Oh my God. Of course he knew my father! His mother was married to him!
“You’ve already met?” says the marchesa, confused.
Matteo stares at me with such burning intensity I’m surprised the room doesn’t burst into flames.
I whisper, “Your son is the reason I was able to see my father before he died.”
What are the odds? What are the ever-loving odds? What kind of universal mind fuckery is this?
The marchesa says something to Matteo in Italian. He responds in kind, keeping his gaze locked to mine. I can tell he thinks this coincidence is anything but convenient, but I’m not sure if he’s angry or simply surprised.
Then it dawns on me that the reason he wanted my sketch pad wasn’t because he was an art collector.
“Wait,” I say, horrified. “You knew about ruching. You told me to add ruching to the sketch of the dress I was drawing. And your clothes . . .” I stare at his gorgeous bespoke suit, and it all comes together with the speed of two fingers snapping.
He’s a fashion designer.
Outraged, I leap to my feet and glare at him. “If you use any of the designs I gave you, I’ll sue you so fast your head will spin!”
His burning gaze doesn’t flinch, but a grim little smile curves his lips. “Faster than your mood swings?”
“Those are my designs!”
“Incorrect. They’re mine. As you just said, you gave them to me.”
“Under duress! From necessity!”
“So you don’t think it was a fair trade? You’d rather have your sketch pad back than to have seen your father before he died?”
That’s so ruthless I gasp. In a low, shaking voice, I say, “You son of a bitch.”
The marchesa intervenes before I can find something to stab her son with. “I don’t quite understand what’s happening, but let’s all calm down, shall we?”
“Lady, I’m so far from calm I’d have to send out a search party to find it.” I point at Matteo. “Why didn’t you tell me the buyer was your son?”
She’s placid in the face of my fury, folding her hands at her waist and gazing at me in cool composure. “Why does that make a difference?”
“Gee, where should I start?” I say bitingly. “It’s a pretty crafty way to get your hands on some of Papa’s money, I’ll give you that.”
Her lips thin to a slash of plum that looks like a stab wound. “I would never have mentioned the sale to Matteo if he weren’t capable of handling the business and honoring Luca’s artistic vision. The House of Moretti is among the most respected ateliers in fashion. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
She’s smug, the witch, because of course I’ve heard of it. Hell, everyone in fashion has heard of Moretti! They’re the hottest thing in the industry at the moment. But I won’t give either one of them the satisfaction.
“Can’t say that I have.”
Matteo crosses his arms over his broad chest and gazes at me from under hooded lids. I look back and forth between him and his mother, who’s wearing the exact same hard, emotionless expression.
Everything inside me says, Fuck this.
The sale isn’t going to happen.
“Not that you’d care to know,” I say in a voice that sounds like I’ve swallowed a handful of gravel, “but my father’s last words to me were about you.”
A muscle in the corner of her eyelid twitches, but that’s all the reaction I get from the marchesa. I turn my gaze to Matteo.
“And he gave me a piece of advice I didn’t realize would come in handy so soon. He told me not to give up when things get difficult. His exact words were ‘Dig in your heels.’ So this is me digging in my heels.”
I take a breath, amazed at what’s about to come out of my mouth. But what the hell. I’ve got literally nothing left to lose.
“I’m not selling the business. I’m going to run it myself.”
The marchesa sputters, “What?” but my attention is focused on Matteo.
Beautiful, ruthless Matteo, who bartered a plane ticket he could probably pay for a million times over for a sketch pad chock-full of inspiration for new designs for his clothing line.
I say acidly, “Oh, wait. I think I have heard of you—didn’t I read somewhere that the House of Moretti recently lost its head designer?”
He’s got an eye twitch like his mother’s. He says stiffly, “I am the head designer.”
My gaze rakes over his spotless suit, the platinum cuff links, the shoes made from the skin of veal calves massaged by virgins and hand stitched by a cloister of nuns singing hymns in a Tibetan mountaintop abbey. “Not really hands on, though, I’d guess. I can’t picture you with rolled-up sleeves, pinning cloth on mannequins, working deep into the night. Probably too busy running around with supermodels.”
The marchesa sniffs. “My son doesn’t date models.”
I lift my brows and look at her. “Do you pick out his underwear for him, too?”
Matteo barks, “Stop with the disrespect!”
My temper snaps. “Don’t you dare talk to me about disrespect! Your precious mother didn’t have enough respect for my father to visit him in the hospital while he was dying, did you know that?”
My shout dies in echoes that linger in the air like poison gas. No one speaks for what feels like an eternity. Then the marchesa says quietly, “Please excuse me,” and walks out of the room, head high.
Matteo watches her go, a muscle flexing in his jaw, but doesn’t try to stop her. When he turns his gaze back to me, I feel a primal urge to run away. I never knew blue eyes could burn with so much fire. It’s like looking into an incinerator.
“You and your mouth,” he says, stalking closer. He looms over me, glaring down at me like he’s fighting himself not to curl his hands around my neck. He leans into my face. “And your attitude, and your selfishness—”
I gasp, infuriated. “My selfishness?”
“And your bad manners!” he thunders. “Did it ever occur to you that not everyone wants the whole world to know when they’re in pain?”
I was in a fight once, in grade school. I stuck up for a kid who was being bullied by a group of girls, and one of those girls had a strong right arm. Matteo’s words feel exactly like that punch I took to the gut all those years ago.
I stand staring at him breathlessly, my heart beating fast, tears welling in my eyes. I swallow, then say bitterly, “I’m sorry my grief is so offensive to you. I have this thing called a heart. I’m not the kind of person who’s able to pretend everything is fine when it’s bleeding.”
I start to brush past him, but he stops me with his hand gripped lightly around my shoulder. “Wait.”
“Get your hands off me.” I try to twist away, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls me even closer.
“Kimber, stop. Stop. Please.”
I stand stiffly, vibrating rage, staring at the third button on his white dress shirt while breathing hard and trying not to cry. He exhales a slow breath and loosens his grip on my shoulder but doesn’t release me.
“Look at me.”
“Go to hell.”
“Stop acting like a child. Look at me.”
Heat pulses in my cheeks. I close my eyes and take a brimming lungful of air, then do it again because I’m trembling all over and feel like I might pass out.
He mutters some kind of Italian oath under his breath, then puts his thumb under my chin and tilts my head up. I open my eyes to find him staring at me with thinned lips and a tight jaw, those thermonuclear eyes still blazing.
We breathe angrily at each other. I try not to smell him but it’s impossible. He’s a gorgeous noseful of cedar and smoke and male musk, with a crisp top note of clean linen. I give in and inhale like a perfumer, flaring my nostrils so my weird little fetish might pass for outrage.
If he’s nose porn for me, I’m eye candy for him. He looks like he wants to peel off my clothes with his teeth.
“You’re my stepbrother. You shouldn�
�t be looking at me like that.” I was aiming for disdain, but my breathy voice probably gives me away.
He doubles down and stares at my mouth as if he’s about to make a meal of it. “Stepbrother,” he muses, his face all hard angles and dangerous speculation. Unexpectedly, he laughs, but it lacks any trace of humor. “What an interesting development.”
He releases me suddenly, as if I’ve burned him, and turns away. He drags his hands through his hair, then props them on his hips, muttering again under his breath. He stands with his back to me while I try desperately to regain control of my breathing. I’m shaking so hard I should probably lie down on the floor for a while.
I sit on the sofa instead. Wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs, I watch as Matteo starts to pace back and forth over the Turkish rug. Even angry he’s elegant. He’s as sleek and gorgeous as a thoroughbred, and I wish I had a riding crop handy because damn. I’d like to ride that pony hard.
I drop my face into my hands and gnash my teeth.
“Where is your husband?” he asks, agitated. “Didn’t your father tell me you were getting married? You’re not wearing a ring.”
Oh great. Yeah, let’s get all up into this now. I speak into my palms. “There’s no husband.”
When the silence stretches too long, I glance up to find him staring at me with narrowed eyes, like he thinks I’m lying. That pisses me off all over again.
“I pushed him off a cliff,” I say, wishing it were true. “He took something of mine and wouldn’t give it back.” I’m talking about my trust, but I might as well be talking about my sketch pad.
Matteo’s smile could burn a hole through steel it’s so acid. “Ah. So that’s what happened to your dignity.”
Blood creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks, but I refuse to look away. “That’s right. He humiliated me completely. But he did it because he’s immature. You just did it because it made you feel good. Which is worse?”
He’s not happy with my question. He starts to pace again, all flashing eyes and an angry jaw, his perfect hair rumpled from running his hands through it.
I like him better like this. Undone. Imperfect. It makes him seem a little more human.
The heartless bastard.
He says abruptly, “You can’t be serious about keeping the company.”
I cock a brow at him. “And why is that?”
He sweeps me with a look, up and down, dismissive. Before he can open his mouth, I say, “If you’re about to make a nasty comment about my gender, my brains, or my style, I’m about to neuter your smug ass.”
His eyes are cutting. His lip is curled. Him looking at me is like being assaulted by a volley of flying arrows. “What is it with your hostility?”
“What is it with your arrogance?”
“There’s a big difference between self-confidence and arrogance.”
“Yeah, there is, and any man who propositions a woman in an airport lounge after a thirty-second conversation lands squarely on the arrogance side of that equation.”
“I didn’t proposition you. I said I wanted you.”
“You’re splitting hairs. The intent was clear.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You think I do that all the time, is that it?”
“I honestly don’t care one way or the other.”
“You’ll have to learn to lie better than that if you’re going to succeed in fashion here, bella.”
He smirks, and I want to knock him out. The urge is surprisingly strong. I’m not normally a violent person, but the man brings out the insane-o little cavewoman in me. “I don’t need business advice from you.”
“This isn’t America.” He says America like you’d say Ew, poop. “This is Italy. The fashion capital of the planet—”
“Tell that to the French.”
He waves me off like I’m being ridiculous. “And a girl from San Francisco—not even New York—who owns a sweet little dress shop is in no way prepared to compete here.”
“Wow. I’m not sure which was worse: the sexism in that statement, or the sheer snobbism. I’m insulted on behalf of my gender and my country. And how do you know so much about me, anyway?”
His expression turns grave. “Your father spoke of you often.”
My throat tightens. “You . . . spent time with him?”
“Yes. There were dinners, visits here, or to my home. We became close.”
Hearing that is so painful I have to close my eyes and concentrate on simply breathing for a moment. All the time I was clueless about my father’s new wife and stepson, they were enjoying time together. They ate meals together. Like a family. They “became close.” While I was wasting time planning a wedding that would never happen with a man who didn’t love me.
Why didn’t you tell me, Papa? Why?
I’m gripped by a jealousy so strong it leaves me shaking. For the past two months, this arrogant jerk was spending quality time with my father. Precious time that I’d never be able to spend with him again.
His tone more gentle, Matteo says, “I’ll give you a good price for the company. Better than anyone else would offer.”
“So you can turn around and give all the money to your mother? No thanks.”
“My mother doesn’t need money,” he says flatly, all the gentleness gone.
I glance up at him and can tell I’ve offended him again. Good. “That’s not what I heard.”
He grinds out, “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t make any difference. You’re not getting the business either way. Go back to your castle and holler at your servants. I’m done with this conversation.”
We engage in another round of hate staring.
I break first, because it’s taking too much energy and this entire exchange has exhausted me. I push off the couch and exhale loudly, dying for a drink. And maybe a rock to hurl in his general direction.
“So your plan is to give up your entire life in America just to spite me? And my mother, whom you obviously dislike? You’re going to move here, to a country whose language you don’t even speak—”
I whirl on him. “How do you know I don’t speak Italian?”
“Your father told me. He told me many things about you. He spoke of your kindness. And your strength. And your intelligence. He made you sound like Wonder Woman.” A hard look comes into his eyes. “The only thing to wonder is how well he knew you.”
He moves closer, a panther stalking his prey. I move back, one step for each of his, until I bump into a table and can’t retreat any farther. Matteo does away with any consideration for personal space and gets right up in my face so our bodies are almost touching.
“He never mentioned your temper. Or the way you make snap judgments before you get to know people.” His gaze drops to my lips, and his voice drops with it. “Or that mouth.”
My nipples tighten, the traitors. A wave of heat dampens my skin. I stare at him, willing myself not to pant, then push him slowly away using the tip of one finger.
His chest is so hard he could be wearing a Kevlar vest.
“I guess he left out the bad parts. Like Mommy Dearest would no doubt do when talking about you.” His eyes flash with anger at the mention of his mother, but I’m not finished. “I’m happy to fill you in, though. I’m stubborn. Like a mule. I’m super competitive. My friends won’t play Scrabble with me anymore because of all the screaming. And when I die, I’ll need two caskets—one for me and one for all my grudges. And the only thing keeping you”—I stab my angry finger into his bulletproof chest—“off my permanent shit list is that plane ticket. Which I will pay you back for, even if it kills me, because I’d rather be down to my last cent than be indebted to a rival in business.”
I already am down to my last cent, but he doesn’t have to know that. I’m going for the biggest dramatic impact here, not a prize for truth telling.
Matteo stares at me for a long time, measuring my anger, letting his gaze rove over my face. He says thoughtfully, “A rival in business.�
��
It sounds like he’s plotting a war.
The slow smile that spreads over his mouth is even worse.
“All right. Rivals it is. Best of luck with your new endeavor.” He leans in close, so close his warm breath fans down my neck as he whispers into my ear, “And technically, since your father died, I’m your ex-stepbrother. I’ll look at you however I want.” With a dark chuckle, he spins on his heel and is gone.
I listen to the sound of his footsteps echoing off the wood floor and my heartbeat crashing in my ears, hating myself for the pulse of heat throbbing between my legs.
Whatever this thing is between us, I can tell it’s gonna get ugly.
ELEVEN
“Dominic, I need a lift to my hotel, then Papa’s shop. Are you available?”
“Certo. When?”
“Now.”
There’s a pause. “Er, now?”
I look up at the late-summer Italian sky. It’s an indescribable shade of Technicolor blue, so vivid it hurts to look. All the colors of this country are so saturated, so alive. Even the bowl of the heavens looks like something from a Disney movie, endless and electric and perfect, whimsically painted with the faint crescent slice of a new moon.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s short notice.”
It’s also the riposo, the traditional daily afternoon shutdown of business, Italy’s version of the siesta. I can tell by Dominic’s sleepy voice that I woke him. Italians take the riposo very seriously, but this is an emergency.
I’m at war.
I’d take my father’s car, but I’m afraid I’d wreck it within two blocks. Italians drive like psychos.
I hear a sigh over the line, then Dominic says, “Give me twenty minutes.”
“Thank you! See you soon.” I hang up and call Jenner. As soon as he picks up, I say, “I’m moving to Florence.”
Silence.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. I’m just trying to picture what the kidnapper holding a gun to your head looks like. I’ve always had a fantasy about being held hostage by a brute of a man with too many tattoos and a limited vocabulary.”
Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3) Page 8