Incandescent with anger, I brush past him into the house. My house, I remind myself, fuming.
I head straight to the kitchen because I’m starving. Lorenzo’s there, sitting at the big wooden table, swirling a snifter of amber liquid in his hand. Another snifter sits on the table across from him. He looks up and smiles. “Ah. Signorina. We were just talking about you.”
Behind me, Matteo strolls into the kitchen. I feel him standing there in the doorway, making all the atoms in the room vibrate at a dangerous frequency.
“Were you now?” I say acidly. “Sounds like fun.”
Lorenzo blinks at the tone of my voice. He glances over at Matteo, who’s probably flipping me off behind my back. He rises, following me over to the fridge. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“You can get me a gun,” I mutter under my breath. I grab a yogurt, remember I hate yogurt, throw it back, and grab a hunk of salami and a block of cheese. The fridge is filled with all kinds of stuff, but I want something I can eat in my room, tearing apart with my teeth.
I’ve got to figure out a way to ban Matteo from the house.
Without another word to either of them, I leave Matteo and Lorenzo in the kitchen and head to my bedroom. It isn’t until I throw open the door and flip the light switch that I remember it isn’t mine anymore.
Cornelia is sprawled in the middle of the bed, snoring like a chainsaw.
She has a nightlight shaped like a giraffe. She has a water bowl that appears to be real china, elevated on a silver stand beside the bed. She has a pink blanket with frolicking bunnies that covers the lower half of her huge black body.
Her name is painted in flowery fucking letters on the wall.
“Get out of my bed, dog!” I shout.
Waking with a snort, Cornelia jerks and scrambles upright. She sees me standing in the doorway, throws back her head, and howls in fright.
Drama queen.
I stand aside and point into the hallway. “Out!”
The dog launches herself from the bed. She promptly gets tangled in the sheets and falls to the floor. Frantically struggling, she kicks the stand with the water bowl, which topples over and smashes against the floor.
“Oh my God. This is a frickin’ circus.”
I stride over to the flailing mass of blankets and legs and grab a handful of fabric. I pull, and the dog is released like a rock from a slingshot. She blasts from the room in a blur of fur and tears off down the hallway, baying like a banshee.
Leaving the cheese and salami on the dresser where Cornelia’s wardrobe presumably resides, I stomp over to the bed and strip off the sheets. I wad them up and toss them into a corner. I sniff the mattress, certain it will reek of dog, but smell nothing. I don’t spot any suspicious stains, either. Satisfied, I get fresh sheets from the linen closet in the en suite bathroom and make the bed.
It isn’t until I’m finished that I realize I have company. Matteo’s leaning in the doorway, watching me with a smile.
“Look who it is. Count Egotistico. Here to give me another fake kiss?”
“If you’ll let me.”
His smile grows wider, the prick. I smile back violently.
“I think I’ll pass, thanks.”
With my chin held high, I go over to him, push him out of the doorway, and slam the door in his face.
The door instantly swings back open.
Shit. No lock.
“You know, hate and love aren’t so different, bella.”
He’s being philosophical now, pursing his pretty mouth and gazing at the ceiling, as if viewing the stars.
I could kill him.
“Why do you enjoy torturing me? Are you some kind of sadist?”
He ignores me, naturally, and continues his little Socratic speech. “They’re two sides of the same coin, really. Passion, obsession, sweaty palms, and a racing heart. Lost sleep.” He slides his gaze over to the cheese and salami on the dresser. “A poor appetite.”
“You want a poor appetite? I’ll give you a poor appetite. I’ll take that salami and wedge it so far down your throat you won’t be able to eat ever again.”
Amused by my fury, he smiles. “Passion,” he reminds me, smug as shit.
I look around for something to throw at him.
“Let’s call a truce.” He strolls forward, hands in his pockets.
As if I’ll feel safer that way.
“No truce. No way. And you’re the one who started this war, remember?”
He makes a face, like he’s doubtful.
“Yes, you. Wait, why am I even talking to you? You fake kissed me!”
“Did I?”
“Yes! You admitted you did!”
“Hmm. I don’t recall that.”
“So we’ll add dementia to your long list of problems.”
By now he’s trapped me at the edge of the bed, advancing so stealthily I hardly noticed it, which was probably his dastardly plan all along.
I stand my ground and flatten my hand in the center of his chest, bracing my arm so he can’t move forward. “I’m not a joke,” I say, my voice raw. “I’m not a plaything.”
“I never said you were.”
Under my palm, his heart is a jackhammer. We do the hate breathing at each other again, which apparently is becoming our thing. Then we do the hate eye fucking again, which is definitely becoming our thing.
He says softly, “You’re giving me grief about how I look at you? You should see your eyes right now.” His voice drops an octave. “So dirty, bella. So very, very dirty.”
“I’m not selling the company, no matter how much you try to sex it out of me.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Sex it out of you?” As I watch with ragged breath, he sinks his teeth into his full lower lip. “Now that sounds interesting. Let’s discuss.”
“You’re a pig.”
“And yet you want me.”
“You’re unbelievable!”
“Yes, women have told me that before. Usually right after they come.”
I can’t even with this guy!
Then it’s like he remembers something. He looks around, frowning. “What are you doing in here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Trying to get rid of you!”
He looks at the wad of sheets in the corner. He looks at the freshly made bed. Then he looks back at me. The smile that breaks over his face is breathtaking.
“My darling ex-stepsister. Are you moving in?”
Very deliberately, I slide my hand up his chest until I reach his neck. Then I grasp his throat—lightly, but enough to let him know I mean it.
His skin is hot to the touch, and his throat is strong. Thick. It makes me think of other hot, thick body parts.
I officially hate myself.
He lifts his brows, obviously amused. “You have the most interesting internal conversations. Are you going to choke me?”
I growl. It sounds silly, like a kitten trying to be scary.
Matteo leans forward. My arm is still locked at the elbow, so it puts more pressure around his throat. Holding my gaze, he says softly, “Go ahead. I know you want to.”
Boy, do I. I curl my other hand around his neck so now I’ve got him good and surrounded. I feel his pulse, beating hard against my palms. It’s weirdly arousing.
Intently watching my face, he whispers, “Those eyes.”
Then from the doorway comes a sharp voice.
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing to worry about, only Kimber trying to strangle me.” Matteo turns around and smiles at his mother as I whip my hands guiltily around my back.
The marchesa’s frosty gaze cuts to me, then back to Matteo. In her arms, Beans is dressed in a white nightgown that matches her mistress’s. She’s baring her teeth.
“Ah. I see you’re working your usual charm.” The marchesa glances back at me. “If you really want to annoy him, make fun of his hair. He’s obsessed he might lose it.”
She turns on her heel an
d leaves, her nightgown billowing like a sail behind her.
I gape after her, breath leaking from my lungs like a tire leaking air. “Did your mother just diss you?”
Matteo regards me with a sour twist to his lips. “No.”
“She totally did! Oh my God, I need to buy a lottery ticket. Do they have the lottery in this country? ’Cause this has got to be some kind of sign from the universe that my luck is changing.”
The rest of Matteo’s face turns sour, and now I’m gloating. “Aw, whassa matter, Mattie? Did Mommy hurt widdle Mattie’s feewings?”
The stare he sends me smolders with annoyance.
It’s the most fantastic thing I’ve ever seen.
I smile at him and bat my lashes. This game of tit for tat wasn’t fun, up until now. “Do I detect a chink in your glossy shining armor, stepbrother dearest? Have I finally found your Achilles’ heel? Mumsy-Wumsy despises you as much as I do, is that it?”
He says darkly, “Careful.”
For some reason, that particular word, spoken in that particular tone, gives me pause. “Oh. You actually think she does?”
Matteo says nothing. He simply stares at me with his hands clenched, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
I’m tempted to tell him how her eyes lit up when Lorenzo announced his arrival, but keep my mouth shut. He doesn’t deserve peace of mind. He fake kissed me.
“Well, this has been real. But it’s late, and I need to get to bed.”
Matteo’s gaze drifts to the bed. I picture us together on it, writhing around in a sweaty, moaning tangle. I swallow so loudly it sounds like a cartoon.
“Certo,” says Matteo gruffly, still staring at the bed. Then he turns and heads to the door. Just as he’s about to pass through it, he stops, puts a hand on the doorframe, and turns back. “Since you’re going to be living in Italy now, I assume you’ll be attending Fashion Week in Milan next month?”
His face is impassive, but there’s something I don’t trust simmering in his eyes. “I’d have to get an invitation. Why do you ask?”
He allows himself a smile, but there’s not a trace of humor in it. “I think you’ll be interested to see the House of Moretti’s spring collection. We have some truly incredible new designs.”
He lets that sink in for a moment. When I realize his meaning and suck in a breath, his humorless smile grows wider.
He raps on the frame with his knuckles. “Sweet dreams.”
Then he leaves, taking the last of my faith in humanity with him.
FOURTEEN
MATTEO
Luca told me his daughter was stubborn. But there’s stubborn, and then there’s Kimber DiSanto.
Thank God she’s even more competitive than she is pigheaded. What I’ve got planned for her counts on both.
Smiling at the curse she hollers at my back as I walk out of her bedroom, I make my way to the kitchen. I swallow the rest of the Frangelico in my glass, say a brief farewell to Lorenzo, and leave.
My work here is done.
For tonight.
FIFTEEN
KIMBER
I’m back at the shop before the sun’s up, sketching out a new collection.
If that bastard thinks I’m going down without a fight, he’s about to get the surprise of his life.
It’s impossible for an unknown designer to book a runway show in Milan for Fashion Week, but there is one way for me to make myself known. One risky, go-broke-or-go-home way.
But I’m going to need help to pull this off.
Once I’ve got about a dozen rough sketches, I take a break and call Jenner. He answers on the fifth ring, just as I’m about to hang up.
“Moshi moshi.”
“Mo—what?”
“It’s how they answer the telephone in Japan, darling. Haven’t you been anywhere?”
“Are you currently in Japan?”
“Unfortunately, no. But I am currently in bed with a lovely Japanese lad who I was inside of earlier, so it’s practically the same thing.”
“Oh shit. What time is it there? I keep forgetting about time zones.”
“Never mind, I’ve been up all night anyway. How are you? What’s happening with my darling love Matteo? Tell me everything and hurry up about it.”
In the background there’s a sleepy male voice asking Jenner something. I catch the words “please” and “squeeze” and stop listening.
“Ugh. Your ‘darling love’ is the worst. We’re total enemies. I’m gonna crush him like a bug!”
“Oh dear.” Jenner chuckles. “Have you been playing Scrabble again?”
“No. I’ve got a bigger game in mind. A game with much higher stakes.”
“Hmm. This sounds interesting. Continue.”
I take a breath and let it out in a gust. “I’m gonna crash his show at Fashion Week.”
There’s a loaded pause, then Jenner says, “It’s all that Mediterranean sun. It’s gone to your head.”
“I haven’t been out in the sun!”
“The wine, then. You’re having wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, right? They push it on you over there like it’s Vitamin Water.”
“I’m completely sober.”
“Wonderful,” he says drily. “That means you’re serious, which means you’re seriously deluded.”
“I’m not deluded!”
Ignoring me, he sighs. “You’re really starting to worry me, darling. First it was moving to Florence, now it’s crashing an exclusive invite-only event that will be crawling with security. The next thing I know you’ll be telling me you want me to model one of your dresses on the catwalk or some such nonsense.”
When I remain silent, Jenner says, “Oh no. No, no, no.”
“If you love me, you’ll do this for me.”
“That’s emotional blackmail!”
“I need you, Jenner. Not only are you a professional model—an amazing model—you’re the prettiest person I know. No one has cheekbones or a pout like you.”
He grumbles something, but I know I’ve got his attention. Flattery works on him every time.
“I know how you love making a spectacular entrance, and what I’ve got planned will be super spectacular.” I don’t have anything planned yet, but I’m appealing to his sense of drama and love of the limelight. I’ll work out the particulars later. “And you’ll already be in Milan next month for the shows, so it’s perfect.”
He laughs. “Oh, Poppins. You’re delightfully bonkers.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Prance around in one of your daintily exquisite, frothy creations and make an utter fool of myself while simultaneously jeopardizing my career by being involved in an ill-conceived and quite possibly illegal harebrained scheme to disrupt one of the most prestigious fashion shows on the planet? Of course not. One of us still has his sanity.”
I grouse, “Danielle would do it for me.”
“Please. No one would let that woman near a catwalk with those enormous boobs of hers. I’m not even sure they’d let her in the front door—they’d turn her around and shuttle her off to the nearest Hooters! Honestly, how you people can walk around with those things, I’ll never know.”
“I’ll have you know my boobs are my favorite part of my body.”
“That’s because you have lovely little B-cups, darling. They’ll still be perky when you’re in the old folks’ home. I can just see you now, shakin’ your moneymakers for all the drooling old gents in their wheelchairs! Oh, I can hardly wait. We should pick out your stripper name now so we’ll be ready. How does it go, the name of your first pet and the street you lived on growing up? Yes, that’s it.” He laughs, delighted. “My stripper name is Frisky Broadmoor!”
This always happens in a conversation with him. We’ll be discussing politics or current events and wind up on boobs or blow jobs. It’s like his superpower.
“Getting back to the matter at hand . . . I also need a few of your model friends.”
Silence.
“Befor
e you say no, you should know that the pay will be great.”
More silence, except for in the background, where Jenner’s friend is giggling. I hear rustling noises and try not to imagine what might be going on under the sheets.
“Okay, not great great, but . . . um . . . actually, how much does a model make per hour?”
“You can’t afford me,” he says flatly, then says to his friend, “Stop batting at it, love, it isn’t a cat toy. Here. Like this.” He comes back on the line sounding practical. “Listen to me now. I know this is a terrible time for you. A terrible, trying time. It’s normal that you’re a little off-kilter.”
Crushed, I close my eyes. Of all the people in the world, you’re the last one I thought would ever patronize me.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says when I’m quiet too long.
“No you don’t.”
“You’re thinking I’m being patronizing.”
Fine. So he knows. Big whoop.
“And maybe you’re right. For that I apologize. What I’m trying so poorly to say is that I’m worried about you, and I’m here for you for anything that doesn’t involve ending my career.” His voice grows quieter. “Do you want me to fly out for the funeral?”
At the mention of the F word, the energy drains from my body. I slump into the nearest chair and throw an arm over my eyes. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“I can be on a plane in three hours. Just say the word.”
In the background, Jenner’s playdate complains about the possibility of him leaving and is crossly shushed.
“No,” I say more firmly. “I’m okay. Thanks for the offer, though. I appreciate it.”
The last thing I want is to be a burden on him. He’s happy and having fun, and I’m ruining everything with all my disasters. “You know something? You’re right. I’m off-kilter. I’m not thinking straight. It’s been a really bizarre, emotional week, and all the wires in my brain are crossed.” I laugh. It sounds about as cheerful as if I’d just slit my wrists. “I’m gonna go. Sorry for calling you so early. Or late. Whatever it is there.”
“Hey. You. Greta Garbo.”
“I’m not Greta Garbo,” I mutter. “I’m Katharine Hepburn.”
“Right. The feisty, independent one, not the moody ‘I want to be alone’ one.”
Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3) Page 11