by Anna DePalo
Chiara definitely wasn’t jealous. The irony wasn’t lost on her, though. Usually her dates were the ones having to contend with overeager male admirers. Now the shoe was on the other foot—sort of.
“Possessive?” Rick asked, lips quirking, as if he’d read her mind.
“Don’t be silly,” Chiara retorted.
“It’s not like you to get territorial, but I like it.”
“So what is the connection between you and Isabel Lanier?” she tried again.
Rick regarded her for a moment. “Isabel made a play for me in front of some photographers. Unfortunately her boyfriend at the time was also a good friend of mine. End of friendship.”
“Why would she do that?”
Rick gave her a penetrating look. “Fame, public image, to make Hal jealous. You know, all the likely ulterior motives.”
She didn’t want to dwell on their own ulterior motives right now.
“Shall we sit down?” Rick asked.
She felt compelled to go on. “If you were more high profile, the organizers here would have made sure your path didn’t cross Isabel’s, and that you were seated on opposite sides of the ballroom.”
“Fortunately I’m not. High profile, that is.”
“But I am.” Chiara made a mental note to put the word out that she and Isabel should be kept apart—at least until her “relationship” with Rick came to an end.
Rick pulled out a chair for her, and she sat down. As Rick turned to acknowledge a waiter, Isabel fished the cell phone out of her clutch and typed a quick text to Odele. No time like the present to make sure a viper stayed in her tank, she thought, her mind traveling back to Isabel.
After that, the evening passed quickly and painlessly. The master of ceremonies was a well-known comedian, and he drew regular laughs from the crowd, who dined on butterfly salmon pâté with caviar and peppered chateaubriand with port wine glacé.
Before long, Chiara found herself heading home with Rick. She’d never had a live-in significant other, and in the past, it had been easy enough to say goodbye at the end of a date. Not this time, however. Awkward.
When they entered the hushed silence of her foyer, she faced Rick. She reminded herself that she held the cards here. She was the celebrity. This was her house. And he, for all intents and purposes, was her employee, thanks to Odele.
Still, it was of little help when faced with Rick’s overwhelming masculinity.
He was tall and broad, and all evening she’d been ignoring how he filled out his tux. Should she be surprised he even owned one?
Rick quirked his lips. “I guess this is the part where I kiss you good-night—” he glanced past her to the stairs “—except I’m staying here.” His gaze came back to hers, and he looked at her with a slow deliberateness.
All of a sudden, she was searching for air. They hadn’t been this close since their encounter in the exercise room, and she’d vowed it was an experience that would never, ever be repeated.
But the memory of how easily he’d aroused her—her body tightening and then finding blessed release—played havoc with her senses and scruples right now.
He bent his head, and said in a low voice, “It would aid in believability.”
There was no need for him to elaborate. If he kissed her...if he excited her...if they became lovers...
Yes...no. She mentally shook her head.
He looked down at her gown, and she felt his gaze everywhere—on her breasts, her hips and lower...
“Do you need help with that dress?” he muttered, his eyes half-lidded. “There’s no Odele here, no designer’s assistant or fashion stylist.”
Didn’t she know it. They were alone, and the quiet of the night and the empty house surrounded them. The only illumination was the dim light that she’d left on in the foyer.
Chiara cleared her throat. “You did well tonight for an agoraphobic stuntman.”
“Isn’t this the time in the movie for a love scene?” he teased.
She tried gamely for her typical maneuver. She did outrage really well. “This isn’t a movie and we’re not—”
“Actors,” he finished for her. “I know.”
He took her hand and drew her near. Another smile teased his lips. “That’s what’s going to make this so great. No pretending.”
She swallowed. “I don’t know how not to pretend.”
The brutal honesty escaped her before she could help herself.
“Just feel. Go with your instincts.”
“Like method acting?”
“Like real life.” He settled his hands and massaged her shoulders. “Relax. We stuntmen are not so bad.”
“Are you the baddest of the bunch?” she asked, her voice husky.
His smile widened. “Want to find out if I’m the Big Bad Wolf?”
“Sorry, wrong fairy tale again.”
She could feel the heat and energy coming off him even though only his hands touched her. She was attuned to everything about him. As an actress, she was trained to observe the slightest facial sign, the subtlest inflection of voice, the intention behind a touch. But with Rick, she quivered with sensation approaching a sixth sense.
Slowly he raised her chin, and her gaze met his.
They’d been working up to this moment ever since the exercise room, and she saw in his eyes that he knew it, too.
He searched her face and then, focusing on her mouth, he brushed her lips with his.
She parted for him on an indrawn sigh, touched her tongue to his and twined her arms around his neck. She needed this, too, she admitted, and for tonight at least she couldn’t think of a reason to deny herself.
He settled his hands on her waist, and she felt the press of his arousal. He deepened the kiss, and she met him, not holding back. Her evening clutch slipped from her limp hand and hit the ground with a small thump.
He broke the kiss, only to trail his mouth, whisper-soft, across her jaw and to her temple.
“Rick...”
“Chiara.”
“I...”
“This isn’t the time to start one of your arguments.”
“About what?”
“About anything.”
He nuzzled the side of her neck, and she angled her head to afford him better access. She fastened her hands on his biceps in order to anchor herself, and the hard muscle under her fingers reminded her that he was built...and right now primed to mate with her.
Chiara felt that last realization to her core, even as Rick’s lips sent delicious shivers down her spine.
One of his hands shifted lower and settled on her exposed thigh. She felt the caress of his slightly callused fingers.
He kissed the shell of her ear, and then whispered, “Your dress has been giving me a thrill all evening.”
“Oh?” she managed.
“The slit is so high...playing peekaboo all the way up...making me wonder whether this time I’ll get a glimpse...”
She gave a throaty laugh. “I’m not commando. I don’t take those kinds of risks.”
His hand moved lower, slid under the slit and covered her. “Oh, yeah? But I want you to go on all kinds of adventures with me. Let me show you, baby...”
Chiara’s eyes closed and her head fell back as Rick’s finger slipped inside her and the pad of his thumb brushed her in a wicked dance. Her lips parted. Oh, my. They hadn’t even made it past the inside of her front door and all she wanted to do was strip for him and let him take her against the hard wall of the foyer, pounding into her until she wept with the pure ecstasy of it, her legs wrapped around him and holding him close.
“Ah, Chiara.” His voice sounded rough with arousal as he nipped and nibbled along her jaw. “So hot. There’s nothing cold about you.”
His words wrapped around h
er like a warm caress. She’d worked all her life to get her walls up and, most of all, be independent and succeed. But with Rick, her defenses came crashing down, and in their place rushed in powerful need.
Rick snaked his free hand beneath the one-shoulder bodice of her gown and cupped her breast. He kneaded her soft flesh and she peaked for him.
A moan escaped her.
“I should have stuck around earlier tonight so I’d know how you got into this gown, and how to get you out,” he muttered.
A laugh caught in her throat, but then the buzz of a cell phone interrupted the mood like the beam of car headlights slicing through the night.
It took a few moments for Chiara to clear her head and get oriented. And then she flushed. She and Rick had gone from zero to sixty in minutes, and any longer...
As her phone continued to buzz from the inside of her clutch on the floor, she pulled away from Rick, and he dropped his hands and stepped back.
“You don’t have to answer it,” he said roughly.
“It’s Odele. I can tell from the ringtone.” She started to bend down, but Rick was faster and retrieved the clutch for her.
“You don’t have to answer it,” Rick commented, his voice edged with frustration.
Flustered and still aroused, Chiara gathered her scattered thoughts. “She’s used to having her calls answered. I—I’ve got to take this. I’ve...got to go.”
“Of course.” His expression was sardonic, knowing, and he raked his hand through his hair. “I’m guessing it’s time for another cold shower.”
Turning away from Rick to regain her composure, she hit the answer button. “Odele, hello?”
“Hello, sweetie. How are you? Did you have a fine evening?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered as she hurried up the stairs. “What can I do for you, Odele?”
“I’m responding to your request, hon.”
For a moment, Chiara was confused, but then she remembered her text to Odele earlier in the evening.
“From what I could see on TV, you and Mr. Stuntman were doing an excellent job at your first public appearance together. But then I got your message about keeping you and Isabel Lanier separated at future social events. Did something happen that I’m not aware of?”
Chiara didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated. If not for Odele’s untimely—or rather, timely—call, she’d have been moments away from inviting Rick to follow her to the bedroom. A mistake that she would have regretted.
“Not that I don’t have sympathy,” Odele went on in her trademark raspy voice. “Isabel Lanier reeks of tacky perfume, and her manager is worse.”
Chiara smiled weakly. Leave it to Odele to be competitive with even Isabel’s snarky manager.
“So, honey, are you going to tell me what the story is, or make me guess? I have my sources, you know.”
Chiara lowered her voice even as she reached the privacy of her bedroom and flipped on the light. “Rick and Isabel were involved at one point.”
“Really?” The word was a long, drawn-out drawl.
“Well, not really.” Chiara dropped her clutch on the vanity table. “She sort of threw herself at him in a publicity stunt and that was the end of his friendship with her then boyfriend.”
“Damn it, I knew her manager was cunning.”
“It takes one to know one, Odele.”
“Okay, all right,” her manager responded grumpily. “Now that I’ve got the details, I’ll put the word out about Isabel and file away the information for any future events that I book you for.”
“You’re a doll, Odele.”
“Oh, stop,” her manager rasped. “I’m a barracuda in a town infested with sharks.”
When she ended the call with Odele, Chiara sighed. The conversation had let sanity back in. She couldn’t get involved with Rick. Sweet heaven, she didn’t even like him. She couldn’t like him.
Too bad she was having an increasingly hard time remembering why.
Seven
Welsdale was a quaint New England town with brick buildings dotting the main streets and colorful homes lining the back roads.
Chiara could hardly believe she was here except that Odele had, of course, loved Rick’s idea for an appearance on his mother’s cooking show. Before Chiara had caught her breath, she and Rick had been on an early flight from Los Angeles to Boston.
She supposed it was just as well. Ever since the Ring of Hope Gala last weekend, she’d done her best to keep Rick at arm’s length. Only a long couple of days on set had saved her. She’d collapsed into bed, exhausted, late at night.
From the airport, where Rick had a car in long-term parking, they drove to Welsdale and then, after no more than twenty minutes on oak-lined roads, to a stunning home on the outskirts of town. Rick had mentioned that his parents were hosting a small party at their house.
The elder Serenghettis lived in a Mediterranean-style mansion with a red-tile roof and white walls. Set amidst beautiful landscaping, the house greeted visitors with a stone fountain at the center of a circular drive.
Chiara didn’t know what she had expected, except perhaps a humbler abode. Clearly she’d been wrong in her assumptions. Rick came from an established family and a comfortable background, unlike her.
When they stepped inside, Rick stretched out his arms and joked, “Welcome to the Serenghetti family reunion.”
Chiara blinked. “They’re all here?”
“We like to support Mom.”
Oh, sweet heaven. She wasn’t prepared for this. The gathering was larger than she’d expected, and it seemed that assorted Serenghettis were sprinkled among the crowd.
There’d be no Feran family reunion, of course. Or if there were, it would be at a Las Vegas gaming table, where she’d be settling her father’s debts.
People were standing around chatting in the family room and adjacent living room, and she noticed in particular how two of the men were as attractive as Rick. It appeared the Serenghetti men came in one variety only: drop-dead gorgeous.
“Come on,” Rick said, cupping her elbow. “I’ll introduce you.”
As they approached, one of the two men glanced at them and then came forward. “Ah, the prodigal son returning to the fold...”
“Stuff it, Jordan.” Rick’s tone was good-natured—as if he was used to being ribbed.
Jordan appeared unabashed and gave Chiara an openly curious look. “Well, this time you’ve outdone yourself. Mom will be pleased. But how you managed to convince a beautiful actress that you’ve got the goods, I’ll never know.” He held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Jordan Serenghetti, Rick’s better-looking brother.”
“Which one of us was a body double for People’s Sexiest Man Alive?” Rick retorted mildly.
“Which one is featured in an underwear ad on a billboard in Times Square?” Jordan returned.
“Nice to meet you,” Chiara jumped in with a light laugh. “I’ve been putting up with his humor—” she indicated Rick “—for days. Now I see it’s a family trait.”
“Yes, but I’m younger than Rick and our older brother, Cole, so I like to say our parents achieved perfection only the third time around.”
When Rick raised his eyebrows, Chiara laughed again. It was good to see Rick getting back some of his own.
Rick’s gaze went to the arched entrance to the family room, and Chiara spotted an attractive woman with honey-blond hair caught in a ponytail, a nice figure showcased in tights and a short-sleeved athletic shirt. Unlike many women in Hollywood, she seemed unaware of her beauty, sporting a fresh-faced natural look with little makeup.
“Your nemesis is here,” Rick murmured.
Jordan followed his brother’s gaze. “Heaven help us.”
At Chiara’s inquiring look, Rick elaborated. �
��Serafina is related to us by marriage. She’s Cole’s wife’s cousin. She also happens to be the one woman under the sun Jordan can’t charm.”
Jordan wore an unguarded look that said he was attracted like a bee to nectar—and befuddled by the feeling. Chiara hid a smile. She suspected that like her, Jordan lived in a world with plenty of artifice—big-time sports likely resembled Hollywood that way—and Serafina was a breath of fresh air.
Serafina was something different, and Jordan appeared at a loss as to how to deal with her. Relative? Friend? Lover? Maybe he couldn’t make up his mind—and it wasn’t only his choice to make, either.
“Excuse me,” Jordan announced. “Fun just walked in.”
“Jordan,” Rick said warningly.
“What?” his brother responded as he stepped away.
“Just make sure that while you’re getting a rise out of our newest in-law, you don’t come in for a pounding yourself.”
Jordan flashed a quick grin. “I’m counting on it.”
Chiara watched Serafina’s eyes narrow as she noticed Jordan step toward her. It seemed as if Jordan wasn’t the only one who was aware of someone else’s every move...
Then Chiara quashed a sudden self-deprecatory grimace. She couldn’t judge Serafina. She herself was attuned to Rick’s every gesture.
At that moment, the other attractive man Chiara had spotted earlier approached.
“Hi, I’m Cole Serenghetti,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Chiara Feran,” she responded, shaking hands.
She could tell on a moment’s acquaintance that Cole was the serious brother.
Unlike Jordan and Rick, Cole’s eyes were more hazel than green. Still, the family resemblance was strong. But Chiara noticed that Cole sported a scar on his cheek.
A beautiful woman walked up to them, and Cole put his arm around her. She had the most translucent brown eyes that Chiara had ever seen, and masses of brown hair that fell in waves and curls past her shoulders.
“This is my wife, Marisa,” Cole said, looking affectionately at the woman beside him. “Sweet pea, I’m sure you’ve heard of Chiara Feran.”
“I loved your movie Three Nights in Paris,” Marisa gushed, “and I follow you online.”