MATTEO (Dance with the Devil 1)

by Carole Mortimer

  This was not the time for him to be so affected by a woman, he was thinking of ways to fuck her before he’d even spoken a word to her.

  Except…

  Matteo hadn’t been able to stop himself from walking farther into the store and approaching her. Almost as if he was being pulled toward her by an invisible piece of string.

  Being led there by his dick was probably a more apt description of what was happening, Matteo acknowledged self-disgustedly. His cock had engorged the moment he looked at this woman’s beautiful face and willowy curves, and now that he’d spoken to her, listened to the husky quality of her voice, it didn’t feel as if his erection was going down any time soon.

  Watching her as she walked in front of him to the other side of the store, unable to look away from the side-to-side swaying of her hips and bottom, had only made his cock harder.

  Which meant he was having an instant attraction to this woman that couldn’t have happened at a worse fucking time!

  His talks with Leonardo Brunelli were going well, the older man liking the idea more and more of a London alliance between the Italian families and the Russians.

  Matteo had his empire back.

  Had now surrounded himself with people totally loyal to him and the Zalotti name.

  With his future brother-in-law’s input, he was also forming an alliance with the Russians, something that had never been achieved before.

  His engagement and marriage to Brunelli’s daughter, Natalia, meant Matteo would soon also have a strong family connection with the ruthless don of New York.

  The Zalotti family would soon be more powerful than they had ever been.

  Now was not the time for Matteo to take one look at a beautiful redhead and know he would put all that at risk for a single night spent with his cock buried inside this woman as he took her again and again, the two of them enjoying climax after climax together, until they were both too satiated and exhausted to move.

  Chapter Three

  “Sir?” Grace prompted, not sure where this man’s thoughts had wandered off to but he didn’t look particularly pleased whatever they were.

  “Matteo.”

  “Sorry?”

  “My name is Matteo,” he bit out.

  Which would make him Italian. Grace had already guessed from his slightly swarthy complexion that his heritage was from somewhere in the Mediterranean. It seemed he wasn’t a Greek god after all, but an Italian one. Grace would have preferred he was Greek.

  “Have dinner with me tonight?”

  “What?” Grace had been so distracted by her thoughts and her uncharacteristic physical arousal to this man that she now felt totally disarmed, both by the question and by the way this man gazed at her with those intense dark blue eyes.

  He stepped closer, totally crowding her when he stood only inches in front of her and her back was pressed against one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “I said have dinner with me this evening.” It wasn’t a request this time, but a tersely issued order.

  Request or order, Grace’s answer would still be the same. He was too intense for her, and besides, Matteo didn’t exactly look thrilled about having made the invitation in the first place. “No, thank you.”

  Those blue eyes narrowed as if this man wasn’t used to hearing that word very often. If ever. “Why not?”

  Grace’s frown was pained. “I don’t believe I need to give a reason.”

  “I think you do.”

  She glared at him. “No, I really don’t.”

  “Are you married? Engaged? Living with someone?”

  “No. No. And no. Are you?” she challenged.

  “No,” he bit out harshly.

  Was it Grace’s imagination or had there been a slight hesitation before he said that emphatic no?

  “Have dinner with me,” he repeated.

  She gave a shake of her head. “I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you.”

  “Liar. Your nipples are hard,” he continued huskily as she would have protested. “Your cheeks are also flushed, your lips are moist, red, and slightly swollen. The ones between your thighs probably are too,” he added intimately.

  Grace’s breath caught in her throat. “You can’t say things like that!”

  He smiled slightly. “I believe I just did. If it’s any consolation, my cock is just as aroused.”

  Color burned her cheeks. “That isn’t of any interest to me!” She stepped aside to take several books from one of the shelves. “Any of these books will list the things you need to know in order to give your sister away at her wedding. Carla will be pleased to process your purchase, if you should decide to buy one of them.” She turned to walk away.

  “Grace!” He grabbed her arm.

  She gasped, feeling as if an electric shock ran the length of her arm the moment Matteo reached out to stop her from leaving. That touch alone stilled her heart. The heat of his fingers seared the breath from her lungs.

  The stunned expression on Matteo’s face—eyelids wide and pupils dilated, his lips slightly parted—seemed to imply he was just as shocked at his own response to a simple touch.

  He held her gaze as he reached out to grasp her other hand before pulling her gently toward him.

  Grace remained a captive of those deep blue eyes as Matteo placed her palms flat against his chest, her breath catching in her throat at the feel of not only his heat, but the steady beat of his heart.

  Their surroundings faded to the background, only the two of them seeming to exist in that moment. Their gazes were locked, breathing becoming synchronized, hearts beating in the same rhythm.

  “I apologize for my forwardness just now,” he murmured throatily. “But I know you can feel this awareness between us too.”

  She could try denying it, could insist he was wrong, but her nipples were engorged and pressing against her fitted top, and between her thighs was slick and swollen. Dear Lord, their combined pheromones were enough to cause a fresh gush of those juices down her aching channel.

  Which was even more reason for her to continue to refuse to have dinner with him.

  “Please have dinner with me this evening,” he prompted again huskily.

  Grace knew that, despite the added please, she should repeat her refusal. She could think of a dozen reasons why she should. This man was too much. It felt as if she couldn’t escape the intensity of his gaze. He was too outspoken. Damn it, he was too much of everything. Plus he was as Italian as her violent father had been, and Grace had avoided all volatile Italian men since she arrived in England five years ago.

  Except…

  She looked down at her hands totally engulfed by his much larger ones, his fingers long and sensual as one of them caressed her knuckles. “Yes,” she heard herself softly breathe her acquiescence.

  He gave an obvious sigh of satisfaction as his expression became less forceful. “What time do you finish here this evening?”

  Grace, still feeling dazed from hearing herself accept his invitation, didn’t seem able to backtrack on that acceptance. “It’s Friday night, so we stay open until seven.”

  “I’ll send a car for you.”

  He would send a car for her?

  Grace was only too aware that the rich and entitled sent cars to pick up people for them, and it was usually when they couldn’t be bothered to do it themselves. In this case, it was a rich and entitled Italian man who intended to send a car and driver to collect her.

  Besides, she wasn’t dressed for going out. “Er—no,” she refused even as she gently but firmly pulled her hands free of his. Reaction over what he was, what she was doing by accepting his invitation, was starting to set in, and she didn’t want this man to be able to feel the trembling of her body.

  She was also able to draw a deep breath into her starved lungs once he was no longer touching her. Which was probably as well, because she had seriously been in danger of fainting from lack of oxygen.

  “I would need to go home, feed Mr. Darcy, and chang
e before going out.”

  “Who the fuck is Mr. Darcy?” Matteo demanded harshly.

  Grace took a step back at his aggression. “My cat?”

  “Oh. Okay. Sorry.” Matteo knew he was seriously in danger of frightening Grace with his intensity, and she already looked as if she was ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. “You look beautiful just as you are,” he assured warmly. If she looked any more beautiful, Matteo was going to spontaneously combust—or just come in his boxers. He wasn’t sure which was going to happen first.

  “I’ll still need to go home and feed my cat,” she insisted stubbornly.

  He had no idea if Grace was wearing a perfume or if the heady scent of flowers and musk was unique to her. Whichever it was, it was a lethal combination to his senses. Every time he inhaled, that musk only increased his desire for this woman. “Okay, I’ll come by and pick you up here at seven o’clock. I can drive you home and then wait outside in the car if you don’t want me to go inside,” he added at her doubtful expression.

  She blinked. “I thought you intended sending a driver for me?”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” Matteo was well aware Grace might change her mind if left to her own devices. “I’ll pick you up here. Unless you would rather meet me at the restaurant.” It wasn’t what Matteo wanted, but the important thing right now was to ensure Grace spent the evening with him.

  And if Leon Brunelli discovered Matteo had dinner with and spent the evening—night?—with Grace, this close to the announcement of his engagement to the other man’s daughter, Matteo could, and probably would, end up having his balls removed. One at a time, probably, and painfully.

  But still, Matteo couldn’t walk away without knowing he was going to see this woman again. “Grace?”

  Grace would really rather not arrive at a restaurant alone and hope that her date, Matteo, was already there, rather than having to sit at the table alone and hoping, praying, he would turn up so she wasn’t left feeling totally humiliated.

  Was she seriously thinking of spending the evening with this man? Did she have a choice?

  “Matteo who?” Grace wasn’t sure what his suddenly closed expression meant but she was pretty sure it meant something. As did the way he continued to hesitate for several seconds before answering, as if he was unsure of what to say. Which, considering she had only asked him his surname, was more than a little unsettling. “Matteo?” She frowned her puzzlement at his delay.

  “Zalotti,” he bit out harshly. “My name is Matteo Zalotti.”

  Grace had no idea why he looked and sounded so challenging. She could only assume it was because revealing his surname was supposed to tell her something else about him. Except Grace had absolutely no idea what that something was when she had deliberately distanced herself from all things Italian since moving to England.

  Nor could she fire up her tablet and look up the name Zalotti with Matteo standing directly in front of her. Which wasn’t to say that wasn’t exactly what she was going to do once he’d left the store.

  She sincerely hoped he didn’t turn out to be a serial killer recently released from prison!

  An assumption that was way out there, but was probably preferable to the unsettled feeling she experienced just from hearing his name, along with his wary expression as he watched and waited for her reaction.

  “Okay, Matteo Zalotti,” she mocked. “I’ll see you back here at seven this evening.”

  He had been dismissed, Matteo realized incredulously. When did that last happen? Even during those bleak years of being the puppet head of the Zalotti family, in public, Matteo had maintained every ounce of the Zalotti power. Consequently, no one had dared to dismiss him in a very long time, if ever.

  Until Grace. “You haven’t told me your surname.” He let her know he had noted the omission.

  A deliberate one if the way she lifted her chin in challenge was an indication. “Morrissey,” she stated flatly. “My name is Grace Morrissey.”

  There was something about the guarded way she said that which made Matteo doubt she was telling the truth…

  Which was reason for concern.

  Not that he thought their having met had been in the least contrived on Grace’s part. How could it have been when Matteo having come into the bookstore at all today was purely accidental, because of his need to avoid the heavy rain falling outside?

  No, his unease was twofold.

  One, because of who he was.

  Second, because of the delicate situation with Leon Brunelli.

  He gave a snort. His future engagement to Brunelli’s daughter wasn’t a situation, it was a fact. Unbreakable, if he didn’t want to end up with Brunelli as an enemy. Now there was a situation guaranteed not to end well.

  But if the name Morrissey was an assumed one rather than Grace’s true surname, why had she changed it from the original and what was she hiding?

  Matteo straightened. “Very well, Grace Morrissey.” He deliberately drawled the name and knew his suspicions were spot on when he saw a blush—of guilt?—creep into her cheeks. “I will be waiting outside for you at seven o’clock this evening.”

  Grace was seriously starting to regret having allowed herself to be talked into accepting this man’s invitation to dinner. Starting to regret it? She had no idea why she had said yes in the first place.

  But of course she did, she instantly chided herself.

  This man’s sexuality was seductive as hell, and once he leveled that intense blue gaze on her, touched her with those long and sensitive fingers, she hadn’t been able to say no to him.

  Her attention was drawn toward the door. “I believe the two men standing over there are trying to attract your attention.” They were staring intently—and pointedly—at the two of them, and Grace certainly didn’t know or recognize either of them.

  The two men had the same swarthy complexion as Matteo and were also dressed formally in black suits and white shirts with meticulously knotted ties. Were the three related in some way? The two men were probably both aged in their late forties, so neither of them would be old enough to be Matteo’s father, and they were probably too old to be his brothers too.

  One of the two men now walked down the length of the store until he stood in front of Matteo. “The car is waiting outside, Mr. Zalotti.”

  Matteo nodded. “I’ll join you in a moment, Antonio.”

  The other man gave Grace a long and probing glance before turning to walk back to where his partner still stood near the doorway. Both men were giving that same narrow-eyed, assessing look at everyone else inside the store, customers and staff alike.

  Which would perhaps make them bodyguards?

  Matteo’s bodyguards?

  Which begged the question, why would he have a need for bodyguards?

  Was he superrich and feared being robbed? The mention of sending a car for her certainly implied he was wealthy, as did his superbly tailored suit and handmade leather shoes. There was also that air he had, of his entitlement to other people’s deference.

  Or was he, perhaps, someone famous and she just hadn’t recognized him?

  Surely Carla would have recognized him if the latter were true.

  Whoever he was, Grace had that feeling of being out of her depth with Matteo Zalotti. Not just because of his sexual potency, which she reacted strongly to in a way she never had before, but also because of the way he had hesitated about revealing his own surname.

  There was also the arrival of the two men who looked like bodyguards and, now that she studied them more closely, appeared as if they might actually be carrying guns beneath those tailored black jackets.

  Who carried a concealed weapon into a bookstore in the middle of the day in London?

  There were many answers to that question, and none of them were particularly appealing to Grace.

  Her thoughts scattered as Matteo again took a tight grip of her hands, sending those electric shocks along the length of her arms and then into the rest of her body.


  His gaze was compelling. “Don’t change your mind about dinner this evening. Please.”

  Grace knew she couldn’t say no.

  Not wouldn’t.

  Or shouldn’t.

  But couldn’t.

  Chapter Four

  “Sure you won’t come with us?” Carla lingered in an effort to try one last time to persuade Grace into joining the rest of the staff for a drink now that the store was closed for the day.

  She shook her head. “Positive. I’m so tired tonight, I think I might even put off food shopping until tomorrow and just go home and have a long soak in a hot scented bath and then have an early night.” She had done the banking earlier and had now locked up the till drawer in the safe, ready for opening tomorrow morning.

  “With Mr. Darcy,” Carla teased. “And I don’t mean the furry one.”

  “I wish!”

  “Okay.” Carla sighed. “But if you change your mind…”

  “I know where to find you.” Grace unlocked the back door to allow Carla to leave before closing and locking it again. She let out a deep and heartfelt sigh as she leaned back against it.

  The only thing Grace had any intention of changing her mind about in regard to this evening was having dinner—or anything else—with Matteo Zalotti.

  She had taken a lot of teasing from Carla after Matteo left the store earlier, because of the way he had lingered so long to speak with her and then left without buying a book. But once Grace could do so, she had escaped to her small office, opened up her tablet, and typed the name Matteo Zalotti into the search bar.

  And been bombarded with results.

  She now knew exactly who he was and why he seemed to possess an aura that warned people to get out of his way or get trampled on. Or, considering who he was, worse.

  Matteo Zalotti was the head of the London Mafia!

  Not just a foot soldier in the organization, or one of the capos, Matteo was the man at the top, the don, and responsible for everything the Italian Mafia did in this city.

  Okay, the many articles Grace had found on him didn’t exactly say that, probably for fear of being sued for defamation of character—or, again, worse!—but they might as well have done.