Page 31 of Italian Weddings

She stopped walking. Or, rather, her feet stopped cooperating, stranding her in the middle of the crowded bar area.

Slowly—achingly slowly—his eyes began to drop, as Jock’s had a moment earlier.

But where Jock’s inspection had left her cold—and a little pissed off at his presumptuousness—the opposite could be said, now.

Salvatore’s gaze was white hot lava as it poured from her face to her throat, lingering there a moment before sweeping to her breasts, as though he could see through the fabric of her gown—as though they were the sort of breasts she’d always secretly envied, all rounded and full, the perfect size for a man’s palm, even when they weren’t.

Lower, then, he scraped his gaze, over her flat stomach to the gentle swell of her hips, hovering there, before dropping to her feet.

In reverse, he slowed down to admire the same parts he already had, but by the time his focus was back on her eyes, she was almost panting.

It took all of her willpower not to show how much his casually possessive gaze had burned through her.

His lips parted, and her eyes narrowed, as he mouthed the words, ‘Follow me,’ before jerking his head, once, away from the ballroom, then turned and strode through the crowd.

It was only a moment. Barely a minute, from when she’d left Jock and seen Salvatore, and yet she felt as though time and space had lost all meaning.

She was somehow back in Moricosia, six months earlier, when they’d had to tour the construction site together, and share the same resources as they put together their competing bids, so locked gazes, brushed hands, shared air, had somehow turned into fire and flame.

But that had been then.

An anomaly of circumstance, borne of the fact that they were in a strange, almost mythical kingdom, full of beauty and history. Far from either of their homes and the generational hatred that had defined their families.

That was definitely not the case, now. They were here, in New York, where they each had family members living, and business interests, where they both spent a considerable amount of time and were well known.

There was no escaping the reality of who they were and what their family’s connections meant.

So, following him would be really, really dumb.

She took a sip of her drink, hoping it would bring sanity along with a hint of a buzz.

Only, her damned feet still weren’t cooperating.

Rather than doing the far more sensible thing and carrying her back towards her table and the safety of her brother and sister-in-law, they went in the opposite direction.

Towards Salvatore Santoro: AKA the man she knew she should never speak to again…

The second he’d seen her in that dress, he’d known it was only a matter of time.

Except, even if she’d been in a nun’s habit, he’d have probably felt the same, because unless she could somehow give him a very localised lobotomy and wipe his memories of that night, seeing Emilia Valentino again was always going to make him want more.

Even when they both knew it was wrong.

And stupid.

And disrespectful to their families, after all the time they’d put into hating each other.

Well, having sex with someone didn’t have to mean you didn’t hate them. In fact, it didn’t have to mean anything. Salvatore had spent a lifetime believing that, and despite the fact his siblings and cousins were all lining up to be pierced by Cupid’s bow, it did nothing to change his inclination.

Salvatore liked being a free agent. He liked playing the field. Sleeping with whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He liked women, sex, and walking away. Keeping things light and fun.

The one time he’d come close to getting serious with a woman had imploded in spectacular fashion, and he’d learned that lesson fast, and well. True, he’d only been nineteen, but the memory of the fallout from that experience had scored deep in his brain—he wasn’t likely to forget it anytime soon.

So what difference did it make if he was having meaningless sex with a Valentino? As long as they both knew the deal, and kept it private, who cared?

He pushed the emergency exit door without looking backwards, stepping into the fire escape of the six-star hotel and moving down the stairs to the platform between floors.

He assumed the same position as before—a shoulder resting on the wall, one ankle crossed carelessly over the other, affecting a look of a casual unconcern.

Even when his insides were buzzing with anticipation, and his cock was starting to strain against his pants in a way that was almost painful.

He didn’t have to wait long. Not even a full minute after he’d taken up his position, the door pushed inwards, and Emilia strode through, silky hair in a carefully shaped bun he couldn’t wait to undo.

She’d lightened it since Moricosia. Then, it had been almost jet black.

Now, it shimmered like amber and gold at the ends—he ached to tease them out and fan her hair across her shoulders, to see it properly.

“Well, Salvatore? Did you want something from me?”

The question lit a fire in his blood. “Why don’t you come down here and find out what I want for yourself?”

Her green eyes widened, the pupils flaring unmistakably.

For a second, he thought she might not do it.

After all, this was stupidly reckless, and they both knew that.

But then, with one of her hands poised on the railing, she began to walk slowly down the steps toward him, so his gut rolled with anticipated pleasure and his blood began to thrum in his ears. He couldn’t wait to make her his again.