Page 41 of Italian Weddings

She thought of Salvatore and was surprised to find herself shaking her head, without realizing it. “No, impossible.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s too devious. They fight fair, even if it means losing.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Do you have any evidence to the contrary?”

He stared at her, clearly not convinced.

“We’re the ones who stole Acto out from under them,” she pointed out.

It had been Andie’s suggestion to have their older brother Max pose as her fiancé, to get her father to sell the company to the Valentinos instead of the Santoros.

They’d worked for a long time on putting together an offer for the business, but it had been Max who’d swooped in and bought it at the last minute.

Never mind that he and Andie had legitimately fallen in love in the process.

“All’s fair in love and business,” Leandro said with a shrug. “A philosophy I assure you they share. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they’re sabotaging us.”

But she shook her head again. “I think this has just been incredibly unlucky,” she admitted. “I hate it, but I’d rather just address each issue without looking to villainize the Santoros. At least, not over this.”

“Have it your way, but I’m going to do some digging.” And she nodded, confident her brother wouldn’t find anything of note.

The day went from bad to worse on the work front, so by the time Emilia walked in the door of her SoHo apartment, she was drained. Mentally, physically and in every way, just utterly exhausted. Of course, the lack of sleep the night before didn’t help.

As if to reinforce that, she stifled a yawn as she placed her handbag on the hall stand, removing her phone before making her way into the kitchen.

There was a text message from her mum, just checking in, and a few work emails that had come through on the drive home.

She ignored the emails for now, and instead, poured herself a glass of Shiraz, which she carried through to the bathroom.

While the bath was running, Emilia slowly removed her work clothes, draping them over an ornate chair in the corner, before catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror and letting out a small gasp.

Either she’d been too pleasure-fogged that morning to properly look at herself, or these marks had grown darker through the day.

Slowly, fascinated, she trailed her finger from the places on her breasts where Salvatore had lavished kisses and sucked until her skin had grown darker, then to the sensitive flesh that was roughened by his stubble.

Her cheeks flushed at the reminders of how he had touched and worshipped her entire body.

She wondered if he showed similar marks—nail scratches down his back, or crescent moon shapes across his shoulders from where she’d dug her fingers in as if to hold on for dear life.

It was easy to believe he would. She remembered drawing her nails down his back over and over as he spent hours pushing all the buttons she’d needed pushed—and hadn’t even realised she possessed.

The bath was sumptuously warm around her body, and she sunk into it gratefully, lying there with her eyes shut for several long moments before reaching for the glass of wine and taking a sip.

She’d just replaced it on the bath’s edge when her phone buzzed.

She yawned again as she reached out, blinking to clear her eyes before focusing on the text.

It was from Salvatore—just a photo of a bed. Or rather, half a bed. Crisp white sheets, white pillow, and in the distant background, a sparling view of Manhattan.

Wish you were here.

A smile tugged at her lips as she contemplated what to say, then flicked to the camera and took a picture of her red-painted toenails peeping above the surface of the water. She sent it back to him with the words:

I could say the same.

He responded:

Seriously starting to regret that ‘no going to each other’s homes’ rule.

She reached for her wine, took a sip, and settled back into the bath, deeper, so the warm water lapped against her breasts.

She felt like a teenager, giddy with the excitement of messaging a crush. A crush! Salvatore Santoro was the enemy, not a crush. Even when he was also the man she was sleeping with.

Only, Emilia didn’t want to think about the conflict of her situation.

They’d already addressed it. Besides, they’d gone too far to walk this thing back.

They’d had sex. A lot. What difference did it make if it happened once or ten times?

They’d done the very bad, very forbidden thing—the thing no one in either of their families would be able to forgive if they learned of it.

Hotel rooms have baths, you know. Beds, too, for that matter.

She closed her eyes, and instantly he was there, as he’d been the night before. Kissing her, touching her, making her whole body sing as though he were a maestro, capable of playing her to perfection.

Give me ten minutes and I’ll arrange it.

She sat up straighter, her pulse suddenly hammering in her body. She stared at her phone, in a state of surprise. As much as she was craving him, and what they’d done last night, she hadn’t thought for a second he’d want to see her so quickly. Or that she’d want that, too.

But the truth was, the idea of meeting up with him again answered something inside of her that had been thrumming in her body all day. A craving and need she’d done everything she could to blot out. Not hard, when the Moricosian project she was overseeing was turning to shit before her eyes.

She tapped a finger against the edge of the bathtub, wondering if she should say ‘no’.

Tell him another night would be better for her.

She was exhausted, and hungry, and the bath was heaven for her over-used muscles.

And yet, even as she wondered that, she knew she wouldn’t.

How could she? What he was offering was what she’d secretly been needing all day—and if anything, the rigors of her day only made her need that more.

The distraction.

The euphoria.

The feeling that no matter what went wrong, knowing there was someone on earth who could make her feel so sublimely satisfied was somehow the perfect antidote.

She was still prevaricating about her response—knowing what she wanted and somehow couldn’t bring herself to admit—when another text buzzed in from him.

I’ve booked the Plaza. I’ll leave a key at the front desk for you.

She bit into her lower lip, hiding a small grin of appreciation. Her family owned several high-end hotels, three of them in Manhattan, yet he hadn’t booked into one of those.

Then again, even that made sense. Wasn’t it more likely they’d be seen—or talked about—if they booked into a Valentino hotel? Besides, it was the last place a Santoro would ordinarily be seen. Of course he’d chosen neutral ground.

She placed her phone down and took her time. While she knew how much she wanted to be with him again, some deeply-held sense of self-preservation told her that she shouldn’t let him see that. That she shouldn’t be admitting it to herself, much less him.

Even when he’d messaged and organized everything, thus showing that he felt the same way.

She felt somehow vulnerable, knowing how quickly he’d worked his way under her skin.

And if she stopped to think about the fact he was the first man ever to make her want to the point of insanity, she might run a thousand miles from him.

If she was even capable of that anymore…