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She drew in a deep breath. ‘Okay. You’re right. Let’s go in. I’m ready now.’
‘Take my arm.’
She hesitated. ‘I’m not—’
‘Take it,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘Anything is preferable to spending the night in the emergency department if you’re genuinely afraid of tripping over on those killer heels.’
That did make her smile, and she nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks.’
But Salvatore could feel the nervous pressure of her fingers as they ascended the marble stairs leading into the famous Westchester Hotel, in a flurry of flashbulbs. He didn’t know why she was so worried about her appearance, not when she looked so arresting. In fact, he’d barely recognised her, and not just because her hair had been intricately fashioned on top of her head, drawing his attention to her delicate profile and the graceful line of her neck. He’d found himself thinking that the style was light years away from the billowing curls which had flowed from beneath her dusty crash helmet as she had ridden away in the Sicilian sunshine. That young woman had been replaced by a sophisticated socialite with darkened lashes and provocatively gleaming lips. He’d never seen her wearing make-up before, just as he’d never seen her voluptuous body sculpted in a way which seemed to have made her exceptional curves
disappear. She no longer looked like the vibrant woman he had seduced—more like an identikit version of the type of partner who usually graced his arm.
Did that make her more or less desirable? He couldn’t quite decide. It certainly made her seem more...manageable.
He could hear the ripple of interest from the milling crowd as they entered the ballroom and every head in the place turned to look at them, though that came as no surprise. His appearance at this kind of events always excited fascination—though never more so than when he had a new woman in tow. The press were always trying to marry him off—as were the matrons who had once spent so much time trying to shield their daughters from him. Yet there hadn’t been a woman on his arm for a long time. There had been speculation that his heart had been broken or that he was conducting an affair with a married woman, but neither of these were true.
The reason for his lack of a partner he put down to a growing cynicism about the way his fortune impacted on those around him, especially women. It had at first made him feel deeply uncomfortable, and then to grow exceedingly bored by the predictability of it all. He’d discovered that as his wealth grew, so his lovers had started going out of their way to accommodate him. To be understanding and undemanding. They made sure they were up to date on current affairs and knew a healthy amount about his various businesses. He’d noticed too that they became increasingly daring in the bedroom—or out of it. No matter how high-powered their working lives, at the end of the day they’d all seemed cast from the same mould. They suggested newfound erotic diversions alongside their determination to craft the perfect mille-feuille pastry, as if by combining all these attributes and presenting them to him in a sleek and very sophisticated package it would make them the perfect wife material.
But he wasn’t looking for a wife. He never had been. To him, marriage had always seemed something to avoid. And even though some of his best friends had recently succumbed—Lucas Conway and Matteo Valenti being two cases in point—Salvatore’s fixed stance on matrimony hadn’t altered. He suspected that his distrust of women had been the reason why he’d been so susceptible to a brief fling with someone like Lina—a simple country girl who seemed to possess no airs or graces. That night with her had been the first time in a long time that he’d felt control slipping away, and it had disturbed him. And he had succumbed to her again during the flight from Sicily, despite his determination to resist her.
But he had clawed back that temporary loss of control, hadn’t he? He hadn’t kissed her after dinner last night, despite his overwhelming desire to do so. He had concluded that maybe he would wait a little longer before he made love to her again, but when he’d called for her tonight and seen her dressed up and ready to go out, his resolve had wavered, big-time.
He wanted her.
He wanted her now.
‘Salvatore?’
Lina’s soft Sicilian accent broke into his thoughts and Salvatore focussed his attention on the fractured light from one of the chandeliers which was painting rainbow hues over the dark coils of her hair.
‘What?’
‘Is that Siena Simon over there?’
He glanced across the ballroom in the direction of her gaze, where a glamorous woman in a pale dress was surrounded by an adoring group of younger men. ‘Yes,’ he said absently. ‘What of it?’
‘Gosh.’ Lina felt a flare of disbelief as Salvatore confirmed that one unbelievable fact—because the world-famous American dress designer had long been a hero of hers. Everyone in Sicily went wild for SiSi clothes, though not many people could afford to buy the real thing. ‘I’d love to meet her.’
Salvatore flickered her a brief smile. ‘Then why don’t you go up and say hello?’ he suggested softly.
‘I can’t just walk over there and introduce myself!’
‘Why not? You can do anything you set your heart on. It’s called networking and it’s what you have to do if you want to get on in the big city. Go on.’
His tone was weirdly encouraging but Lina’s heart was in her mouth as she walked across the ballroom and hovered nervously on the edge of the circle until one of the flamboyant young men noticed her and drew her in. And that was when she was introduced to Siena Simon. Clad in a sculpted cream gown, the international designer was gracious as she extended her hand, though her gaze kept flickering to the little velvet bag which was dangling from Lina’s arm. And even though Lina wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, she found herself confiding that SiSi clothes were the most popular rip-offs on Sicilian market stalls, and Siena actually laughed.
‘That’s good to know,’ she murmured, in her soft American drawl. ‘And don’t they say that imitation is the best form of flattery?’
After that, her confidence boosted, Lina met loads of people. To her surprise, the evening passed in a blur of chatter, champagne and a very fancy dinner—during which she was seated between an Australian entrepreneur and an actor called Sean MacCormack, who was apparently a big star on a daytime soap she’d never even heard of. At first she was so nervous she could barely get a word out and terrified that her Sicilian accent would make her difficult to understand. But both men were absolutely charming, and Sean told her she was welcome to go and watch him filming any time she wanted. When dinner ended, the band began to strike up a tune at the far end of the ballroom and Lina’s heart gave a predictable punch of excitement when Salvatore returned to her side.
‘Can we go now?’ she asked him.
He seemed surprised. ‘Are you sure? The dancing is about to start.’
‘I know that.’
‘So let’s dance.’
