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But Salvatore wasn’t looking for understanding or compassion. His needs were simply physical and Lina needed to cultivate a similar mindset if she wanted this to continue. And she did. Why let her own emotional vulnerability spoil her very first sexual relationship?
But even so...
He needed to understand that from now on she wouldn’t be a pushover. That he couldn’t just click his fingers to have Lina Vitale fall in with his plans. That he needed to respect her as well as desire her.
‘Tempting,’ she said. ‘But I can’t really afford the time right now.’
She saw his look of surprise.
‘You’re kidding?’
Lina shook her head. ‘I told you, I have a sewing machine to buy and materials I need to order so that I can make my handbags. I promised Siena I’d have three prototypes with her as soon as possible so I need to get on with that.’ Her smile was serene but maybe that was because her words were making her feel positively empowered. ‘And since you know the city better than I do, perhaps you could take me shopping?’
CHAPTER TEN
A RED LIGHT on Salvatore’s desk was flashing and the disembodied voice of his assistant echoed around the vast office.
‘Miss Vitale on three, Salvatore. Are you in, or out?’
It was a question his assistant had asked him many times in the past when a woman had called, and his answer would inevitably provide some clue about the state of whatever relationship he happened to be in. During those early days of heady sex, he was usually indulgent if a lover rang him at the office, although he never encouraged it. A couple of weeks in and he was prepared to be tolerant, but by the one-month mark he was inevitably irritated if he was disturbed—because by that stage there seemed little to say to a woman which couldn’t wait until later.
Yet with Lina it seemed to be different. It had been different from the start—and all the times in between. Like that surreal afternoon when she’d turned down the opportunity to go to bed with him—and had him accompanying her to bizarre fabric wholesalers, in areas of the city he hadn’t even realised existed.
And she had been true to her word about working hard. Each day she spent working in her little cottage before emerging blinking into the light like a little animal which had been underground, her eyes tired from sewing but with a look of immense satisfaction on her face as she sewed handbag after handbag.
Her hand-crafted wares had been snapped up by Siena Simon and, after a little questioning on his part—for Lina was nothing if not modest—he’d discovered they were creating something of a buzz, not just in San Francisco, but beyond.
Salvatore had been quietly impressed with her endea
vours, for there had only ever been one other woman he’d shared a living space with before Lina, and she couldn’t have been more different from his idle, entitled mother.
He was just perplexed that he seemed content spending more time with her than was usual with a woman. Was it because she was living on his property that he found himself unable to keep her at his preferred emotional distance? Or because she spoke to him exclusively in Sicilian dialect—a language which nobody else in his orbit understood? Their shared tongue locked them both in a private world which sometimes felt achingly familiar, yet, at others, darkly claustrophobic. He had expected to be bored with her by now. For the allure of the simple country girl to have become tarnished by exposure to the bright lights of the city, but to his surprise—though it hadn’t been a particularly welcome one—that hadn’t happened.
And his thoughts were growing increasingly troubled.
Because hadn’t he become faintly obsessed with the Sicilian dressmaker? Hadn’t he found himself endlessly fascinated by the way she slowly brushed those waist-length black curls, knowing he was watching her? Her eyes would sometimes meet his with the faintest hint of mockery lurking in their bourbon depths, as if in silent acknowledgement of his vehement demand that she never wear her hair up again.
Hadn’t he broken the rule of a lifetime and taken her to every damned tourist destination in town, watching almost indulgently while she cooed her way through each tour with breathless delight? And hadn’t her genuine enjoyment of San Francisco’s famous sights made him view his adopted city with a different, less cynical eye? Yet most of all, he relished those intimate moments when they were alone together and he could observe her soft wonder as he pleasured her. She never shut her eyes when he was inside her. That smoky bourbon gaze was always fixed unwavering on his. Sometimes the intimacy of that made him uncomfortable—sometimes not. All he knew was that her voluptuous body pleased him immensely, as did her generous nature. She never used sex as a weapon, or a bargaining tool as had happened in the past. In fact, she never asked him for anything. There had been no ‘casual’ references to diamonds or pearls. She hadn’t even hinted that she might like to use one of his cars. For a man who was forever being tapped for money, this was a first.
But Salvatore was discovering disturbing parallels between himself and his father. Because his father had been obsessed with his wife, hadn’t he? He’d let his hunger for her rule his life. And that had been his downfall. It had taken Salvatore a long time to realise why his mother had been so cruel to her husband, in a way which had impacted so negatively on all their lives. It had taken adulthood and his restless flight to America before he was able to work it out for himself, through his own relationships. Only then was he able to understand the inevitable power struggle which existed between a man and a woman, and how finely balanced it was. He’d discovered that some women despised men who loved too much and craved the ones who did not love at all. He’d had that demonstrated over and over again. His emotional indifference seemed to have inspired slavish adoration from the opposite sex. Or perhaps he was simply seen as a challenge. As a prize to be won.
Men who loved made themselves vulnerable, he realised.
And he was never going to be vulnerable again.
Wasn’t it time he proved that—not just to Lina, but to himself?
‘Salvatore?’ His assistant’s voice broke into his reverie. ‘Are you still there? Do you want me to put Miss Vitale through, or shall I tell her you’re in a meeting?’
Salvatore’s mouth tightened. And wasn’t it insane how disloyal it felt—to contemplate colluding with his assistant to tell a blatant untruth to Lina? She had never rung him at the office before, had she? What if she was in some kind of trouble—what if she needed his help? ‘Put her through,’ he gritted out.
‘Salvatore?’ Lina came on the line and just the way she said his name was like having cool water sprinkled on a heated brow.
‘Is something wrong?’ he demanded.
‘No, nothing’s wrong.’
Relief gave way to desire and he could feel it coursing through his veins, but infinitely more disturbing was the sudden race of his heart in response to her soft voice. ‘Then why are you calling me at the office?’ he growled. ‘I’m working.’
