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“Juliet said you had a heart of ice.”
“Do you really think you’re the first woman to try to entrap Antonio?” Or me? Gio silently added, as he’d been played for a fool once, but he’d learned. He knew better than to trust a pretty face.
“I didn’t entrap anyone. I didn’t sleep with anyone. I find no pleasure in this, Signor Marcello. If anything, I’m horrified. I am not reckless. I do not fall in love with strangers, or make love to handsome wealthy Italian men. I have scruples and morals, and you are not someone I admire, and your wealth doesn’t make you appealing. Your wealth, though, can help a little boy who needs support.”
“So I’m to applaud you?”
“No. Just have a conscience, please.”
From the corner of his eye, Giovanni saw a photographer move, crouching as he crept forward, snapping away. His gut tightened, his chest hot with barely leashed anger.
He couldn’t believe she’d managed to draw him out of the palazzo and into this scene, a very public scene with witnesses everywhere.
With his position at the helm of the family business, he’d worked hard to keep personal affairs out of the news. It’d taken nearly a decade to restore his family’s fortune and his family’s reputation, but finally the Marcellos were a name to be proud of and a brand that garnered respect. It hadn’t been easy to redeem their name, but he’d managed it through consistent, focused effort. Now, in one reckless moment, this American was about to turn the Marcellos into tabloid fodder once more.
He wasn’t ready. He was still struggling to come to terms with his brother’s death and refused to have Antonio’s memory darkened, his name besmirched, by those consumed with greed. “This isn’t a conversation I intend to continue on the streets of Venice,” he ground out. He was usually so good at avoiding confrontations. He knew how to manage conflict. And yet here they were, staging an epic soap opera, just a block off the Grand Canal. It couldn’t be more public. “Nor am I about to let you abuse my family. If there is to be a story, I shall provide the story, not you.”
“It’s a little late for that, Signor Marcello. The story has been captured on a half-dozen different cameras. I guarantee within the hour you’ll find those images online. Tabloids pay—”
“I’m fully aware of how the paparazzi works.”
“Then you’re also aware of what they have to work with—me handing the baby to your employee, you chasing after me and now us arguing in front of my water taxi.” She paused. “Wouldn’t it have been so much easier to have just taken my phone call?”
His gaze swept her face. He felt an uneasy memory of another woman who looked very much like this American Rachel Bern...
Another beautiful brunette who had been exquisitely confident...
He pushed the memory of his fiancée, Adelisa, from mind, but her memory served a purpose. It reminded him of his vow that he’d never let a woman have the upper hand again. Fortunately, he knew that stories could be massaged, and facts weren’t always objective. Rachel had come to give the photographers a fantastic shot, something they could take to every newspaper and magazine, and Gio could help her with that. He could ensure the paparazzi photographers with their telephoto lenses had something significant to capture, something that would derail her strategy.
Giovanni pulled her to him, one arm locking around her waist, the other hand free to lift her face. Holding her captive, he cupped her chin and jaw, angling her face up to his. He saw a flare of panic in her eyes, the brown irises shot with flecks of green and gold, before he dropped his head, capturing her mouth with his.
She stiffened, her lips still, her breath bottling. He could feel her fear and tension and he instantly gentled the kiss. Although he’d reached for her in anger, he wasn’t in the habit of kissing a woman in anger.
Her mouth was soft and warm. Despite her tension, she was soft and warm and he pulled her closer, tipping her head farther back to tease her lips. He stroked the seam with the tip of his tongue, her mouth generous and pliant. A quiver raced through her, her body shuddering against him and he stroked the seam again, playing with the full upper lip, catching the bow gently in his teeth.
She made a hoarse sound, not in pain, but pleasure, and a lance of hot desire streaked through him, making him hard all over.
He deepened the kiss, her lips parting for him, giving him access to the sweet heat of her mouth. It had been months since he’d enjoyed a kiss half so much, and he took his time, the kiss an exploration of taste and texture and response. His tongue traced the edge of her upper lip and he felt her shudder, her mouth opening wider.
She tasted sweet and hot, but also surprisingly innocent, and his body throbbed, blood drumming in his veins. With his arm in the small of her back, he pulled her even closer, stroking her mouth, over her lower lip, and then finding her tongue, making her shiver again.
Her breathless sighs and little s
hivers whetted his appetite. It’d been a long time since he felt hunger like this. It had been a year and a half since he’d broken things off with his last mistress, and he’d spent evenings with different women since, but he hadn’t slept with any of them. How could he when there was no desire? Antonio’s death had numbed him to everything, until now.
Abruptly Gio released Rachel and took a step back, his pulse thudding hard and heavy, echoing the hot ache in his groin. She stood dazed and motionless, her brown eyes cloudy and bemused.
“That should give your photographer friends something intriguing to sell.” His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears. “It will be interesting to see what story the papers run with the addition of these news shots. Is it really about the baby? Or is this more? A lover’s quarrel, their passionate encounter, an emotional goodbye?”
She exhaled, her cheeks flushed with color, her eyes overly bright. “Why?” she choked.
“Because this is my city and my home, and you are the outsider here. If there is to be a story, it’s going to be my story, not yours.”
“And what is that story, Signor Marcello?”
“Let’s make this easier. It’s always best to keep the story simple. I am Giovanni—close friends and family call me Gio, and you may call me Gio—and I shall call you Rachel.”
“I prefer the formal.”
