I laughed.
“I have no idea what you mean, but I’ll try.”
Her gaze drifted to my mouth. Her breathing hitched. Heat spread through me as I watched her eyes trace my body.
Suddenly, she snapped back to herself.
“You also can’t walk around the house without a shirt,” she blurted, cheeks flushed.
“What?”
“And you can’t wear that cologne you always use.”
I tilted my head, wetting my upper lip. Her eyes followed the movement.
“My cologne?” I asked. “You’re banning my cologne?”
“I am. And you can’t stare at me for more than five seconds.”
“Anything else?”
“And stop smiling. And no provocative laughing.”
I laughed out loud.
“Could you define provocative laughing?”
“Enrico,” she growled.
“So basically, I can’t exist in the same universe as you.”
“Take this seriously!”
I nodded solemnly.
“No shirt. No cologne. No looking. No smiling. No laughing.”
She sighed.
“And you? Any rules you want to add?”
A dry laugh escaped me.
“Valentina, you could wear a burqa, avoid me completely, say nothing—and I’d still want you exactly the same,” I said quietly. “There’s no rule in this world that would make me want you less.”
She froze, cheeks burning, eyes dropping.
Finally, she looked back up.
“Then I’m adding one more rule,” she said firmly. “You’re not allowed to say things like that.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
VALENTINA FERRARA
I took a deep breath, staring at my reflection in the large mirror of the presidential suite of the most luxurious hotel in São Paulo—the very one hosting the foundation’s event that night.
My life had twisted and turned so many times over the past decade that it would be strange if I weren’t exhausted.
