The car pulls up in front of a restaurant tucked into a narrow side street, all warm light spilling from arched windows. But Grant doesn't make a move to get out.
"Actually," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes my skin prickle with awareness, "I was thinking we could skip the restaurant. Have dinner at my hotel instead. I have a balcony that overlooks the river. We can have dinner brought up from the restaurant downstairs."
It's a terrible idea. Dangerous and reckless and exactly what I shouldn't do.
"Okay," I whisper.
The ride to the Portrait takes less than ten minutes. The hotel is as stunning as I imagined—all Renaissance elegance and understated luxury. Grant's hand finds the small of my back as we cross the lobby, a touch that feels both protective and possessive, and I'm sharply alert to every glance that follows us.
His suite is on the top floor.
Of course it is.
He unlocks the door and steps back, letting me enter first. The room—suite, actually—is breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Arno, the Ponte Vecchio visible in the distance, the city painted in shades of amber and rose as the sun sets. The furnishings are elegant, expensive, the kind of effortless luxury that comes from old money and excellent taste.
"This is—" I turn in a slow circle. "Grant, this is insane."
He shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over a chair. "It's just a room."
"It's about twelve of my hostel rooms."
His jaw tightens. "Emma?—"
"I'm just saying… it's beautiful." I move to the windows, looking out at the city. "I've just never?—."
I hear him move behind me, feel the heat of him a second before his hands settle on my shoulders. "Never what?"
I turn to face him, and the look in his eyes makes my knees weak. We're inches apart now.
"What are we doing?" I ask.
"I don't know." His hand comes up, cups my cheek, thumb brushing across my lower lip. "But I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the moment you looked up at me on that plane."
"Grant, this is crazy. My father?—"
"Isn't here. It's just you and me."
I should say no. Should remind him of all the reasons this is the worst idea ever. But his eyes are dark with want, and I've spent ten years wanting this man.
"Yes," I breathe.
He kisses me.
The kiss is slow at first, almost tentative, like he's giving me space to pull away. But I don't pull away. I lean in, my hands fisting in his shirt, and he makes a sound low in his throat that makes me melt.
His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the kiss deepens. He tastes like scotch and mint, and I can't get enough. My fingers find his hair, and he groans again, walking me backward until my back hits the wall.
"Tell me to stop and I will," he says against my mouth.
"Don't stop," I whisper. "Please don't stop."
His hands are everywhere—sliding up my sides, tangling in my hair, skimming down to grip my hips. I arch into him, and he tears his mouth away from mine to trail kisses down my neck, finding the spot where my pulse hammers.
"Tell me this is a bad idea, and I'll take you to dinner and we'll pretend this never happened," he murmurs against my skin.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "I don't want to pretend."
Something fierce flashes across his face. Then he's kissing me again, deeper this time, more demanding. His hands find the zipper of my dress, and he pauses.
