Just props, to make this engagement appear real.
He coughed, to alert Tallulah to his presence, his throat so dry it felt like sandpaper.
She spun round, clutching a small purse. The jacket had no buttons, revealing the gown’s bodice, a concoction of satin and transparent lace which cupped her breasts—drawing his attention to the petal-soft skin of her cleavage, far too much of which was on display.
Che cazzo?
Raw desire burst through his veins—like a river in full flood, swelling the heat in his groin and making him stiffen with a devastating combination of shock, awe and possessive fury.
Although the cocktail gown was undoubtedly stylish, it was nothing short of indecent. Tallulah Whittaker had been transformed from the artless girl he recalled—in muddy jeans and a shapeless shirt—into a sex goddess to rival La Loren herself in her heyday.
What the hell had the stylist been thinking, dressing a woman who belonged to him in an outfit that would display her charms to every other man within a ten-mile radius?
Except she is not yours, Lorenti. This is just for show.
The voice of reason whispered in his head but was drowned out by the thunder of blood in his ears, which was heading south so fast it was making him light-headed.
‘Mr Lorenti,’ she murmured, her voice unsteady, unsure. ‘Is everything okay?’
Her lips glistened in the twilight as she spoke, painted with some kind of gloss. The fierce desire to cover that wide mouth with his and thrust his tongue deep made his temper flare alongside the lust.
He marched across the terrace, only vaguely aware of the stiffness in his leg.
She blinked, the glittering make-up on her lids making her wide eyes look even bigger and more guileless. The deep blue of her irises matched the clinging fabric of her dress, which seemed even more indecent the closer he got.
He paused. The shocked awareness on her face reminded him of that artless girl in battered jeans and a shapeless shirt. Her wide-eyed reaction and the familiar grinding pain in his leg were enough to contain the fire in his gut from burning out of control…just.
‘You don’t like the dress?’ she asked, clutching the purse too tightly, then bit into her bottom lip, sending another devastating shaft of heat to his already heavy cock.
He forced himself to breathe, and stop glaring, although he could not be held responsible for the furrow on his brow which was fast becoming a crater.
‘It is more revealing than I expected,’ he said, on a growl of disapproval.
She tensed as if she’d been struck.
And his anger returned. Although he knew the cause of his displeasure wasn’t only disapproval of her attire, or not precisely. That would have been so much easier to handle. No, he was glowering at her because of the dawning realisation that he was going to struggle to keep this relationship professional for a week, let alone a year. The urgent, animalistic desire barely concealed by his tux jacket had already made him lose sight of what this damn arrangement had been supposed to achieve.
‘It’s not appropriate for the opera?’ she asked, her concern obvious as she glanced at the dress and smoothed a trembling hand over the short skirt.
Fuck the opera! I don’t wish anyone to see that much of you, except me.
The reply roared in his head, but he managed to prevent it from flying out of his mouth, barely aware not only that it would sound deranged, but that it was also unprecedented. Since when did he give a damn how much skin his dates had on display?
Concern shadowed her wide blue eyes, while her lip trembled.
He ground his teeth to get a grip on his reaction.
This wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t picked the damn dress—that would have been the stylist he’d paid a small fortune for.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t…’ she mumbled, looking panicked. ‘Madame Rosa said this style is all the rage. Do you want me to change?’ she asked. ‘There’s about a thousand other dresses in my luggage. I’m sure I can find something less revealing.’
But as she went to rush past him, he clamped a hand on her wrist. Raw sensation ricochetted up his arm, reminding him of when he’d touched her before. And the spark of arousal flared.Terrific.
‘Wait,’ he grunted, his tone sharp with demand, as he struggled to control his febrile reaction. ‘There is not time.’
He could make time, of course. He owned a corporate box at the opera house, and if they arrived late, it would only make their story more convincing. Everyone would assume he had been availing himself of his fiancée’s undeniably spectacular charms. But the violent need coursing through his system made it clear to him that he had to get out of this apartment. Because controlling the yearning to discover exactly what was under that damn dress was already tormenting enough.
‘Are you sure? It’s no trouble, Mr Lorenti. It’s not really my style anyway…’
