First thing tomorrow morning, Madame Rosa was getting fired.
Chapter Six
TALI SETTLED INTOthe shadowy interior of the chauffeur-driven limousine, aware of Lorenti’s forceful—and disapproving—presence as he folded his tall frame into the seat beside her.
Clearly, she’d screwed up with the dress. Or rather, Madame Rosa had, because his reaction to it had been nothing short of disastrous. His gaze had been more searing on the apartment balcony, when she’d turned to find him standing behind her—looking totally devastating in the black tux—than it had been forty-eight hours ago in Wiltshire. But with none of the humour.
The nerves in her stomach tangled. Had she ever felt more hideously out of place in her entire life? She certainly didn’t think so. And she wasn’t talking about the butt-skimming skirt or the semi-see-through top of her opera outfit.
The truth was, she’d been horrified too, when she’d first seen what Madame Rosa was proposing she wear for the evening. The expensive designer couture was so unlike her usual style—which always leaned towards comfort and practicality. Even on the rare occasions when she took a night off work to go to the local pub she usually just shucked on a clean pair of jeans and a nice shirt. But an opening night at Milan’s legendary opera house was hardly quiz night at the Talbot Arms—so she had sucked up her discomfort and agreed to the stylist’s suggestion.
But once she’d seen her reflection in the mirror and Madame Rosa and the beautician Clara had complimented her profusely on her appearance, the knot in her belly had dissolved at least a little, despite her nerves.
Maybe she didn’t look like herself anymore, or the self she had always known, but the smoky, professionally applied eye make-up, the gleaming lip gloss, the gown’s chic style and expert detailing, the diamond drop earrings which dangled against her neck, the elaborate chignon the hairstylist had managed to tease her insane curls into…and those elegant heels! All of it had the wow factor, even she could see that… She’d felt exposed, sure, but also like she might have some chance of persuading Milan’s finest that Tali Whittaker had somehow caught the eye of a man as successful and compelling as the city’s foremost tech billionaire. So there was that.
But then Lorenti had arrived and instead of being wowed too by the efforts of the designer and the beautician and the hairdresser, he had looked startled and then…well, outraged. His gaze had raked over her, and those rich chocolate eyes had gone dark and stormy with discontent.
She’d been crushed, the anxiety tying her guts back into hard, greasy knots. Not least because his volatile reaction had also made the hot knot in her belly—which seemed to always be there whenever she was in his company—sink even further into her sex.
But as the chauffeur closed the door and the car drove off into the nighttime traffic, the bristling silence that reverberated around the luxury leather interior like a physical force had her crippling embarrassment and confusion giving way to dismay…and irritation.
Lorenti had hiredherto do this job. He’d even hired the stylist and the beautician and the hairstylist, or at least he was paying for them. In ten minutes—traffic allowing—they were going to have to pretend to be madly in love. And yet he was sitting on the opposite side of the car staring broodily out of the window at the crowds of stylish Italians, refusing to even look at her. Sulking, basically. If he wanted this arrangement to work, he was going to have to meet her halfway. He moved effortlessly through the circles of Europe’s elite—the people he was expecting her to impress—people whose lifestyle she knew sod-all about. If he wanted to persuade any of them she was his chosen bride, he was going to have to help. Because no way in hell could she pull this off on her own.
She cleared her throat to dislodge the lump of anxiety and forced herself to take the bull by the horns.
‘I’m sorry if you hate the dress, Mr Lorenti. But you’re going to have to look at me—and pretend you don’t hate it, and me in it—when we get to the opera. Or no one on earth is going to believe you want to touch me, let alone marry me.’
He turned towards her. His eyes flared, the chocolate brown turning to a molten gold. But weirdly what she saw in his gaze wasn’t the contempt she’d expected…but something much more confusing—and frankly, dangerous.
‘I told you to call me Dario,’ he said, but the clipped command was softened by the husky tone. His molten gaze coasted over her exposed skin like a physical caress and turned the weight between her thighs into a boulder. A very hot boulder. ‘And the issue is not that I hate the dress, but that I like it far too much.’
Finally, his gaze landed on her face, the heat in it as searing as the sensation now pulsing between her thighs.
‘No one will believe I do not wish to touch you, when the problem I currently have is how I am going to stop myself from stripping you out of that damn dress during three solid hours of opera.’
‘Oh…’ she murmured, shocked not just by his directness, and the harsh appreciation in his expression, but how it made sensation flare across her skin like wildfire. ‘Well, I guess that’s a good thing then. That it won’t be hard for you to pretend to…’
‘I will not be pretending.’ His lips twisted in a rueful smile that was almost as exhilarating as the heady leap in her heart rate. ‘But it will definitely be hard,’ he said, the deliberate double entendre somehow diffusing the tension, while also ramping it up to fever pitch.
Her gaze dropped to his lap entirely of its own accord. And she spotted a bulge in his lap, barely disguised by the loose-fitting suit trousers.
Leaning across the seat, he tucked a knuckle under her chin and lifted her gaze away from the evidence of his reaction. ‘Be careful, Tallulah, or I may test my resolve right here in the limousine.’
She blinked, aware of the flush scouring her cheeks. The erotic promise in his eyes was so potent, she crossed her legs instinctively—which instantly made matters worse, when the pulsing between her thighs became catastrophic.
‘And that would be bad?’ she murmured, the cheeky challenge coming out before she could stop it.
His brows lifted, and she knew she’d surprised him again, which felt oddly empowering. But then his lips curved. The urbane, arrogant smile was matched by the feral light in his eyes—which carried an erotic threat so potent the pulsing in her panties got worse.
‘That would be up to you,’ he said as his thumb trailed down her neck. The tantalising caress eased over her throat as she gulped, traced her collarbone, then dipped to skim across her breast and tease the tight bud of her nipple.
She gasped, the brutal dart of sensation at the light touch making her swollen clitoris throb so hard she was astonished she didn’t pass out.
‘Tell me you wish to explore our chemistry, Tallulah, and we can forget about the opera.’
Oh, yes please.
The thought blasted into her brain, but right behind it was the surge of panic when he added, ‘But be aware, it would change the terms of our arrangement. As once I have had you, I very much doubt I will want to let you go for a while.’
