The problem with castles is that they’re built to keep invaders out and the occupants safely in.
Which means they’re annoyingly short on doors.
The few I do find are huge, made of thick wood fortified with iron, and locked. I could get one of the axes from the Wall of Death and try to chop my way out, but I don’t have the energy. After wandering around for the better part of an hour, I finally give up and ascend a narrow winding stone staircase to a second floor. The staircase opens to a wide corridor lined with potted palms and ornate console tables, with the occasional ancient suit of armor standing vigilant in niches in the stone wall just to give you that warm, snuggly feeling of home.
The first room I come upon is a library. It’s got overstuffed sofas and chairs, a cavernous fireplace at each end of the room, and heavy wooden bookcases fronted with glass that rise nearly to the ceiling. It looks like as good a place as any to hide for a while, so I flop into a tufted leather chair that could fit the Jolly Green Giant quite comfortably and stare morosely at my feet.
The stupid chair is so big they dangle off the edge like a kid’s, not even touching the ground.
I’m there no more than five minutes when one of the uniformed ladies I saw in the kitchen enters the room carrying a large tray. Approaching, she smiles at me and says something in Italian.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t, um . . . no comprende Italiano.” I realize that was some kind of botched Spanish, but I’m hoping she’ll get the gist.
She shrugs, as if she couldn’t care less either way, and sets the platter on the coffee table in front of me. When I smell freshly baked bread, I perk up in my giant seat.
The nice lady pulls off the napkin covering the tray with a flourish and gives me an overview of everything on the tray, pointing out various breads, meats, and cheeses, and looking at me every so often to make sure I’m following.
Totally lost, I nod politely. I really need to learn that damn language.
When she’s done, she asks me about something to do with the word vino.
Now she’s talking. “Um . . . Chianti?”
It’s the only Italian word I can think of other than vino that has to do with wine, but apparently it’s enough because she nods briskly, says something I interpret as she’ll be right back, then leaves.
I stare at the tray with my mouth watering. As long as I’m here, I might as well let the asshole feed me.
Before I can dig in, the telephone on the side table next to my giant chair rings. I hesitate, looking at it. There’s an electronic readout beneath the buttons that displays “Stanza di sicurezza.”
Sicurezza. Secure? Security?
On a whim, I decide to answer. Maybe it will be someone important trying to get hold of Matteo, and I can helpfully inform them that Matteo isn’t available due to his unfortunate admittance into rehab. Or prison.
“Moshi moshi.”
There’s a pause, then Matteo’s voice comes over the line. “I see you’ve been to Japan.”
Of course he would know how they answer the phones in Japan. He’s probably got a castle over there, too, the prick. “I’m sorry, Matteo isn’t available at the moment. He’s busy being a horrible human being. If you want to catch him when he’s not being a massive asshole, you’ll have to call back when pigs fly and hell has frozen over.”
“You should try the chair next to the fireplace. It’s a more appropriate size for you.”
I look around suspiciously but don’t spot him lurking in any doorways. “Where are you?”
“In the security room. Looking at you on a video screen.”
I glance at the ceiling. Sure enough, there are two security cameras affixed on opposite ends of the room. I flip them both off and hang up the phone.
It rings again almost immediately. I look up at the ceiling and shake my head. After a moment, the phone falls silent. Good. He got the hint. I turn my attention to the platter of meats and cheeses. It looks fantastic. There are some dried fruits, too, and nuts, and some of that really yummy—
The phone starts to ring again.
I realize this could go on for quite a while. I’m starving, so I give in and pick up. “What?”
In a low, heartfelt voice, he says, “I hate seeing you unhappy.”
“Are you bipolar? Is that the root issue here?”
“No. I’m telling you the truth—I hate seeing you unhappy.”
“You can repeat that until the cows come home, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re perfectly willing to be the source of my unhappiness. One of the sources, anyway.”
I hear him exhale. In a lighter tone, he says, “Where do you think that saying originated?”
Confused, I make a face. “What?”
“Until the cows come home.”
I sigh heavily, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Being around you is enough to drive anyone insane, you know that?”
His voice gets quiet again. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Seriously?” I grip the receiver so hard it could crack. “Stop it, then!”
“I can’t.”
I hang up, then take the receiver off the hook so he can’t call back. In a few minutes, the nice lady returns with an open bottle of wine and a glass already filled. She sets the bottle on the coffee table next to the platter of food and hands me the glass.
“Ecco.”
“Thank you. Um, grazie.”
She folds her hands over her apron, tilts her head, and examines me. Then she launches into a long and impassioned speech—about what I have no idea, because it’s all in Italian.
At the end of it she sighs. Then, in English, she says, “But he’s worth it.”
She pats me on the shoulder, then turns around and leaves.
I guzzle the glass of wine and pour myself another.
I remember nothing else until I wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like a homeless person took a dump in it.
Lifting my head sends spikes of pain shooting through the back of my skull. I crack open an eye and look around the room. Where am I? And how did I get here?
Cavernous yet cozy, the room is fit for a king. The ceiling is dark wood, crossed by thick beams. A circular iron chandelier hangs in the middle. The stone walls are warmed by colorful tapestries and framed landscapes in oils. Scattered over the floor are half a dozen thick tasseled area rugs. The furniture is also dark wood, heavy and masculine, and the fireplace is so big you could burn an SUV in it.
The massive four-poster bed I’m lying in is carved with elaborate scenes from a fox hunt. I find that vaguely disturbing.
Slightly more disturbing is the sight of Matteo asleep in a chair beside the bed.
He’s sitting up, fully dressed, including his shoes. He’s loosened his tie, but that’s the only evidence he tried to get comfortable. His head is tilted back, exposing the strong line of his throat, and his hair is a little mussed, as if he were running his hands through it.
On the bedside table sits a glass of water and two aspirin.
As if he sensed me looking at him, his eyes flutter open. He turns his head and looks at me. His face is sleepy and soft, and his gaze is warm and hazy.
So this is what you look like when you wake up.
When he smiles, my heart hurts even more than my head.
His voice thick with sleep, he asks, “How do you feel?”
“Like shit. What happened?”
He stands, stretches his neck, then picks up the aspirin and holds them out to me. “You drank an entire bottle of wine in under thirty minutes, then passed out. Take these.”
I allow him to tip the aspirin into my open palm. Then he hands me the glass of water. “Drink.”
I pop the aspirin into my mouth and swallow some of the water, then hold the glass out for him to take. He shakes his head.
“Bossy,” I grumble, and gulp a few more swallows of water.
When I hold out the glass this time, he takes it from my hand. He finishes what’s left in it, sets it on the bedside table, and removes his suit jacket. He drapes it over the chair he was sitting in, unfastens his cuff links, and rolls up his sleeves.
Why do I find that so damn sexy?
Angry with both of us, I roll over onto my other side and burrow under the covers.
In a moment the mattress dips. Then I get his strong hands on my shoulders, kneading my aching muscles. It feels so good I groan.
He works his fingers between my shoulder blades, coaxing the knots until they relax. Then he squeezes my neck and rubs the base of my skull with his thumbs. I groan again, more faintly.
“Feel good?”
“I hate you,” I mutter into the pillow.
He says softly, “I know.”
His fingers work their way down my spine. His touch isn’t sexual, only soothing, but of course my reproductive tract engages in an elaborate mating dance complete with drums and chanting. My head throbs in time with the pounding of the drums.
“How did I get here?”
“I carried you.”
I try to picture that but can’t. He doesn’t appear to have any major muscle strains, so maybe when he says “carried” he means “dragged.” Maybe he had one of the nice kitchen ladies bring up a cart so he could take me to . . .
Wait. Oh no. “Is this your bed?”
He must feel the sudden tension in my muscles because he chuckles. “I’ll say no if it makes you feel better.”
Oh my God. I’m in my stepbrother’s bed. Ex-stepbrother. Bastard ex-stepbrother. Smoking hot, insanely sexy, arrogant, THIEF ex-stepbrother.
Shit.
I should’ve known. The pillow smells like him. Stupid pillow.
I bury my face into it and suck in a deep breath. Delicious.
The bed dips again. An arm slides under my neck. A broad chest warms my back, and a pair of strong thighs pulls up behind mine.
“Don’t freak out,” he says as I start to freak out. “I don’t take advantage of incapacitated women. I just need to rest my eyes for a minute. I was up most of the night watching to make sure you weren’t dying.”
He stayed up to watch over me? That’s either the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard or a fabulous line of bullshit.
I get distracted from my contemplation of which one it might be due to the strong, steady thudding of his heartbeat between my shoulder blades. Then his other arm winds around my middle, and he pulls me gently against his body, fitting us perfectly together like a pair of Russian nesting dolls.
My swallow must be audible because he chuckles again.
“Bella. You think too much.”
“I’m trying to decide how weird this is.”
“On a scale of one to ten, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Zero,” he says confidently.
“But I’m mad at you.”
His sigh is a big gust of warm air down the back of my neck. It gives me goose bumps.
“You’re not mad. You’re hurt. There’s a difference.”
“Believe me, Count Egotistico, I’m mad.”
He starts to gently massage my neck again. The bastard.
When I grumble into the pillow, he says quietly, “It’s all going to work out. I promise.”
“Don’t ever say the P word to me again. The next man who says the P word to me is gonna get a major beatdown.”
“So violent,” he whispers. I can hear the smile in his voice.
“You should believe me. I’m super scary.”
“Oh I know. I saw what you did to blondie’s face.” His voice darkens. “It’s an improvement.”
We’re quiet for a while. When he doesn’t do anything alarming, I slowly begin to relax. It’s deeply strange to be cuddling with Matteo, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is I’m determined he’s my enemy. I never would’ve given him my sketch pad at the airport if I’d known who he was. And now he’s blackmailing me to get it back, for the love of all that’s holy.
My uterus decides this is a good time to interject an opposing viewpoint: But look how supportive he was at the funeral! And how protective he was when Brad showed up!
My ovaries chime in: And he watched you while you were sleeping so you wouldn’t die!
“That was a very sad-sounding sigh. Care to share?”
I pick at the blanket, which feels like a cross between silk, velvet, and a newborn’s bottom. I’ve never felt anything as soft. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a breath for courage. “So this offer of yours about getting my sketch pad back.”
Matteo’s hand falls still on my shoulder. I feel a new tension in him, then I feel him suppress it and force himself to relax. He waits patiently, seemingly calm, but his body betrays him. Between my shoulder blades, his heartbeat has started to pound like mad.
I think he really, really wants me to take him up on his offer. A flush of heat creeps into my cheeks.
When I’m quiet too long, he prompts, “What about it?”
There’s a hint of impatience in his tone, and now the flush in my cheeks spreads to other parts of my body, far away from my face.
I clear my throat. “How do I know you won’t use the designs even if I do agree to your . . . terms?”
Twenty-four kisses. Hot-as-fuck, panty-melting, toe-curling kisses. I try not to shiver at the thought.
“I’ll give you a page back every time.”
I frown at the thought of him handing me pages ripped and wrinkled, torn from the pad. “You could’ve already made copies of everything.”
“I haven’t. And I won’t. And I’ll destroy any dress we’ve made when I give you its sketch back.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Short of saying the P word, how can I convince you?”
I try to think of something that would affect him as much as his using my designs in his collection would affect me. What would really get his goat? What would make him feel exactly as betrayed, angry, hurt, and powerless?
In a moment of brilliance, it comes to me. “I’ll tell your mother everything.”
Silence.
“She might not believe me, but—”
“She’ll believe you.”
He says it as if it’s a foregone conclusion she’d take my word over his, even though she met me mere days ago and we haven’t exactly become the best of friends. My intuition tells me I’ve stepped into all kinds of sticky, smelly ancient family poop, so deep I’d need an earthmover to get to the bottom of it.
Of course that makes me insanely intrigued and want to dive right in.
Aiming for nonchalance, I say, “You’ve blackmailed other designers before me, hmm?”
“No. She just doesn’t expect me to be anything but disappointing.”
That’s so unexpected I have no response. Disappointing? Her handsome, respectful, successful son is a disappointment to her?
I become convinced there’s a terrible, dark secret in his background that his mother had to cover up. Like an accidental death or a gnarly history of drug abuse. Some horrible scandal had to be hidden so they could continue to hold their heads high in the aristocratic circles they run in.
Maybe that’s why he’s always so quick to defend her honor! She holds the keys to his skeleton closet!
Or maybe it’s more mundane than that. Maybe he’s more like Brad than I realized. Not the gay thing—there’s no way Matteo is batting for the other team. No, the gambling, running-up-debts, besmirching-the-family-name-with-douchebaggery thing.
Oh God. Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to him. Maybe I have a type. Men Who Seem Like Catches but Are in Fact Giant Lying Pieces of Shit.
This is an awful realization, like finding out Santa Claus is a lie. I wonder if I should try being a lesbian?
“What are you thinking?”
My mouth is ahead of my brain. “About becoming a lesbian.”
Without missing a beat, Matteo says, “You’d make a terrible lesbian.”
“I think I’d make a great lesbian!”
“You like dick too much.”
My face flames with heat. “I don’t like dick any more or less than the next girl.”
His arm tightens around me. Into my ear he says in a husky murmur, “Yes, you do. You just haven’t ridden the right dick yet.”
I want to fan myself, but I’m too busy hiding my face in the pillow. I have no idea how we went from revealing painful family dynamics to riding dicks so quickly, but here we are.
He punctuates his statement with a soft kiss on the nape of my neck. It sends a little tremor throughout my body, which he evidently knew it would because his chuckle is so smug I want to strangle him.
“You’re an awful person.”
“And yet you want me.”
“We’re back to that line? Your ego has its own atmosphere, you know that? God, I wish vanity were painful.”
“I’m not vain, I’m merely stating the facts.”
“Please stop talking now. You’re making me want to commit murder.”
His chest shakes with the laughter he’s trying to suppress. “Remember what I told you about love and hate, bella. Two sides of the same coin.”
He renders me useless by starting to massage my skull. It’s heaven. His hands are big and strong, and the pleasure makes my eyes cross. I sigh again, caught between wanting to stand up and smother him with the pillow and wanting to live the rest of my life in this bed.
“Don’t you have to go to work? It’s Monday.”
“I will. Eventually. Right now I’ve got more important things to do.”
“Hmpf.”
He whispers, “Go back to sleep.”
“Like I could.”
“Why not?”
“Gee, let’s see. We’re in your bed, for starters.”
“Fully clothed. Which is how we’ll stay.” Pregnant pause. “Unless you’re planning on undressing me.”
“Shut up.”
His fingers slide around my head and start to massage my temples. I make a noise like a pig digging for truffles.
“At least let the aspirin get to work. When you feel better, I’ll drive you home. Then, later on or tomorrow, you can let me know what you decide about my offer.”
It could be my imagination, but something in his voice makes me think he knows I’ve already decided to say yes.
Well, he’s not the only one with a dastardly plan.
I knew this was gonna get ugly.