The Marriage Trap

He held his patience. He’d been tempted to make an excuse to the older man, but the opportunity was too great. Still, he prayed Maggie played her part. “I’ll pass. Signore Ballini is a bit conservative, and I’m looking to make an impression. Perhaps you can play the part of the doting, silent wife?”



“Dare to dream.”



The hem of her dress flirted with her knees as she strolled leisurely through the square, seemingly enjoying the character of the ancient city he called home. The elaborate water fountain rose from the center of the square and set off the majestic columns and breezy, open spaces, accentuating the classic architecture.



As if sensing his thoughts, Maggie spoke. “Nick would go crazy here. The balance of nature with man-made objects always calls to him. Bergamo has such deep character. I can see how happy you were here growing up.”



He smiled. “Si. I adore living in America but must admit I’d never give up my childhood. Alexa would love it here, too. We host a very famous poetry event each year called Bergamo Poesia. Perhaps we can arrange a trip for them one day?”



Maggie stiffened and he cursed his mention of Alexa. Did she honestly think he lusted after her married friend? “Hm, convenient. Get her on your home turf with the lure of poetry. Just remember our deal, Count.”



He had no time to answer. They reached the Taverna del Colleoni & Dell’Angelo and after a brief chat with the waiter were led inside. The medieval-looking decor with the high vaulted ceilings elicited a murmur of approval from Maggie, and then they were seated in a cozy corner while Michael made the introductions.



Signore Ballini emitted the old-fashioned demeanor of an Italian gentleman. He enjoyed culture, travel, good food and wine, and beautiful women. He’d aged well, with a stylish salt-and-pepper cut, and he couldn’t resist flirting a bit with Maggie, who seemed to not only accept his compliments but genuinely enjoy them.



Michael’s breath loosened a bit as he straightened the knot on his royal-blue tie. Perhaps the evening would play out smoothly after all. They chatted about nonsensical items as the waiter discreetly served platters of food with an explosive array of textures and tastes. Grilled radicchio with earthy Gorgonzola, firm noodles flavored with porcini and blueberries, and shrimp sitting on a bed of polenta with saffron. The Valcalepio Rosso was a local wine rich and blunt on the tongue, and two bottles were quickly consumed over conversation.



“Signora, since you are from America, I am sure you have a career. Tell me what you do besides make Michael a happy man?”



The square-cut bodice of the rose dress slipped an inch and showed off just a hint of firm, high breasts. Her hair glimmered red under the play of light as the silky strands brushed her shoulders. “I’m a photographer,” she answered. “I’ve loved being behind the camera since I was young.”



The older man nodded with approval. “Do you shoot landscapes? Babies? Weddings?”



“Underwear for Calvin Klein, Cavalli, and many other well-known stylists. I fly to Milan often on business, so it was a wonderful opportunity to combine both business and pleasure on this trip.”



Michael held his breath, but Signore Ballini laughed in delight. “How refreshing. It is good to make your husband a bit jealous, no?”



She laughed with him and redirected the conversation back to business as she lustily groaned over the food. Neatly led into the dessert menu, she mentioned La Dolce Famiglia and its raging success, and like she planned it that way, Michael was able to go smoothly into his pitch.



Before long, espresso steamed hot and rich from tiny cups and he’d secured another meeting, in Milan. He was about to end the evening on a strong note when the careful building blocks shook in their foundation.



“I am trying to arrange a skiing trip in Aspen and having a terrible time with a villa,” Signore Ballini commented. “That awful American actress who owns a home there won’t return my calls. I read she will rent out her home to only the best. I guess an Italian is not good enough for her.”



Maggie razored in on the conversation. “Are you talking about Shelly Rikers?” she asked.



Surprise flitted across the older man’s features. “Yes. I refuse to watch any more of her movies. She is quite rude.”



“Actually, I know Shelly and she’s very personable.”



Michael clenched his wineglass as an awkward silence descended. Signore Ballini stiffened his spine and a new chill crept into his voice. “I would not know this, signora, since obviously she only deigns to speak with Americans.”



Michael opened his mouth to cut the dinner short, haul Maggie out the door, and hope to God the man didn’t cancel their meeting. “Maybe we should—”



“Don’t be silly, signore. Let me fix this for you.” She whipped out her flashy leopard cell, punched in numbers, and spoke briefly to someone on the other line. With a stunning efficiency, Michael watched while she spoke with three more people, firing orders and chatting nonstop. She paused and slid the phone away from her ear. “Signore, is the first week in September acceptable?”



The older man beamed. “Perfecto.”



“Yes, that is fine. Give Shelly my love and tell her I’ll call her when I arrive home. Thank you.”



She slid the phone back in her bag and smiled. “You are all set. I will make sure to give the information to Michael so you can set things up. I think it was all a misunderstanding. She is looking forward to seeing you.”



“Grazie. Not only beautiful, but efficient.”



Half in shock, Michael followed them out of the restaurant and said his good-byes. With a casual grace, his fake wife hooked her arm through his in an effort not to trip on the cobblestones and took a deep breath of the mild evening air. They walked in silence for a moment as he tried to wrap his brain around the reality of the situation.



“I thought you were going to screw that up for me,” he admitted.



Her tinkling laugh stroked his ears and other places. Places that hardened instantly and ached to be buried inside her. “I know. I thought I’d make you sweat first. It was fun watching your face while you tried to keep the conversation neutral. Did you really think I couldn’t handle myself in business situations, Count?”



The raw truth hit him full force. Yes. Because the alternate reality scared the crap out of him. If she wasn’t what she appeared, she was much more. A woman with soul and grit and passion. A woman of such charm and intellect she’d never bore a man. A woman worth more than one night.



A woman worth everything.



His heart hammered and her scent swarmed around him. She led him toward a gelato stand and ordered two chocolates, quickly paying and handing him the cup before he could protest. The center of the square fluttered with activity and couples hand in hand, and he let his worried thoughts slide away as he sank into the moment.



“See that fountain over there?” he asked.



“Yeah.”



“My friend Max and I came into the square one night and dared each other to go skinny-dipping.”



She quirked one brow. “No way. Did you do it?”



“Max did. I bribed him to first. Bare-ass naked he stepped into the fountain and one of our neighbors was out with his dog and caught us. He chased us out of the square, but Max had to leave his clothes behind.”



“What was the whole point of this male escapade?”



“To see who had bigger balls, of course.”



She laughed out loud, the sound spilling into the night, and he gazed down at her. A spot of chocolate rested at the corner of her mouth. Her face was open and soft in a way he’d never caught before. And without thinking, he lowered his head and kissed her.



Michael didn’t linger. Just captured her lips with his for one brief moment. Tasted rich chocolate, red wine, and warm female. She kissed him back and relaxed, giving herself to him on borrowed time. When they broke away, something had changed between them, but neither was ready to explore. She tossed her cup of gelato in the trash and they walked home the rest of the way in silence.



But Michael wondered if it was already too late to deny what was between them. Too late to believe this was still a no-strings, no-emotion fake marriage.



Chapter Seven



“Okay, Decklan. Drop ’em.”



His pants hit the floor. The harsh light accented the carved muscles under his oiled skin. The briefs hugged the critical parts and left the rest of his flesh proud and bare. Already Maggie’s mind clicked relentlessly about the best way to get the shot she needed, picking and discarding as she warmed up. These were a crop of new male models she worked with by invitation from the Italian designer, and they were a bit green around the edges.



Comfortable in her role, she let the pull of the camera take over. For a while, all thoughts shut off and she was captivated by the moment. She’d always been happier behind the lens than in front of it, as if the voyeur inside of her burst free and got permission to invade another person’s privacy while remaining safely distant. She liked to push barriers and comfort zones in order to get the perfect shot, and she never quit until she hit pay dirt.



Sweating under the hot lights, she called for a break and guzzled a bottle of water. Her makeup artist had whisked Carina away to transform her. Maggie still laughed at the expression on the young girl’s face when she got a glimpse of the half-naked men onstage—like a female set loose on a designer clearance sale. Hopefully, she’d gain a bit of confidence, have some fun, and Maggie could safely return her to Michael in a better mood.



The image of Michael pushing her against the wall, ripping open her top, and sucking on her breasts shuddered through her. Heat rushed and settled between her legs. What was going on with her? She’d never had such a strong reaction to a man. Attraction, yes. Raw, naked, crazy lust to jump his bones? No.



She’d been stupid, though. Hadn’t seen that move coming. The man distracted her with his comforting embrace. Men believed she hated cuddling, which she normally did, but when had a man even tried to hold her without sex getting in the picture?



The kiss last night was worse. Sweet, tender, and full of promise.



Maybe if she slept with him, this wanting would go away. It always did. Maybe one hot, sweaty night would flush him out of her system, and she could go on with the rest of the week without teenage hormones.



She finished her water and studied the lineup of three models. All bodily perfect. Oiled up. Ready to go. What was she missing?



The underwear was edgy and screamed designer. But if she didn’t do her job, it would look just like Calvin Klein and the rest of them and wouldn’t stand out. Damned if she’d have her work rated second class. Frustrated, she nibbled at her lower lip.



The expression on all three men’s faces suddenly changed. Maggie paused, then peeked behind her shoulder.



Wowza.



Carina stood before her. The makeup artist preened and Maggie took in the vision of a girl turned into a young woman. Her skin glowed as if lit from beneath, with light foundation and a hint of peach in her cheeks, and she had a touch of a smoky eye. Her pouty lips held a glossy sheen, both virginal and tempting. Her once frizzy hair now lay in neat, shiny ringlets surrounding her face, giving her a pop that forced people to pay attention. She still wore her jeans, but had traded her plain T-shirt for a red camisole over a gauzy shirt that emphasized the ripe swell of her breasts but still kept her modesty.