Ache For You

20

“Is everything okay? My rent check cleared, right?”

“Yes, your check cleared. That’s not why I’m calling.”

When he draws a breath, my heart leaps into my throat. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I can tell by his heavy exhalation whatever he’s about to tell me won’t be good, but nothing can prepare me for the words that come out of his mouth.

“There’s been a fire.”

“A fire?” Panic like a chaos of wingbeats erupts inside my chest.

“The cause hasn’t been determined yet, but it’s bad. The whole block went up. I’m standing across the street as we speak. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your shop and everything in it is gone. There’s nothing left but ashes.”

I stand rooted to the spot, sick with disbelief, a high-pitched scream ricocheting inside my skull. My files, my computer, all the dresses I spent countless hours crafting so carefully are gone? My entire business has disappeared overnight?

This can’t be happening.

“Under the terms of your lease, you’re responsible for your rent until you’ve been cleared of any liability. I have no idea how long it’ll take the authorities to determine what happened, so”—he laughs uncomfortably—“I’m still gonna need another check on the first.”

And the hits just keep on coming.

EIGHT

MATTEO

I don’t believe in fate, but when I see her walk into the hotel bar, I can’t help but think something more than coincidence is at play.

She looks angry. Angry, fierce, and beautiful, like a vengeful goddess. All that black hair I’d like to wrap around my wrist spills over her shoulders in tangles. Her cheeks are red. Her eyes are wild. She exudes a dangerous, frantic energy, as if she recently escaped from prison.

“Matteo? Are you listening?”

“Excuse me for a moment, Antonio.”

Without another word, I rise from the table—the one I always sit at, the best one, in the back of the room—and stroll toward the bar.

She’s taken a seat at the end. Her back is to me. She drags her hands through her hair, props her elbows on the bar, then drops her head into her hands.

I stop beside her, admiring the way the lights glint blue in her hair. “You’re upset.”

She jerks her head up. When she sees me, her eyes widen. She stares at me with her lips parted and a look of disbelief on her face.

It quickly turns to fury.

“You,” she says, as if it’s a curse.

I smile down at her, enjoying everything about this moment, including how much she’d obviously like to stab me in the eye with a cocktail fork. “Buonasera, Miss Bobbitt. Cut off anyone’s c**k since I last saw you?”

She narrows her gorgeous green eyes at me. “The night’s still young.”

Stifling my laughter, I take the seat next to hers.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“In this bar?”

“In this city. But I do come here often for drinks.”

She exhales slowly, then says with quiet sarcasm, “Get a little lonely up in your castle, do you?”

“I’m never lonely,” I lie, holding her fierce gaze.

It’s unsettling how easily she pegged that, and how uncomfortable I am that she might think me weak. I can’t remember the last time I gave a damn about what someone else thought.

Until right now.

Moistening her lips, she looks me over like a warlord might look over a kingdom he’s about to invade. It’s electrifying.

“I want my sketch pad back.”

I smile at her. “Too bad you already traded it for a plane ticket.” Then I remember why she was so desperate to get on that flight. “How is your father?”

All the color drains from her face. She winces and turns away.

“I’m so sorry.” Moved by her pain, I’m overwhelmed by the sudden urge to take her in my arms. I have to fight to keep my hands by my sides. “If there’s anything I can do—”

She whips her head around. “You can give me back my damn sketch pad!” she says loudly, causing the bartender to turn and squint at us. When he sees it’s me she’s shouting at, he smiles, nods, and turns away.

“What will you give me in return?” I smile. “Since you enjoy bartering so much.”

Through gritted teeth, she says, “You know what—never mind.” She folds her arms over her chest and shakes her head, muttering darkly about people with stupid titles and men with oversize egos and various other things until I interrupt her.

“How long will you be in Florence?”

“None of your business.”

Dio mio, this attitude makes me hard. “I want to take you to dinner.”

She snorts. Somehow it sounds elegant. “No.”

That shocks me. Not only the finality of it, but the word itself: no.

Women don’t say no to me.

Ever.

My d**k throbs and lengthens, straining to get free from my trousers.

“Breakfast?”

“No.”

“Hmm. I suppose lunch is also out of the question?”

“I’m not interested in eating food with you, Count Egotistico.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not a count.”

“Yeah, I heard. Whoop-dee-do.”

I drop my voice and lean toward her. “So if you’re not interested in eating food with me, bella, what are you interested in doing with me?”

When she snaps her head around and glares at me, I look directly into her eyes. “Because we both know you’re interested in something. And so am I.”

A flush darkens her cheeks. She chews the inside of her lip. Something crackles in the air, as sharp as danger.

“I don’t do one-night stands.”

“How many nights will you be here?”