Ache For You

23

It doesn’t take a genius to know that the potential buyer has arrived. The faint blush of color rising in the marchesa’s marble-pale cheek gives proof of her excitement. There’s a gleam in her cyborg-blue eyes, too, the mercenary. If I didn’t already know my father left his business to me, I’d assume her sudden good mood had to do with the prospect of money. I’m confused and instantly on guard.

But then I figure it out. She must have made a deal with this buyer, whoever he or she is. Yes—that’s it! She made some kind of back-end deal where she’ll get a referral fee, or maybe even a percentage! I smile grimly. Not so fast, WS. You might think I’m a dumb American, but you’ve got another—

“Ciao, Mamma,” says a voice.

That voice.

Shocked, I whip my head around. And there he stands, all hunky, cocky six-and-a-hella-sexy-inches of him, dressed in a drop-dead gorgeous navy suit and his usual air of entitled superiority.

Euro Hunk. In the flesh.

The marchesa says, “Ciao, Matteo. Come in, son.”

Oh, dear God in heaven, you are one sick mofo.

Because not only is the man standing in the doorway the man who took the inspiration for my entire spring collection. Not only is he the man who gave me his ticket so I could get to this country before my father died. Not only is he the man who propositioned me—twice—and inspired lust in me the likes of which I’ve never felt.

He’s also my stepbrother.

Why does God hate me?

TEN

When those aquamarine eyes slice to mine, I can tell by the look in them that he’s as shocked as I am. He’s stunned speechless and simply stands staring at me with his lips parted and his eyes wide until the marchesa clears her throat.

“Matteo, this is Kimber. Luca’s daughter.”

After a beat, Matteo recovers his wits. “We’ve met.” He walks slowly toward me, his gaze trapping mine. When he’s a few feet away, close enough for me to smell his cologne, he stops. In a low voice, he says, “Your father was a wonderful man. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Electricity jolts through me. Oh my God. Of course he knew my father! His mother was married to him!

“You’ve already met?” says the marchesa, confused.

Matteo stares at me with such burning intensity I’m surprised the room doesn’t burst into flames.

I whisper, “Your son is the reason I was able to see my father before he died.”

What are the odds? What are the ever-loving odds? What kind of universal mind fuckery is this?

The marchesa says something to Matteo in Italian. He responds in kind, keeping his gaze locked to mine. I can tell he thinks this coincidence is anything but convenient, but I’m not sure if he’s angry or simply surprised.

Then it dawns on me that the reason he wanted my sketch pad wasn’t because he was an art collector.

“Wait,” I say, horrified. “You knew about ruching. You told me to add ruching to the sketch of the dress I was drawing. And your clothes . . .” I stare at his gorgeous bespoke suit, and it all comes together with the speed of two fingers snapping.

He’s a fashion designer.

Outraged, I leap to my feet and glare at him. “If you use any of the designs I gave you, I’ll sue you so fast your head will spin!”

His burning gaze doesn’t flinch, but a grim little smile curves his lips. “Faster than your mood swings?”

“Those are my designs!”

“Incorrect. They’re mine. As you just said, you gave them to me.”

“Under duress! From necessity!”

“So you don’t think it was a fair trade? You’d rather have your sketch pad back than to have seen your father before he died?”

That’s so ruthless I gasp. In a low, shaking voice, I say, “You son of a bitch.”

The marchesa intervenes before I can find something to stab her son with. “I don’t quite understand what’s happening, but let’s all calm down, shall we?”

“Lady, I’m so far from calm I’d have to send out a search party to find it.” I point at Matteo. “Why didn’t you tell me the buyer was your son?”

She’s placid in the face of my fury, folding her hands at her waist and gazing at me in cool composure. “Why does that make a difference?”

“Gee, where should I start?” I say bitingly. “It’s a pretty crafty way to get your hands on some of Papa’s money, I’ll give you that.”

Her lips thin to a s***h of plum that looks like a stab wound. “I would never have mentioned the sale to Matteo if he weren’t capable of handling the business and honoring Luca’s artistic vision. The House of Moretti is among the most respected ateliers in fashion. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

She’s smug, the witch, because of course I’ve heard of it. Hell, everyone in fashion has heard of Moretti! They’re the hottest thing in the industry at the moment. But I won’t give either one of them the satisfaction.

“Can’t say that I have.”

Matteo crosses his arms over his broad chest and gazes at me from under hooded lids. I look back and forth between him and his mother, who’s wearing the exact same hard, emotionless expression.

Everything inside me says, f**k this.

The sale isn’t going to happen.

“Not that you’d care to know,” I say in a voice that sounds like I’ve swallowed a handful of gravel, “but my father’s last words to me were about you.”

A muscle in the corner of her eyelid twitches, but that’s all the reaction I get from the marchesa. I turn my gaze to Matteo.