Ache For You

24

“And he gave me a piece of advice I didn’t realize would come in handy so soon. He told me not to give up when things get difficult. His exact words were ‘Dig in your heels.’ So this is me digging in my heels.”

I take a breath, amazed at what’s about to come out of my mouth. But what the hell. I’ve got literally nothing left to lose.

“I’m not selling the business. I’m going to run it myself.”

The marchesa sputters, “What?” but my attention is focused on Matteo.

Beautiful, ruthless Matteo, who bartered a plane ticket he could probably pay for a million times over for a sketch pad chock-full of inspiration for new designs for his clothing line.

I say acidly, “Oh, wait. I think I have heard of you—didn’t I read somewhere that the House of Moretti recently lost its head designer?”

He’s got an eye twitch like his mother’s. He says stiffly, “I am the head designer.”

My gaze rakes over his spotless suit, the platinum cuff links, the shoes made from the skin of veal calves massaged by virgins and hand stitched by a cloister of nuns singing hymns in a Tibetan mountaintop abbey. “Not really hands on, though, I’d guess. I can’t picture you with rolled-up sleeves, pinning cloth on mannequins, working deep into the night. Probably too busy running around with supermodels.”

The marchesa sniffs. “My son doesn’t date models.”

I lift my brows and look at her. “Do you pick out his underwear for him, too?”

Matteo barks, “Stop with the disrespect!”

My temper snaps. “Don’t you dare talk to me about disrespect! Your precious mother didn’t have enough respect for my father to visit him in the hospital while he was dying, did you know that?”

My shout dies in echoes that linger in the air like poison gas. No one speaks for what feels like an eternity. Then the marchesa says quietly, “Please excuse me,” and walks out of the room, head high.

Matteo watches her go, a muscle flexing in his jaw, but doesn’t try to stop her. When he turns his gaze back to me, I feel a primal urge to run away. I never knew blue eyes could burn with so much fire. It’s like looking into an incinerator.

“You and your mouth,” he says, stalking closer. He looms over me, glaring down at me like he’s fighting himself not to curl his hands around my neck. He leans into my face. “And your attitude, and your selfishness—”

I gasp, infuriated. “My selfishness?”

“And your bad manners!” he thunders. “Did it ever occur to you that not everyone wants the whole world to know when they’re in pain?”

I was in a fight once, in grade school. I stuck up for a kid who was being bullied by a group of girls, and one of those girls had a strong right arm. Matteo’s words feel exactly like that punch I took to the gut all those years ago.

I stand staring at him breathlessly, my heart beating fast, tears welling in my eyes. I swallow, then say bitterly, “I’m sorry my grief is so offensive to you. I have this thing called a heart. I’m not the kind of person who’s able to pretend everything is fine when it’s bleeding.”

I start to brush past him, but he stops me with his hand gripped lightly around my shoulder. “Wait.”

“Get your hands off me.” I try to twist away, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls me even closer.

“Kimber, stop. Stop. Please.”

I stand stiffly, vibrating rage, staring at the third button on his white dress shirt while breathing hard and trying not to cry. He exhales a slow breath and loosens his grip on my shoulder but doesn’t release me.

“Look at me.”

“Go to hell.”

“Stop acting like a child. Look at me.”

Heat pulses in my cheeks. I close my eyes and take a brimming lungful of air, then do it again because I’m trembling all over and feel like I might pass out.

He mutters some kind of Italian oath under his breath, then puts his thumb under my chin and tilts my head up. I open my eyes to find him staring at me with thinned lips and a tight jaw, those thermonuclear eyes still blazing.

We breathe angrily at each other. I try not to smell him but it’s impossible. He’s a gorgeous noseful of cedar and smoke and male musk, with a crisp top note of clean linen. I give in and inhale like a perfumer, flaring my nostrils so my weird little fetish might pass for outrage.

If he’s nose porn for me, I’m eye candy for him. He looks like he wants to peel off my clothes with his teeth.

“You’re my stepbrother. You shouldn’t be looking at me like that.” I was aiming for disdain, but my breathy voice probably gives me away.

He doubles down and stares at my mouth as if he’s about to make a meal of it. “Stepbrother,” he muses, his face all hard angles and dangerous speculation. Unexpectedly, he laughs, but it lacks any trace of humor. “What an interesting development.”

He releases me suddenly, as if I’ve burned him, and turns away. He drags his hands through his hair, then props them on his hips, muttering again under his breath. He stands with his back to me while I try desperately to regain control of my breathing. I’m shaking so hard I should probably lie down on the floor for a while.

I sit on the sofa instead. Wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs, I watch as Matteo starts to pace back and forth over the Turkish rug. Even angry he’s elegant. He’s as sleek and gorgeous as a thoroughbred, and I wish I had a riding crop handy because damn. I’d like to ride that pony hard.