She forced herself to look him in the eye while she confessed. “It’s just so easy to be with you. You’re doing everything, giving me everything and asking nothing at all in return. It isn’t right. I’m taking advantage of you and I don’t like that.”
He studied her face for what seemed forever and then his thumb slid over her chin. That brief caress nearly undid her resolution to tell him she had to go. It was time. If she stayed, she would never want to leave. Never. He had said their engagement was real to him, but that didn’t make sense and they’d never spoken of it again. She was drowning here with him. The more she was with him, the more she wanted to be.
“Grace, I want it to be easy for you to stay with me. I like having you here and doing things for you. You’re wrong about asking for nothing in return. I’m asking for quite a bit and I’ll be asking for quite a bit more. I’m asking for you to put your complete trust in me. I want you to know, with every fiber of your being, that I won’t let you down. Not ever. That everything I do is for you. For your health, your happiness and your well-being and your pleasure.”
Heat rushed through her veins and spread like wildfire to every nerve ending in her body, igniting them. “Vittorio.” Grace was floored. She had wanted to stop pain medication for this—these talks they occasionally had. She had to know what was real and what wasn’t.
Vittorio Ferraro had more money than anyone could possibly imagine. He was a high-profile playboy, with expensive toys and a jet-setting lifestyle. Still, he didn’t seem anything like the tabloids made him out to be. None of his family did, and she was having a difficult time putting the two completely different men together.
He was in glamorous magazines and sleazy tabloids as well as newspapers and television reports, usually with a beautiful starlet or a famous model on his arm. He was depicted as a love-them-and-leave-them type, discarding women after one or two dates, yet he’d been spending twenty-four hours a day with her for the last three weeks.
“I couldn’t let Haydon just shoot you. You saved me from those terrible men, so we’re really even.”
He waited on her. He hadn’t hired others to come in and take care of her, he was doing it himself. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever known. He was calm and sure, always confident, giving her the feeling he could handle any problem that came along—that he would handle any problem—with his cool efficiency.
“Do you want me to carry you or do you want to try to walk? It’s a bit of a distance.”
His arm had already slid around her, making her feel safe. Sometimes when she walked across the room, she felt as if she was listing to one side with the weight of the straps holding her shoulder in one place.
“I’d like to walk.”
What woman wouldn’t want to be carried by Vittorio? The feeling she got when she was cradled close to his chest was indescribable. When he moved, it was like floating through the air. Still, she had to be rational and start doing a few things for herself—like walking. She also wanted to check out the house and start paying attention to Vittorio—really get to know his likes and dislikes. She had the feeling that he was very particular in the things that mattered to him and she wanted to know every single thing she could about him. It was time she started giving back to him, especially if he meant what he said about a relationship between them. Sometimes she thought she might have hallucinated that conversation.
Vittorio didn’t protest her decision to walk, but stayed on the side of her good shoulder, his hand resting on the small of her back. That was so like him. She loved that he always made her feel as if she wasn’t alone. Just by being close he gave her the illusion of safety. She glanced down at the floor, a beautiful cherrywood in contrast to the high ceilings, glass and white walls. For the first time she realized he was barefoot.
Her breath caught in her throat. Vittorio Ferraro was barefoot. She had never seen him in anything but his three-piece suit and exquisitely polished shoes—at least she didn’t think she had. Had she been too self-absorbed to notice him dressing informally in his own house? She glanced down at her own feet. She had clothes in the closet, thanks to him, but she hadn’t thought about shoes. She normally wore heels to work, but at home, she was much more casual, preferring bare feet, but that was because after wearing heels all day, she couldn’t stand anything on her feet.