A buzz of gasps went through the crowd and the bursts of light intensified into a wall of exploding lights. The shouts became a rabid din.
Gwyn swallowed and revealed the barest moment of anguish before she leveled her shoulders and sent a haughty, dismissive glance toward the cameras that was gloriously effective in its disparagement. Her upward glance at Vito was not only a cold, silent demand that he remove her from this place, but a wonderful expression of trust that he would and could save her from it. He doubted she realized how revealing it was, but he saw it, knew the cameras caught it and was deeply satisfied.
She kept her spine iron straight beneath his hand as he steered her through the blinding lights to where the purser stood at the top of the steps to the gated marina.
“I’m not on the list,” Vittorio told the uniformed young man. “But I’m on the list.”
The purser didn’t even relay his name, only glanced at the wild reaction they’d provoked and recognized the value they added to the event. “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your evening.”
Vittorio started toward the steps, then turned back. “If Kevin Jensen is on the list, he’s not on the list. Understand?”
“Absolutely.” The purser nodded and flipped a page, striking through a name.
* * *
This morning, life had been normal.
Somehow, in roughly twelve hours, Gwyn had gone from mousy banking representative to notorious internet sensation. Thanks to Vittorio secluding her today, the full reality of her situation hadn’t hit her until that moment outside the limo. Then strangers had called her name, clamoring for her to turn, shouting disgustingly invasive questions in a dozen languages.
When did you pose for those nude photos?
How did Mrs. Jensen find out about your affair?
Is Vittorio Donatelli your lover?
She stepped onto the yacht and a murmur rippled through the crowd. Heads tipped together and a few people pointed.
She instinctively edged closer to her date and his fingertips dug into her hip, oddly reassuring.
The last thing she ought to count on Vittorio for was protection. He’d behaved like a bastard earlier, using her own reaction against her like that. She was sick with herself for rubbing into his groin like she ached for his penetration—which she did. She was even sicker that finding him hard had excited her to the point she would have let him have her right there at the top of the stairs if he’d wanted.
Men were simple creatures, she reminded herself. Comedians were always complaining about erections popping up like dandelions at inconvenient times. As much as it would soothe her ego to believe Vittorio was attracted to her, she knew he couldn’t possibly feel the same lust that had cut into her like a knife. His reaction had been about as personal as shivering from the cold.
They were united in one thing: pretending they were in a sexual relationship to defuse Jensen’s allegations.
So she slithered closer to him, ignoring the fact that she drew genuine comfort from his strength. If he stiffened in a kind of surprise before tightening his arm around her, well, she wasn’t a masochist who wanted another mean-spirited lesson in how incapable she was of resisting him. She stood close; she didn’t soften and invite.
“Vito!” A gorgeous blonde approached them, tugging a legendary, award-winning, big-screen star in her wake. They turned out to be the host and hostess.
Gwyn silently laughed at herself. If the crowd was goggling at her, she goggled right back. The yacht was full to the gunwales of faces she’d seen in movies and on TV. Hugely famous people. It added a fresh layer of surreal to her already bizarro day.
“Thank you for coming,” the tall, stunning supermodel said in a New York accent, kissing Vittorio on the mouth. “We’ll have so much more exposure for the premiere now. I didn’t see the photos,” she said to Gwyn with an offhand shrug. “But my agent represents five of the top underwear models in the world. Judging from your figure, he would love to be your first call if you want to make lemonade out of this. Don’t put it off. Attention like this doesn’t last. Vito has my number.”
“Vito,” Gwyn repeated a moment later, when they were alone.
“My friends and family call me that. You should, too.”
“Should I call her agent, is the real question,” Gwyn said, taking a deeper drink of her champagne than was probably wise, but the impulse to get legless drunk was very strong.
“I would prefer you didn’t,” he said in a tone that was oddly lethal.
“Call her agent? Why? What other kind of work can I get? Even Nadine thought I wasn’t good enough at my job to earn this promotion without falling onto my back. Maybe it’s time I gave in to what the world has told me all my life and allow myself to be objectified. Make money on God’s gift.” She waved down her front.