He didn’t tell her to shush. He held her, rubbed her back and didn’t say a word.
CHAPTER FIVE
VITO SAT IN the armchair of the hotel room, feet on the ottoman, wearing only his pants. He was pretending to read emails, but sat angled so he could watch Gwyn sleep.
A full-out rainstorm had manifested while she’d been fixing her face in the head, after their kiss. The yacht had raced to moor at the nearest marina and, while most of the guests scrambled through sheets of rain for taxis to take them to their hotels, he had walked into the yacht club and paid a fortune for a top-floor room. He hadn’t been interested in leading the paparazzi back to the mansion and Gwyn had been at the end of her rope.
He could have taken a suite, he supposed, but he didn’t want anyone counting how many beds had been slept in. He had shared this one with her—until he’d given up trying to sleep. She’d been emotionally drained and slightly drunk, looking disturbingly vulnerable and wary after she’d washed her face and put on his shirt to sleep in it. She had threaded her bare legs under the covers and kept firmly to her side of the bed.
He’d kept his pants on, since he never wore shorts, and tried not to touch her once he had put out the lights and crawled in beside her. At least until he’d realized she was curled into a ball, shivering from the chill of getting soaked by the rain. He could have risen to turn off the air-conditioning, but he’d spooned her instead.
When she had stiffened, he’d said, “Go to sleep,” in the same quietly firm tone he would use on any of his abundant underage cousins, nieces and nephews who might creep down the stairs when they ought to be in bed. Molding Gwyn to him, he’d gone quietly out of his mind while she had relaxed into the hot curve of his chest and thighs.
She had dropped into a deep sleep, leaving him nursing an aching erection, blood burning like acid in his arteries. Every time he dozed, his mind took him back to kissing her on the deck, when she’d aggressively tested his control.
He didn’t know how he’d kept from lifting her skirt. Possessiveness, perhaps, because in that moment he hadn’t cared if anyone saw his naked ass, but the idea of the paparazzi catching another glimpse of her unclothed had been intolerable.
He’d tried to slow things down while he calculated whether to steal into a stateroom or ask for one to be assigned, so they wouldn’t risk interruption.
She had started to cry.
This woman. He was trying very hard to vilify her, to help maintain some distance, but there was no question in him any longer as to whether she had posed for those photos. She was too devastated to be anything less than violated.
Which did things to him. Provoked something that could turn into a blind savagery if he dwelt too much on the injustice.
He sipped the coffee he’d made in the small pot, studying her timeless features, so well suited to her surroundings.
The building was classic Renaissance, imposing and symmetrical. The interior was equally ornate and gracefully proportioned, enriched with dark wood grains and gold accents upon fervent reds and royal blues. The setting made a beautiful foil for her pale skin, pink lips and long dark lashes.
He’d neglected to close the heavy curtains so sunlight poured across her cleanly-washed face. The collar of his white shirt was turned up against her cheek, the unbuttoned sleeve pushed far up her bare arm.
His Lover At Rest, he thought with a sardonic smile, toying with the idea of snapping her photo. His conscience stopped him. If it makes you feel objectified, well, you have a glimpse into how I feel right now.
He wasn’t bothered by her taking a photo of his photo. He knew he was good-looking. Female attention had always been abundant in his life in the very best way. He wasn’t surprised that she found him attractive and certainly wasn’t offended by it. He liked it. Too much.
She wasn’t as comfortable with their chemistry. She was feeling used and he was being a bastard, not letting her see that he was equally ensnared by lust, but wanting her was weakness enough. Letting her see it would be akin to handing over a weapon, something he was too innately self-protective to ever do.
His phone vibrated in his hand and he dragged his attention off her peaceful expression to see that his cousin was forwarding something.
Can you deal with this? Will talk more when I get there. Leaving in a few hours.
Vito understood by Paolo’s desire for a face-to-face that he was being abundantly cautious with traceable, hackable things like texts and emails, but it surprised him that Paolo was coming to Como. He had been working from home, refusing to leave his wife’s side as she approached the end of her third pregnancy.
But his cousin was smart enough to see the implication behind Vito’s appearance with Gwyn last night. He would want more details, to be sure they had their story straight, especially before he made further statements to the press.