His gaze unerringly returned to Alessandra again and again, desperate to drink in the sight of her after two weeks of drought.
He’d always been a man who took risks. A man who played against the odds and won. Or else he wouldn’t have been in a position to challenge the Brunetti brothers, who’d been born with every conceivable advantage.
His marriage had been a risk, just like this club had been, but not a strategic or financial risk like all the others. It had been a different kind. But in the end, it would pay out.
Alessandra fluttered through the party like a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. Her toned, curvaceous body that she maintained with an iron-willed discipline showcased beautifully in the slinky black number that parted with a wide V-neck, displaying the sides of her breasts, and yet somehow remained tasteful, elegant. There was a slight ruffled hem that flirted around her upper thighs, again just about covering those round buttocks he’d cradled in his palms a few months ago.
No such contact was forthcoming anytime soon, he realized with a self-deprecating smile. He’d just have to be patient. He’d have to win Alessandra like he did everything else in life.
Knowing that the woman he’d married was an international supermodel that men fantasized over was one thing. Seeing it in person was another. It felt like every man here at the club had swarmed her.
“Everyone adores Alessandra.”
Here was proof. And yet she’d chosen to marry him after knowing him only for a few short weeks.
“I’m not a prize, Vincenzo.”
Her angry words reverberated inside his head, and he knew he was wrong for feeling this sense of pride whenever he saw her.
An atavistic response, uncharacteristic and unworthy of him. Mine, something inside him insisted. Only mine.
He frowned, as a particularly tenacious man followed her from group to group, an urgency to his swarthy features. A stocky Spaniard by the name of Javier Diaz, Vincenzo had no doubt.
He kept an eye on them, ready to lend help if needed, but she dismissed her ex with a scathing remark that had her eyes flashing sparks. That made Vincenzo smile despite the tension stiffening his shoulders.
Other than a brief tilt of her head in acknowledgment, she’d been avoiding Vincenzo all evening.
He let her.
She needed to decompress after the electrifying atmosphere of the show and the relentless demands it had placed on her, and he… He needed to get a better handle on his own emotions tonight before he approached her.
While he’d intended to give them both a breathing space and the energy to finish their immediate obligations before the media ruckus the announcement of their marriage would cause—two fashion shows and one photoshoot in Alessandra’s case—and everything had gone to hell. Someone had leaked his relationship to the Brunettis to the press.
He’d had to cut his Beijing trip short to deal with the media circus and the crisis it had caused with the BFI board.
“Is it true that Silvio Brunetti seduced a hotel maid and you were the product?”
“Are you the illegitimate son of Silvio Brunetti?”
“What are your intentions for BFI?”
The Brunetti Bastard one trashy tabloid had called him, choosing to go with the lowest denominator.
Upon arriving at the HQ of BFI this morning, there had been further challenges to deal with. He wondered if it was Alessandra who’d leaked the news, causing him considerable damage.
The fallout with the two board members he’d had in his pocket, had set him back almost two months of careful negotiations. Considerable speculation had been raised as to how and why he’d started taking over the board of BFI. Exactly how he had gained ownership of Silvio Brunetti’s stock.
He’d arrived at the fashion show, temper frayed, determined to confront the woman whose loyalty should’ve been to him. Only him.
Instead, seeing her strutting on the catwalk, challenge and confidence oozing from every pore, her body a finely honed machine, her eyes glowing with some inner zeal had completely undercut his anger.
Alessandra in that bloodred bikini top—some sort of studded corset that propped up her already high breasts—and a thong in the same color, with light brown high heels that almost blended into her skin, and all that golden-brown hair pulled back into a tight bun that sharpened her already flawless bone structure, was never going to leave his memory bank even if he lived to be a hundred.
Her red lipstick had made her pouty mouth a lesson in sensuality and sin.
The woman had far too much power over him, moving him from anger to laughter to desire as if he were a windup toy she could turn on and off at her leisure.
She looked up at that precise moment, the flashing purple lights lighting up her lithe body, her eyes shimmering with naked challenge.
Something inside him awakened with a growl.
Because this woman, who challenged him, who was making him work for her loyalty, whose surrender would be so delicious when he finally won it, she set his blood on fire. And he’d had enough of watching her from a distance, like those other besotted men. Enough of pussyfooting around her because of misplaced guilt about hurting her. Enough of trying to give her space and time to deal with her grief.
The world needed to know that she belonged to him. That she had thrown her lot in with him. The explosive news that Alessandra Giovanni had married the Brunetti Bastard should be enough to gain him back some of the ground he’d lost this past week.
It should have been all about damage control at this point. But the thought of winning his wife over fired his blood like nothing else.
Leaning his forearms on the wrought iron balustrade, Vincenzo held her gaze. And beckoned her upstairs with his index finger. Laughter broke out of him at the dawning effrontery in her expression, a fire in his veins as he imagined those beautiful brown eyes clouding over with passion when she
