His other hand landed on flesh where the slinky black number bared the curve of her hips. Those long fingers she knew so well fluttered over her skin, tender like butterfly wings, and yet leaving a wake of heat in their trail. “Slow down, cara. I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered against her skin.
The dry humor in those words was a cold slap to her senses. Alex pulled away from him, her breaths choppy, the lack of solid warmth in her hands painfully real.
But for all the silky control of his words, she could see the stamp of desire on his tight features, the sharp hiss of his breath as he wrestled himself back under control, the curse he bit out when he moved.
“I think that’s enough of a PDA to announce our marriage, si?” she whispered.
He grunted his assent and she laughed. But as they made their way downstairs, the caged passion of his body sliding deliciously against her own, answering the questions thrown their way, Alex wondered how a win could feel so much like a loss.
CHAPTER SIX
AN UNCOMMONLY BRISK September breeze plastered her silk blouse and long skirt against her body as Alex stood waiting on the steps outside the Brunetti villa.
Her temper matched the wind’s bite. God, she was surrounded by the most infuriatingly stubborn people on the face of the planet.
The roar of the Lamborghini Aventador had cut short her rapid-fire argument with Greta, who’d refused to even contemplate the idea of apologizing to Vincenzo. As much as it galled Alex to acknowledge it of the woman who had welcomed her with open arms, Greta’s actions toward Vincenzo and his mother all those years ago had been thoughtless at best and cruel at worst. Even Massimo had blasted Greta for it.
It didn’t matter that at that time, Greta had been doing her best to corral her son, Silvio—an egotistical monster bent on destroying the revered institution that was BFI as well as Massimo and Leo’s lives. Neither was Greta willing to understand that Alex’s marriage to Vincenzo wasn’t a momentary madness that she could simply walk away from right now.
On the other side was Vincenzo, using their intimate, spine-melting kiss at the nightclub, using every detail of their relationship to enable him to continue his siege on BFI. Whatever setback the article in the press had initially caused him, he was using their “fairy-tale-esque romance” to clean up his image.
It was bad enough that Leo’s own reputation as BFI’s CEO had taken a hit after Vincenzo’s sustained attacks for over a year now. And now the news of his marriage to her… Alex could almost see the neat twist.
If Alessandra Giovanni—the adopted daughter of the Brunettis—had fallen head over heels for Vincenzo Cavalli, he couldn’t be all that bad, could he?
The press had turned the untamable wolf that was Vincenzo Cavalli into the most romantic man on the planet.
Alex pursed her mouth as the purring engine of the Aventador came to a smooth halt in front of her. Her pulse spiked as Vincenzo stepped out and walked around to her side.
In a V-necked sweater and denim that sinfully molded to those hard thighs, he looked like every sinful temptation she’d ever had. His jet-black hair had a wet sheen from the shower, his freshly shaven jaw all sharp angles. Looking composed was hard when all she wanted to do was press her face against the exposed skin at his throat and absorb some much-needed warmth.
The media had exploded after their kiss and the subsequent reveal of their wedding, but they still hadn’t worked out all the logistics of where they would live. She was still finishing up her last contracts, talking to Charlie every day and playing out the social circuit in Milan with Vincenzo by her side.
Not that she didn’t welcome the reprieve it gave her. Resisting him was a much easier concept when they parted ways at the end of the night.
Leaning against the Aventador, he looked effortlessly urbane, sophisticated in a raw, powerful way. Not even the most gorgeous male models she’d known could achieve that confidence, that wicked arrogance without a lot of practice.
Here was a man who did not need his ego to be stroked. Or pandered to, in any way. Who had earned everything he possessed the hard way.
His gaze took her in with such thoroughly possessive leisure that all her animosity for him misted away.
“I thought a chauffeur was picking me up.”
He unfolded his hands and stepped forward, a smile tugging at his lips. “Ah…but I wanted a few private minutes with you. I caught your speech at the Women CEOs Summit. It was refreshing and bold.”
The genuine admiration in his voice… He took the fight out of her far too easily. She licked her lips and said, “Thanks,” in an uptight, frosty voice.
Grinning, he neared her. Not quite caging her against the car. But close enough for the fresh, soapy scent of him to assault her every sense. “I never thought about the perils of marrying a woman who’s a powerhouse in her own right. Charity galas, and runway shows and photoshoots… I feel quite the poor neglected husband.”
A thick, damp lock of hair fell on his forehead and she pushed at it instinctively. The tips of her breasts grazed his bicep and she felt the soft hiss of his breath. “You’re not the poor anything, V,” she added. Not in the throaty way she’d intended but more like a whisper.
He stepped back, removing that easy intimacy. And his gaze swept over her in an approving survey that spawned warmth.
For all the years she’d spent with makeup artists, Alex preferred simple, easy looks.
The white sleeveless silk blouse draped around her torso was not loose, not figure hugging, but bared a strip of her belly. The inner layer of the skirt ended several inches above her knees, while
