But as Alex wrapped her long limbs around him, as she pulled him over her sweet temptation of a body, as she took his mouth in a warm kiss, as he lazily thrust into her and built them both up into that delicious frenzy again, Vincenzo didn’t even consider for one second if he could give her up to fix the mistake. Release her from his life.
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Because she was his. Not the prize he’d once so foolishly thought her. But so much more.
His salvation and his sanctuary.
* * *
Alessandra was still riding the high of the evening as she walked into the New York penthouse, put away her portfolio, stripped and went into the shower in quick succession. Her skin tingled as she thought of seeing Vincenzo again after four long days apart, of returning the favor he had done her in the one way she knew he would appreciate.
The warm spray from the powerful jet invigorated her as she smiled, anticipation building like a current inside her.
Thank God he’d had Anna tell her, even if it had been a bit dicey, at the last moment to bring her design portfolio with her. That the surprise he’d arranged for her was a dinner meeting with the talented CEO of an up-and-coming couture house with its base in New York City—a meeting Alessandra had been pursuing for more than a month now with no success.
One of the numerous things that Vincenzo arranged in her life, with an incredible arrogance that sometimes stole her breath.
But for all the initial protest that rose up inside her at his high-handedness, Alessandra could never fail to see the intentions—usually good intentions, behind his presumptuous actions. Like this meeting with the trendsetting CEO.
She had only just admitted to herself, and whispered to him that night in her design studio a few weeks ago, that she wanted to launch herself as a designer. That she wanted to launch her own label as Alessandra & Alyssa—a label that would commemorate her mother’s artistic vision and the peace that Alex had finally found after all these years.
It had been a painful internal journey but she knew it was the right thing to do—to acknowledge that her mother had loved her, in her own way, to use the talent and vision for design she’d inherited from Alyssa to build her own company.
Neither could she lie to herself anymore. Vincenzo had helped her achieve that peace. For a man who was so ruthless about so many things, he had been insightful and kind when it was her grief they were dealing with.
As soon as he’d understood what she’d wanted, he had set in motion so many meetings for her all across the globe. Using his connections.
Not that Alessandra lacked a network. But his was just bigger and better, she reluctantly admitted to herself.
For example this particular CEO—his couture house had been in the news of late for its ethical practices, for designing couture using recycled vintage wear, and for its fair trading policies with so many third world countries where it sourced the vintage fabrics. It would be the dream of a couture house to launch her first line with. But even with her connections and her agent’s clout, Alessandra hadn’t been able to acquire a meeting with the man.
No sooner had she revealed her frustration to Vincenzo, there it was in her calendar, a meeting with that CEO.
And it had gone tremendously well, she and the man instantly hitting it off.
At least the nausea that had threatened her all day—she frowned…no, all week, actually—hadn’t ruined the evening. Victor Emmanuel had been both excited and amazed by her portfolio, and Alessandra couldn’t wait to begin working with such a brilliant visionary. Couldn’t wait to see her label launched—a future woven from the threads of the past.
When she had laughingly mentioned Vincenzo twisting his arm to get her the appointment, he had, with a sudden seriousness, admitted that he was the one who owed Vincenzo a favor. Because her husband had been the very man who had helped him raise seed capital in what was a cutthroat industry all those years ago.
Every time Alex thought she knew Vincenzo, that she understood him, he threw a monkey wrench into it.
She toweled her damp hair and pulled a robe on, a strange lethargy gripping her. Barefoot, she walked into the bedroom of the penthouse that challenged the New York City skyline with its magnificence.
They had been here for three weeks now, and Alessandra had discovered she didn’t want to return home. God, she wanted to stay here forever, away from Italy and the myriad demands it placed on her husband’s time, energy and even loyalty.
It had been a glorious few weeks’ respite, and she was loath to see it come to an end.
Since she had made her choice, since she had decided that she couldn’t let his war with Leonardo and Massimo break her apart into so many pieces, just as she’d guessed, Vincenzo, in return for that surrender, had been busy placing the world at her feet in return.
And it hadn’t been just his support, his encouragement, and the use of his extensive network when it came to launching her new career. He had barely returned from a weeklong conference in Beijing when she had been ready to leave for New York to see Charlie again.
A few hours with him at the most had been what she’d been hoping for. Because, once she had stopped lying to herself, once she’d stopped fighting herself, she had admitted how much she missed him.
How much she missed their talks about their careers, about their futures, their long, lazy nights, where she kept thinking that one more night, one more time would calm the fire that raged between them. But it did not. It was as if a different Vincenzo—charming, contented, that Vincenzo she had first met in Bali—had emerged again since she had thrown her lot in with him.
The
