Page 25 of Fiancée for the Cameras

“I don’t care what you think,” she said, setting her mouth into that mulish set. “I want what I want.”

“Give me one good reason why.”

“Those are beautiful and they’re a piece of you. A piece of Andrea Valentini that only a few know. A piece I will cherish for a long time, whatever and wherever this farce leaves us.”

With that simple request, she reminded Andrea exactly who she was and who she would always be. Of how a fundamental part of her makeup meant she’d always see the world in terms of emotions he could not afford. She was already asking for pieces of him that he was loath to part with and soon, she’d ask for something he couldn’t give.

Cristo, she was far too innocent and good for the likes of him. She had no idea what an affair with him would cost her. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was...fondof her in a way that precluded ruining his relationship with her by adding sex to it.

Suddenly, he hated the very idea of having to parade her in front of guests and friends and family, letting them stare her up and down as if she was a prime cut of meat. He hated the idea of anyone destroying that fragile, deep-rooted sense of kindness and generosity with which she greeted the world.

“Bene,”he said, turning her around to face the necklaces with a hand on her shoulder. “It is a done deal. You’ll have one sculpture of my choice. Now, choose something.”

Leaning forward, she bumped her side into his front, pointing to the farthest one in the top corner. He should have guessed that it would be her choice, given it was the most delicate and smallest of the lot. He almost pointed out to her that it was the most expensive one, given its intricate flower and leaf-like work with platinum and tiny high-carat diamonds by one of the most exclusive jewelry designers in all of Italy. He’d only been able to acquire it because the designer was a friend of Romeo’s.

“Turn around,” he ordered briskly, once he had the delicate thing in hand.

When she tugged her hair away from the nape of her neck, he noticed the expanse of smooth, silky flesh exposed by the plunging cut of the dress in the back. Instant goose bumps rose on her flesh and the most overwhelming impulse to run his mouth down the line of her spine rode him hard.

Hands shaking, as if he had been whittling away at wood for hours, he clipped the necklace at her nape. Then without meeting her eyes, he checked his watch and barked out that they were late, thanks to her arguments.

Determined not to feel her hurt as she tried to keep up behind him, he turned himself into one of those sculptures he carved.He wanted her too much to keep this in his control and she...Madre mio, she was made for a different kind of man.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ITHADBECOMEastoundingly clear to Monica over the ever-stretching evening that she was a complete disaster on her first outing as Andrea Valentini’s fiancée.

Beginning with the moment they had entered the huge ballroom, when she had immediately drawn the eyes of every guest. Which was bad enough, because, in her determination to help Andrea out of this mess, she’d forgotten how much she disliked being the center of attention. And being Andrea Valentini’s fiancée meant all the eyes of the Milanese high society would be on her.

When she’d frozen at the top of the steps to the huge ballroom, Andrea had gently rubbed her hip with his fingers, his expression patiently inquiring. It was the patience, as if he were afraid that she might fall apart, that had her straightening her spine. Especially when she knew he was not happy with her.

He hadn’t liked it that she knew about his hobby earlier or that she’d demanded a piece of his art. She’d known that he was an intensely private man but she hadn’t thought she’d come up against a boundary that soon. He’d been quiet all through the drive to the gala, barely even meeting her eyes. So the downfall of the evening had begun even before they had arrived.

Then, with each step they took, she sensed something off in the large room with its high domed ceiling and crystal chandeliers. Once people began to flock toward them and Andrea began introducing her, she got it. Everyone was dressed in very somber navy blues and beiges and even browns. The only splash of color she’d seen other than her own was a dark purple belt on one of the navy blue dresses.

Why hadn’t he asked her to change when she’d shown up in the garish pink thing from the freebie closet at the Valentini design studio? Why hadn’t he told her that the charity gala was a sober affair?

She looked like a weed—wild, overgrown, forced to bloom an unnatural color by fertilizer—among the rows and rows of perfectly manicured prize flowers. That had thrown her off completely. Even then, she might not have cared, could have simply told herself that no one would expect poise or sophistication of the gauche, awkward American Andrea had saddled himself with. Only, after the awkward dance where she hadn’t been able to shed the embarrassment and had more than once trampled on his feet and slammed into him with her full body, Andrea had begun progressively freezing her out. To which she had reacted by spilling champagne over herself. After that, she’d barely held off tears.

The worst part, Monica told herself, rubbing at the already spreading stain of champagne from near her boob, was that Andrea had spent the rest of the evening with his ex. She’d have preferred if somehow Mrs. Rossi had been responsible for Monica’s various faux pas through the evening. But all the woman had done, having been seated at the same table as her and Andrea, had been to answer his questions about a mutual friend’s wedding. Their conversation had progressed from there naturally. Clearly, Mrs. Rossi had learned from her mistake and was trying to correct it, even at this stage.

Not that anyone would blink an eyelash if Andrea announced tomorrow morning that a connection had been reignited with his ex and he was dumping the little mouse. So here she was, emerging from the restroom, where she had tried her best to get rid of the stain and only ended up smearing it across the fabric, to find Andrea dancing with Mrs. Rossi.

Monica stilled, the flash of Andrea’s genuine smile piercing her skin like a thorn even across the ballroom. Whatever embarrassment she had felt through the evening weighed nothing in comparison to the hurt she felt at seeing him happy with his ex.

She wondered if whatever attraction he’d admitted to feeling for her had already passed under the weight of something older, deeper and more real. And she knew that she had to get away before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

Andrea barely waited for the lift car to open as he stepped into his penthouse. He’d never been so angry with Romeo before, not even when they had constantly fought in their younger years—so badly that Papa had to threaten them with dire punishments.

To calmly and quietly send Monica away from the gala, without even telling Andrea...it was a miracle he hadn’t lost his temper. All he’d wanted was to run after her, but somehow, he’d kept his common sense. The annual charity gala was to honor his father, to raise funds to donate to a children’s charity that had been close to Papa’s heart.

It would have been the height of distaste for Andrea to leave the guests. So he had bidden his time. For a while, a very short while, he’d even forgotten about her absence thanks to an interesting conversation with Chiara, who had made a smart turnaround and admitted that she’d considered him an easy prize and persuaded her father to add her as a clause.

It had been both refreshing and unsurprising to know that after all these years Chiara hadn’t lost her ambition or her ability to see through to his mood. Just when he’d spent almost five minutes without thinking of his fleeing assistant, she’d dipped her head toward him and whispered, “I don’tremember seeing you this out of sorts even when I announced my engagement.”

He had nothing to say to that becausehe was, over a slip of a woman who kept surprising him at every turn.

He scanned the expansive lounge that gave a three-sixty-degree view of the living room, dining space and the kitchenette, and beyond it the glittering lights of Milan, to find it empty. Monica’s pink dress was lying on the plush leather sofa under the glare of a tall designer lamp. Then he saw her, his assistant slash fake fiancée, on the floor, on her knees, her white teeth gritted tight.

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