Page 45 of Redemption of the Untamed Italian

She was a distraction he didn’t want, but her ability to commandeer his thoughts wouldn’t disappear when she did.

He had set out to get her out of his head once and for all, but he hadn’t achieved that—yet.

He needed more time. More nights and days to let his fascination burn out. He needed to forget her and move on, and then he could go back to being his old self.

Cesare strode from his room, barefoot and naked, pausing to grab a towel from behind the door as he went, which he slung low on his hips as he made his way to his office.

There, he set to work, moving the pieces into position, finding the information he needed, doing everything he could to ensure he would, as before, get the same answer from Jemima that he needed.

Bending people to his will was Cesare’s gift, and he intended to utilise it again this morning. The machinations were beneath him, of that he had little doubt, but—more than ever before—the ends would justify the means. He was sure of it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE SLEPT LATE, which was little wonder, given how long she’d stared at the wall of his bedroom the night before, her mind sagging under the weight of his words, his statement filling her with a sense of disbelief she couldn’t shake.

We all have our price—at least yours was charged in the service of something noble.

It wasn’t true.

Anxiety for Laurence had brought her to Cesare, but nothing that had happened between them was because of her cousin, or his financial predicament. She wasn’t mercenary and her body sure as hell wasn’t for sale. This had been about temptation, lust nnd desire.

Her stomach squeezed and her heart did the same, twisting inside her, so she made a little gasping noise and pushed back the duvet, looking around for her phone. It was charging, across the room. She strode towards it and checked the time—after ten. She took her time going downstairs, showering and dressing in a pair of white linen shorts and a silk halter-neck top that she’d modelled in Paris earlier in the summer.

Barefoot, she made her way through the house, unintentionally quiet, as though she didn’t want to see Cesare. As though she wouldn’t know what to say to him when she did.

It was another stunning day. Bright blue sky, turquoise water, sand that she knew from experience would be soft and spongy beneath her feet. She pressed a button on the coffee machine, her eyes fixed to the view, her body awash with feelings she couldn’t process.

This would be her last day with Cesare. She’d prepared for that. From the beginning, she’d known this would end, and she’d made her peace with it. But even after the night before, after what he’d boiled their relationship down to, the accusation that she was so mercenary, she felt an agonising ache when she thought of leaving him.

The coffee machine was silent but efficient. She reached for the cup and pulled it from the machine, lifting the fragranced drink to her nose first, breathing in the comforting aroma before taking a sip, her eyes fluttering shut.

But the second she closed them she saw Cesare. All facets of him, every side that she’d seen over the past two weeks and on their first night together, and her tummy rolled with uncertainty. Doubts and disbelief crowded through her.

This couldn’t really be the end, could it?

She tried to imagine her life back in London. Going away on assignment, taking part in that world which now seemed even more superficial than usual, travelling home to Almer Hall and feeling her parents’ loneliness, their grief, and knowing that she carried something within her that would eclipse it.

Life without Cesare.

She couldn’t think that thought through any further. Cesare entered the kitchen at that moment, his footsteps breaking through Jemima’s concentration, and she turned her head to the side, not quite able to meet his eyes.

‘Morning.’

His silence had her moving her body to look at him properly, and there was an expression on his face she didn’t recognise. He was serious, his features held in a mask of indifference, but his eyes—eyes that she could now read like a book—spoke of something bigger. Something important.

‘You’re awake.’

She nodded, even though it was more a statement than a question.

‘Good. We need to talk.’

She curved her hands around her coffee cup to stop them from shaking and waited, her bottom propped against the kitchen bench. He came to stand opposite her, his frame deceptively relaxed.

‘I don’t want this to be our last day together.’

She wasn’t sure she’d heard him properly.

‘What?’

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