the limo.
She wasn’t happy about it, that was clear. It was written all over that beautiful face of hers, her dark eyes glittering with barely suppressed anger.
“Of course,” he said, drawing her to him, wrapping his arm around her slender waist.
It was a cool evening, the cobblestone sidewalk wet from rain that had fallen earlier. But Vanessa’s arms were bare, her legs barely covered by the sheer veil of her nylons, killer black heels added to the look, making his mind spin with fantasies that couldn’t possibly be legal at this sort of establishment.
Everything about her look was designed to entice. To torment. The formfitting, silken dress she was wearing acted as a flimsy barrier between his hands and her soft, smooth skin. He knew it was soft and smooth. He remembered, in explicit detail, how she had felt beneath his fingertips.
He slid his hand around to her lower back, the deep blue fabric catching on some of the rough patches on his hand, still calloused from so many years of labor. For a moment, his world reduced to Vanessa, to the tease she presented. It would be so easy to tear the gown from her body so that he could touch her, could see just what it would be like to feel her bare skin beneath the palm of his hand.
“This is going to get back to my father in a couple of hours. If it even takes that long.”
He felt her tense, the idea of her father seeing them together clearly not something she wanted to think about.
“He won’t like to hear about it?”
She shot him a sideways glance. “What do you think?”
He could imagine what Vanessa’s father would think. Vividly. Almost like a blow to his face. “He’ll learn to deal with it.”
“I doubt it.”
“Easier to handle than having you deposed as head of Pickett. Or having to file for bankruptcy.”
“Possibly,” she said, teeth gritted.
Lazaro didn’t wait for the host. He opened the door for Vanessa and ushered her into the small, intimate dining room.
“Your usual table, Mr. Marino?” The host approached them and gestured toward the back of the restaurant.
“We’ll sit somewhere up front,” Lazaro said.
The other man nodded. “Excellent, come with me.”
Vanessa turned and gave Lazaro a look that could have frozen fire.
He leaned in, allowing a moment, just a moment, to enjoy her scent. Light. Feminine. The same as it had been twelve years ago. He moved his lips near her ear, brushing her thick, glossy hair back. “The better for us to be seen, my dear,” he whispered.
He felt a shudder go through her body. Attraction. Need. The kind that lived so strong in him. She wanted him. Good to know. He didn’t want a martyr in his bed. He wanted her hot, begging for him.
“Great,” she said, acid corroding the word.
She still didn’t want to be seen with him. She was still worried about what people would think. Rage poured into the well of lust that had opened up in him, mixing, mingling, each making the other more potent.
He bypassed the host again and pulled the velvet chair out for Vanessa. She sat, her body held stiffly, her face stony.
Lazaro turned to the host. “Bring whatever you think is best.”
“Of course, Mr. Marino.”
Lazaro took his seat across from Vanessa. Her facial expression hadn’t changed, her bright pink lips set into a firm line, her white-tipped fingernails drumming on the table. He put his hand over hers and halted the motion, curling his fingers around hers.
“You could at least try to look like you’re enjoying yourself. Hell, you could actually enjoy yourself, I promise not to tell.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Sorry if I’m not finding this whole sudden forced-marriage thing all that amusing.”
“You use the word force, Vanessa, and yet I am not forcing you into anything. There is no way for me to do so. You made the choice, you agreed to it.”
“Strong-arm tactics were involved,” she said, raising a glass of red wine to her lips.
“Maybe. But you could walk away.”
“I can’t,” she said, balling her hand into a fist beneath his before pulling it back and setting it in her lap.
“Status is so important to you?”
“What about you? That’s why you’re marrying me.”
It was much harder to remember the logical reason behind the union when she was so close to him. Much easier to remember the visceral, base reasons for it. Revenge. Lust.
“Essentially,” he said. “But I’m not acting like a victim. I need something, you can help me with it. It’s the same for you. So we can use each other, go forward, obtain our goals.
If you want to drag yourself around like a martyr for a few months that’s your prerogative.”
“That’s … I’m not doing that.”
“You are. You made the choice.”
“So own it?”
He shrugged. “Or make a new choice. Walk away now, Vanessa. I’m not going to force you to stay.”
Vanessa met Lazaro’s eyes, forced herself not to look away. He was right. It was so easy to blame him. To make all of this his fault somehow. And, well, him buying up all the stocks was his fault, but the position she was in wasn’t. And agreeing to the marriage had been her choice.
She swallowed, uncomfortable with the revelation. It was more palatable to have it be Lazaro’s fault and his alone. To feel as though she’d been forced into it all. It was harder to accept that she’d agreed to it because she couldn’t take the thought of failing.
She forced a smile. “You’re right.”
“It didn’t even choke you to say it,” he said, his voice laced with dark humor.
“I may not say it again,” she said. “But in this instance, you are. I made the choice. I’m not walking away.”
She’d chosen this path a long time ago, and while this thing with Lazaro was a diversion, the road would end in the same place. She wasn’t turning back now just because things had gotten harder. Picketts didn’t quit. She didn’t quit. She would see it through.
A server came to the table and set a plate in front of each of them. A whitefish fillet and spring vegetables. Very elegant and perfectly cooked. Exactly what she needed to take her focus off Lazaro for a few moments. But not even a divine lemon sauce could keep her from being aware of him. He was just so very there. So present. Close. And he made her tremble inside. Made her remember what it was like to be kissed with the kind of passion normally reserved for books rather than real life.
She set her fork down and put her hands in her lap.
“Now what?” she asked, looking around the restaurant.
She saw Claire Morgan in the corner, eyeing them both with interest. Claire was a major gossip, had been in high school and still was. And Vanessa was willing to bet that she was holding her phone beneath the table frantically texting people to find out if they knew why Vanessa Pickett was at a restaurant with famed billionaire Lazaro Marino.
“Now we wait for Claire to spread the word?” Vanessa asked, looking back at Lazaro.
Lazaro shrugged. “Her, or anyone else interested in why the two of us might be together. They’ll wonder what we’re saying.” He leaned in slightly and Vanessa fought the urge to jump back, away from him, away from the danger he presented.
He was appealing.