I stopped pulling.
His hand told me one thing but his face was smiling huge and in a way that did crazy things to my system, crazy things that felt really good at the same time they scared the shit out of me.
Then his hand pulled me closer but his head veered to the side and, at my ear, he whispered, “You cannot bullshit me, you know what kind of man I am. What you don’t know is, I like to get me some but everything you do, everything you wear, everything you say, every signal you give tells me I’m gonna really like gettin’ some of you.”
Oh.
My.
God.
Ohmigod!
Oh. My. God!
Before I could get my stalled systems (heart, lungs, brain) functioning again, he released me and he did it in a way I’d never forget, in a way no woman would ever forget, in fact, I figured I should find some way to tell the world so his smooth move could hit history books.
And this was, his mouth left my ear and his lips trailed down my jaw at the same time his hand left the back of my neck but his fingers also trailed down the other side of my jaw. Both touches were light, a tease, a dare, making me want more and telling me I’d have to go for it to get it.
And when his presence was gone because he was exiting the car and the valet opened the door at my side, I was left frozen, turned toward the empty driver’s seat, probably looking like a lovestruck idiot but thinking about nothing, not one thing, except how damn badly I wanted to go for it.
Chapter Four
Fearless
It was unfortunate I had not recovered from the crazily veering emotions I’d experienced on the ride there, particularly the last five minutes in the Lamborghini, by the time Sam, holding my hand again, walked me into the villa because, although there were a large number of people there, Luciana appeared out of nowhere and she did this shouting Italian.
Sam stopped us and I blinked because I was not the kind of girl who bought glossy fashion magazines (not that my husband would let me) but still, I recognized her and if she was beautiful from the back, she was exquisite in a lush, smack you back, wish you were her with all your heart, Sofia Loren kind of way from the front.
She was also affectionate.
I knew this right off (though it was impossible to miss) because she threw herself in Sam’s arms like she hadn’t had dinner with him yesterday evening but instead hadn’t seen him in two decades and she didn’t do the cheek touch, switch, cheek touch business. Instead she kissed his cheeks back and forth and back and forth and back again, alternately babbling at him in Italian.
“Luci, girl, you know I do not understand one fuckin’ word you’re sayin’,” Sam informed her, his arms having gone from a close hug to his hands at her waist and he set her firmly away with a practiced hand that gave me a strong indication this was a familiar dance.
She grinned up at him and admonished, “I’m always telling you, Sam, you need to learn Italian.”
“Why?” he replied. “This is the second time in my life I’ve been here.”
Sam had only been in Italy twice?
Hmm. Interesting.
“Because,” she returned.
“That’s a reason?” Sam asked when she said no more.
She rolled her eyes, wisely gave up before she lost to Sam, and I had a feeling not many people won with Sam, including stunning ex-models.
Then she turned to me and cried, “Kia!” very, very loudly and threw herself in my arms so forcefully, I went back on one of my delicate gold heels and my arms automatically folded around her, mostly so I wouldn’t tumble backwards.
Then she kissed my cheeks back and forth and back again while babbling Italian and I let her because she was my hostess so I figured pushing her off would be rude and also she was Sam’s friend so pushing her off would definitely be rude.
She finally stopped, pulled back but grasped my upper arms and shook me gently while her eyes went from top-to-toe to toe-to-top and back again and she cried, “Bella!” Then, not letting me go, her head jerked to Sam and she noted in her sexy, throaty, Italian accented English, “Oh Sam, so much better than the last one.”
I blinked once again.
Sam’s head tipped back and he scanned the ceiling.
Luci turned to look at me.
“Cara,” she said low, “I did not like the last one.” She leaned into me and whispered, “She wore Burberry…” she paused then said with deep meaning, “obviously and profusely.”
“I don’t own any Burberry,” I assured her with the God’s honest truth.