Pamela Yaye - Seduced by the Heir

She looks like an angel, Rafael thought, admiring her on the sly. Her oversize sunglasses gave her a youthful air, her crimson lips held a dazzling smile and her sleeveless white dress played up her pear-shaped figure.

Yeah, a naughty angel you’d love to see naked, his conscience taunted. Quit gawking at her. You’re better than that. You’re a Morretti, remember?

But Rafael didn’t turn away. He lacked the willpower and fortitude it required. Paris was dressed to kill, and her traffic-stopping curves made him hot under the collar and below the belt. Diamonds dangled from her ears, neck and wrists, and her ankle bracelet drew his gaze down her long legs time and time again.

“The Piazza San Marcos is one of the most beautiful places in Italy, and people travel from far and wide to admire the magnificent works of Antonio Canova, Giovanni Bellini and Vittore Carpaccio.”

Rafael tore his gaze away from Paris, and turned his attention to the middle-aged tour guide with the receding hairline. He tried to listen to what Mr. Esposito was saying, but all he could think about was kissing Paris with all the passion coursing through his veins. He wouldn’t act on his feelings, knew better than to make a move on her in public, but dammit if he didn’t want to.

That morning at breakfast he’d scored a seat beside her. But unfortunately Paris had spent more time chatting with the other groomsmen than talking to him. And when they did speak their conversation was plagued with tension and awkward silences. No matter, Rafael told himself. He wasn’t giving up. They’d had something special once, and he liked the idea of having a holiday fling with Paris in his beloved hometown. In fact, he couldn’t think of a better way to kick off the New Year. He was determined to connect with his old college sweetheart and nothing was going to stop him.

Raising his water bottle to his lips, he took a long, refreshing drink. The sky was clear, the breeze thick and the air was filled with the scent of sweet-smelling flowers. People were everywhere—snapping pictures, feeding the pigeons, wandering the cobblestone streets and pushing and shoving like kids waiting in line at the water fountain. As Rafael moped the sweat from his brow he decided he’d had enough excitement for one day.

He choked down more water. After hours of walking from one ancient monument to the next, he was ready to head back to the villa for some R & R. He’d been up since dawn, and after working on his presentation, he’d played tennis with Stefano and swam in the heated pool.

Checking his gold wristwatch, Rafael was surprised to see that it was midday. After lunch, the group was heading over to the fashion district. He had no desire to go shopping, and had better things to do with his time, but knew it was a bad idea to ditch the group. If he did, one of the other groomsmen would make a move on Paris, and there was no way in hell Rafael was letting that happen. He’d have to suck it up, and bide his time.

“Are we going on a gondola ride today?” asked one of Stefano’s short, plump aunts.

The tour guide wore a polite smile. “No, ma’am, I’m afraid not.”

“But it’s on the top of my bucket list, and I may never come to Italy again!”

Everyone in the group laughed. The bride and groom’s friends and family—sixty-five loud, boisterous people in all—entered the Campanile, the city’s oldest and tallest building. But Rafael noticed Paris ducking into one of the nearby bakeries.

Curious, he entered the pasticceria and took off his Ray-Ban sunglasses. A fruity, spicy aroma sweetened the air, stirring his senses and rousing his appetite. With its sultry lights, timber chandeliers and glass sculptures, the shop looked more like an art gallery than a pastry store. Italian music was playing, and the servers looked as chic as the decor.

Rafael looked around, but couldn’t find Paris anywhere. As he sat down on one of the raised, wooden stools, he spotted a buxom waitress climbing the circular, white staircase. Rafael contemplated heading upstairs to scope out the second floor, but decided against it. Trailing Paris was a bad idea. They had plenty of time to get reacquainted, and since he didn’t want her to think he was stalking her, he’d hang out on the main floor, have a cup of coffee and watch the world go by from his window seat.

His cell phone chirped, alerting Rafael that he had a new text message. He took his iPhone out of his backpack and punched in his password. Reading the message from Gerald Stanley gave him a surge of adrenaline. His security advisor was one step closer to single-handedly cracking the case.

I just got off the phone with my source at Miami PD. Gracie O’Conner has no alibi for the night of the arson, and neither does her ex-con brother.

Rafael was pleased with the work Gerald had done, and sent a short, quick response.

The suspects in the case were obvious, so why hadn’t the police made any arrests? he wondered. Why were they taking their sweet-ass time bringing the perpetrators to justice? Gracie O’Conner, Nicco’s former assistant, was a scheming manipulator with an ax to grind. And although she was a petite, soft-spoken woman, Rafael’s gut feeling was that she was involved in the crime. But Gracie wasn’t the only one who hated his family. His father had made a lot of enemies over the years, and Rafael wouldn’t be surprised if one of his dad’s old business rivals was out to destroy him.

His cell phone rang, and the sound yanked Rafael out of his troubled thoughts. He didn’t recognize the number, but saw the area code, and knew the person was calling from Washington, D.C. “This is Rafael Morretti.”

“Hello, Mr. Morretti,” said a husky female voice. “My name is Danica Lyons.”

The name didn’t ring a bell, so he waited for the woman to explain who she was. It was 5:00 a.m. on the East Coast, and Rafael couldn’t image why someone he didn’t know would be calling him first thing in the morning. After a moment of silence, he asked the question at the front of his mind. “How did you get my phone number?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’d like to speak to you privately, and the sooner the better.”

Rafael frowned. He turned her words over in his head, but they still didn’t make any sense. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lyons, but I’m afraid I don’t understand what this is pertaining to.”

“I’d rather not discuss the matter on the phone,” she said in a crisp tone. “I’d like to come to your office tomorrow to speak in person.”

“I’m out of the country, and won’t be back in Washington until January 3.”

“Don’t play games with me, Mr. Morretti, or things will get real ugly for you.”

Taken aback by her abrupt rudeness, Rafael stared down at the phone, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Are you threatening me?” he asked, struggling to control his temper. “Because if you are, this conversation is over.”

“I’m not threatening you, Mr. Morretti. I’m simply stating a fact.”

Rafael struggled to not lose his cool. Keeping his head was paramount, so he took a deep breath and cleared his voice of emotion. “Call my office, and my secretary will book you an appointment.”

“Very well. I look forward to meeting you.”

What the hell? Rafael hit the end button and immediately dialed Gerald’s number to tell him about his bizarre conversation with Danica Lyons. He suspected she knew something about the arson investigation, so he asked Gerald to do a background check on her. Everyone everywhere wanted to get their hands on the Crime Stoppers reward, and although Rafael didn’t put much faith in the Washington PD solving the case, he refused to leave any stone unturned.

Seconds later, when he’d ended his phone call with Gerald, Rafael felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He had nothing to worry about. By the end of the week he’d have a detailed, comprehensive report on Danica Lyons, and he was looking forward to reading every salacious word.