Elizabeth Power - Italian Bachelors - Unforgotten Lovers - The Change in Di Navarra's Plan / Bound by the Italian's Contract / Visconti's Forgotten Heir

“I don’t understand why we can’t do the shoot here. We did before. The park is lovely, and—”

“Because it’s not what I want this time,” he said. “Because I have a vision, and that vision takes place in Italy.”

She dropped her gaze to the tips of her tennis shoes, where they rested on the ottoman in front of her. Jeez, he sat there in a tuxedo, and she was wearing jeans and tennis shoes as if she was still a teenager or something.

It reminded her starkly of the difference in their circumstances.

“It seems like a waste of money,” she said softly. “The park is here, and it was so pretty the last time.”

He stood and she could feel his imposing gaze on her. She looked up, and her heart turned over at the intensity of his stare. There was something in that gray-eyed gaze, something hot and secret and compelling.

Holly swallowed.

“I appreciate you thinking about the bottom line,” he said with only the mildest hint of sarcasm, “but the fact is I can afford to do what I want. And what I want is you in Italy.”

Holly twisted her fingers together in her lap. “Then I suppose we’ll have to get passports.”

“Yes,” he said. “You shall. I’ll make arrangements.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have a date.”

A date.

Holly’s stomach twisted, but she forced herself to give him a wan smile. Really, she didn’t care at all—but being here made her remember what it had been like between them. The heat and passion and pleasure, the utter bliss of his possession.

Another woman would experience that tonight, while Holly lay in a bed in his apartment, only steps from the room where he’d first shown her what it was like between a man and a woman. She would twist and turn and imagine him with someone else. She would burn with longing, the way she’d done during the lonely nights when she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him no matter how much she’d wanted to.

Holly picked up the remote and flipped through the channels. She didn’t see what was on the screen, couldn’t have focused if her life depended on it, but it was something to do while she waited for him to walk out.

“Have fun,” she said, because she had to say something.

He stood there a moment more, hands thrust in pockets. And then he turned and walked out and her heart slid to the bottom of her toes. Her eyes stung with unshed tears that she angrily slapped away.

She was furious because she was helpless. Because she had to do what he wanted or lose the money. That was the reason she wanted to cry.

The only reason.

* * *

Drago was not enjoying himself. He’d been expected to attend this event for the past month—a charity gala at the Met—but his attention was elsewhere. The woman on his arm—a beautiful heiress he’d met at a recent business dinner—bored him. He didn’t remember her boring him when he’d met her only a few weeks ago. He remembered that he’d been interested.

She was lovely and articulate, and she had her fingers in many causes. But he saw beneath that veneer tonight. She had causes because she needed something to do with her money and her time.

She didn’t care about the people she helped. She did it because it was expected of her. And because it brought her attention. He remembered seeing her in the paper only a couple of days ago, being interviewed about some fashion show she’d attended in Europe.

Even that wouldn’t have been enough to make him think she didn’t really care. No, it was her behavior tonight. Her need to be seen on his arm and her ongoing catty chatter about some of the other people in the room. As if she were better than them. As if he were, too, and needed to be warned about them.

The disconcerting thing was this: he wasn’t quite certain any of these things would have truly bothered him just a few days ago. But now he thought of Holly sitting in that squalid apartment and feeding her baby a bottle, and a hot feeling bloomed in his chest.

Holly knew what it was like to struggle. To have almost nothing. She’d lost her home, and she’d gone to work as a waitress to make ends meet. His mother had done much the same, though for reasons of her own that had made no sense to anyone but her.

This woman—Danielle, was it?—wouldn’t know the first thing about what struggling really meant.

He did. Even if he hadn’t been a part of that world in a very long time, he knew what it was to have nothing. To rely on the kindness of strangers to eat. To beg and struggle and do things you didn’t want to do, simply because you needed to survive. He’d only been a child, but the memory was imprinted deep. It was also usually buried deep—but not since Holly Craig had come back into his life.

“Drago, did you hear anything I said?”

He looked down at the glittering creature by his side—and a wave of disgust filled him. He didn’t want this artifice. Not tonight. He didn’t want to spend his time in the company of a woman who was superficial and selfish. She had millions, but she was still a user. A user of a different kind than his mother had been, but a user nonetheless. It dismayed him that he’d never seen it before.

Tonight, he wanted a woman who would look at him like he wasn’t a god, a woman who would refuse to accept his pronouncements as if they were from some exalted place and, therefore, not to be questioned.

He wanted Holly. He wanted a woman who was direct with him. Oh, she hadn’t always been. But she was now. She knew where she stood with him, so she was no longer trying to scam him. There was no need for pretense between them. She glared and huffed and stubbornly tried to get her way. She did not cajole. She spoke her mind.

No one spoke their mind to him. Not the way Holly did. She didn’t even seem to like him much—but she did want him.

He knew that from the way her breath shortened when he was near, the way her eyes slid over him and then quickly away, as if she didn’t want to be caught looking at him. Her skin grew pink and her breathing shallow.

That wasn’t hatred, no matter what she claimed. It was desire.

“I heard you,” he said to the woman at his side. “And I am terribly sorry, but I have to leave. I’m afraid I have another engagement tonight.”

Danielle’s mouth opened, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “But I thought...”

Drago lifted her limp, cool hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss there. “Ciao, bella. It was lovely to see you again.”

And then, before she could utter another word, he strode from her side, out the front doors and down the sidewalk. His apartment wasn’t far. His driver would have come to pick him up, but he wanted to walk. He needed to walk if he were to quench this strange fire for Holly Craig, before he stormed into his home and took her into his arms.

It was inconvenient to want a woman he’d once thrown out of his life. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

He reached his building in less than fifteen minutes. The doorman swung the entry open with a cheery good-evening. Drago returned the greeting, and then he was in his private elevator and on his way up to the penthouse.

It was quiet when he let himself in. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t late, only nine-thirty. But his apartment was just as always. There was no television blaring, no one sitting in the living room, no baby on the floor surrounded by toys.

He found that oddly disappointing. He didn’t care much for babies, but when he’d walked in earlier and seen Sylvia playing with the child while Holly made up a bottle, he’d had an odd rush of warmth in his chest. He’d dismissed it as something minor; a physical malady like acid reflux.

But now he felt strangely hollow, as if that warmth would rush back if Holly were here with her son. He strode through the living room and toward the hall where the bedrooms were, his heart pounding. What if she’d left? What if she’d changed her mind and taken her opportunity to leave while he was out?