care how much more he’d hate himself for it.
He wasn’t sure he’d even try to stop himself.
“You told me your laughable story,” he reminded her. “An unlikely friendship struck by chance in a far-off waiting room, between one of the wealthiest men in the world and you, our favorite saint.” He studied the way her lush mouth firmed at that, the way her eyes flashed and darkened. “I think I saw the syrupy cable-television movie you based that absurd nursery rhyme on. What is the real story, I wonder?”
“I can’t help it if you’re so cynical and so jaded that all you see in the world is what you put into it,” she threw at him with something more than mere temper in her eyes—and it fascinated him. That was his curse. She fascinated him, damn her. Maybe she had from the start. Maybe that was the truth he’d been burying for two years. “Here’s a news flash, Luca. If you spend your life looking for ulterior motives and cruelty, that’s all you’ll ever see. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“Do you know why I hate you, Kathryn?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “It’s not that you married my father for his money. So did everyone else. It’s that you dare to act offended when anyone calls that spade the spade it is. It’s that you believe your own tabloid coverage. Saint Kate is a myth. You are nothing like a saint at all.”
She made a frustrated sound and shoved at him again. “I can’t control what you think of me. I certainly can’t control what the tabloids say about me. And this might come as a giant shock to you, but I don’t care if you hate me or not.”
Somehow he didn’t believe her, and he couldn’t have said why that was.
And something inside him cracked. A chain broke, and he shifted, leaning in closer and then reaching down to trace the cutout angle of her dress that was closest to him. He sketched his way from the tender skin at the juncture of her shoulder and chest down, skating around the tempting swell of her breast, then cutting in with the line of the fabric toward her belly.
Her breath came hard. Broken.
But she didn’t tell him to stop. She didn’t shove at him again. Her hands curled into fists and rested there against his lapels, urging him on.
Luca concentrated on the task of this. Of his fingertip against her insane, impossible smoothness. Of the fire that danced between them, the flames stretching ever higher, until he was wrapped up in the sensation of her skin beneath his and the scent of her besides. The hint of something tropical in her hair and the subtle, powdery notes that whispered of the very expensive perfume he now associated with her so strongly that the hint of it in places she wasn’t made his body clench down hard in awareness.
Once in a distant resort in the Austrian Alps. Once in a seaside hotel in the Bahamas. She hadn’t been in either place, but she was here. Tonight, she was here.
And this was no different. This is madness, he told himself.
He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t dare risk the possibility that he wouldn’t stop this time. But he leaned in closer anyway, until their breaths were the same breath. Until he could see every last thing she felt as it moved through her expressive eyes. Until the fact he wasn’t taking that mouth with his, that their only point of contact was his finger as it danced along that edge where fabric met skin, became erotic.
It became everything.
And he wanted this too much. He wanted her. Luca wanted to lose himself inside her, to hurl them both straight into the heart of this wildfire that was eating them both alive.
“This,” he said softly, “is what a whore wears when she wishes to announce she’s available again. Discreetly, I grant you. But the message is the same.”
He felt the way she stiffened, and then he indulged himself and wrapped the whole of his palm over the exposed indentation of her waist, and, God help him, the smooth heat of her blasted into him. It ricocheted inside him. It lit him on fire.
It made that hunger in him shift from an insistent pulse to a roar.
But even though he could feel the deep, low shudders that moved through her body, that told him she felt the same need that he did, she shoved at him again. Much harder this time, using her fists. He grunted and backed up.
He didn’t remove his hand.
“What’s your plan, Luca?” Her gaze was dark, and he couldn’t read her. Her chin edged higher, and her voice was cool and hard. That was what penetrated the red haze, like shards of ice deep into him. “Are you going to prove I’m a whore by acting like one yourself? Do you think that’s how it’s done?”
Luca dropped his hand then, with far more reluctance than he cared to examine just then. He stood away from her, lust and longing and that greedy kick of need making him scowl at her. Making him wish too many things he shouldn’t.
Making him wonder why she was the only thing he couldn’t seem to control—or, more to the point, his reaction to her.
“I don’t need to prove the truth,” he gritted out. What the hell was happening to him? How had she gotten the better of his control? He tried to shake it off. “It simply is, no matter how you pad it out and pretend otherwise to make yourself look better.”
She straightened, only that flush high on her cheeks and the hectic glitter in her too-dark eyes to mark what had happened here.
What had almost happened.
“I think you’ll find that math doesn’t work,” Kathryn said crisply, and she might as well have shoved a knife deep into his side. He felt as if she had. “Whorish behavior always adds up to two whores, Luca. Not one dirty whore and an innocent with dirty hands by accident, almost but not quite corrupted by doing the exact same thing. No matter what lies you tell yourself.”
And then she pushed past him and started down the hall, her every movement as graceful and elegant as if she was a damned queen, not the grasping little gold digger they both knew full well she was.
THE PARTY WAS long and bright and painful.
Of course, it always had been. Kathryn told herself that, really, this was no different than the other times she’d had to parade around the Castelli château in this gorgeous little pocket of the Northern California wine country, acting as if she neither heard nor saw the whispers and the overlong, unpleasantly speculative looks.
This was merely part and parcel of being notorious, she told herself. Something every other member of the Castelli family had found a way to handle. Why couldn’t she do the same?
But, of course, she knew.
It was Luca. At every other party she’d ever been to with him, he’d kept as much distance between them as possible, as if he feared too much proximity to her would contaminate him. But this time she was his assistant, no longer his stepmother. That meant her place was at his elbow, no matter what had happened between them in that hallway.
And worse, what had almost happened. What she told herself she absolutely would not have allowed to happen—but she could feel the hollowness of that assertion tying her stomach into knots.
He’d
