Untamed Italians. Janette Kenny
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his way and for a moment he almost felt pity for her. Almost.
He offered his arm out of duty and she latched on to it. Though he had zero respect for her duplicity, he was man enough to admit she was a beautiful, desirable woman. Even without the attention of the paparazzi, heads would have turned toward her.
Sì, their pictures would grace the gossip rags tomorrow. Speculation would be ripe of the identity of his dinner companion.
It was just a matter of time before someone recognized her as his father’s secretary. Then the gossips would question if this was a business dinner, or something more intimate.
“Buonasera, Signor Marinetti!” the host said as Stefano pressed his fingers to Gemma’s slender back to guide her to the podium. “Your private room is ready.”
“Grazie!”
He knew she was a schemer and manipulator, yet his body quickened whenever he touched her. He should be imagining her slaving to repay what she’d stolen instead of picturing her lounging on a bed with her arms reaching for him.
Damning his inability to douse his lust where she was concerned, he hurried her along in the host’s wake down an intimately lighted hall. The telling stiffening of her back proved she was eager to break contact with him as well.
Could she be fighting her own desires? Or was she simply playing hard to get so his indomitable male pride would goad him to pursue her?
She could end up married to his father!
No, he wouldn’t let that happen.
He’d take her first, make her his paramour and make damn sure the world knew it. That was the only way that his father would see her for what she truly was.
His father was old school. He saw no harm in engaging in an affair, but he’d never tolerate his wife or lover doing the same.
The private dining room held just the right ambiance of subdued light and serenate violino drifting in from the main room. It was an area perfectly suited for a lover’s tryst.
Or the cutting business he intended to finalize tonight.
He smiled and seated Gemma to his right, confident he was in control of the woman and the situation drawing near.
The waiter bustled in, the lines of his broad face carved in a deep smile. “Buonasera, signor and signora. Che cosa volete da bere?”
“Barolo, ten or twelve years old,” Stefano said.
“Excellent choice, signor.” The waiter smiled at Gemma. “Signora?”
“A crodino, please,” Gemma said.
She ordered a bevande analcoliche at this time of night? “Is there another wine or apertif you would prefer?” Stefano asked. “Perhaps a bellini?”
She shook her head. “I rarely drink alcohol.”
But there were occasions, he was sure. So why not share a celebratory drink with him now?
Perhaps there was another reason why she hesitated to imbibe. Perhaps vino loosened her inhibitions. Perhaps she feared she’d lose the tenuous control she’d managed to maintain since they’d left Canto Di Mare.
Perhaps she was remembering the passion that had flared between them when they’d kissed. When his hands had glided over her body. When he’d pulled her close and let her feel the hard evidence of his desire.
Stefano felt the first stirrings of desire in his groin. He usually had far more self-control than that around women, yet with Gemma it seemed nonexistent. Had she had that same effect on his papa?
Likely so. While the old man grew indulgent from his vino, she’d kept her wits by drinking an orange fizz. She’d remained in control while his papa slowly lost his!
Just remembering her role in his father’s life gouged his anger up another notch. But his anger was equally aimed at himself this time.
If only his mamma had told Stefano of her suspicions months ago perhaps a lot of grief and lost revenue could have been avoided.
He would have spoken with his father.
Yes, they would have argued fiercely, for no man cares to admit he was a fool over a woman—even a hot-blooded Italian who lives to love women. If his father would’ve realized what Gemma was after, she wouldn’t have dipped so deeply into Cesare Marinetti’s pockets.
But Stefano had removed himself from his father’s business before his brother’s death. And afterward? Nothing had changed his father’s view of the world. Nothing had opened his eyes to the pollution he was leaving the future generation to clean up.
After Davide’s funeral, his father had taken Stefano aside. “Are you ready to give up playing inventor of eccentric ships and return to the family shipyard?”
That fierce Marinetti pride had kept Stefano from asking his papa if he’d needed or wanted his help. Pride and deep involvement launching a new class of eco-friendly seagoing vessels, he amended.
“No,” he’d said, and walked out of his papa’s life again.
He refused to return to Marinetti Shipyard and be nothing more than a figurehead. He refused to assume his brother’s role and be groomed to one day take over the shipyard. He refused to give up his dream now that it was within his grasp.
He’d never been able to see eye to eye with his papa regarding business. Neither of them would bend.
A damned shame it had taken another death for his papa to finally ask for his help. Still nothing had changed.
His father had placed the business in his hands but had insisted that any major changes be discussed with him first. He’d agreed only because he hadn’t wished to cause his father undo stress in his condition.
But vengeance simmered in him as he thought of being near the woman who’d come between his father and mamma. He’d known he’d make her pay for all the hell she’d put his mamma through.
That alone was reason enough for Stefano to despise Gemma Cardone. While forcing Gemma to repay every euro she’d conned out of his father was just punishment, it would take years for her to do so even with the plump salary she drew as Cesare’s personal secretary.
No, he had to get her out of his father’s life for good. The only way to do that was to make her his paramour!
Stefano set his menu aside and studied the little schemer in the mellow candlelight. She looked pale and vulnerable as she stared at the menu, like a waif washed ashore and in need of a protector.
Yes, no wonder his father had fallen under her spell. Now it was time to turn the tables on her.
“They are noted for their calamari,” Stefano said in a conversational tone that he used to put adversaries at ease. “But of course feel free to order whatever you wish.”
“I couldn’t do such a meal justice,” she said.
A typical excuse from women who were obsessed with maintaining a model’s figure. All they wanted was a bit of cajoling so they wouldn’t feel guilty about indulging!
Not that Gemma had to fret about gaining weight. She was edging toward the painfully thin side already.
“A bit of antipasto will awaken your appetite,” he said. “Perhaps zuppa as your primo.”
“Please, I’m really not hungry.”
First her refusal to drink alcohol and now her lost appetite. Was she playing some game to dupe him, or was she beset by an increased case of nerves?
The waiter arrived with his wine and a glass bicchere holding her orange fizz. He served the lady first, then he gently poured a dram of wine in Stefano’s glass and stepped back to dutifully wait his approval.
Stefano