Rising Stars. Maisey Yates
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every passing moment, his self-restraint was growing frayed. Feeling her in his arms right now he felt oddly alive in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. She made him feel … young again. As if he still had a beating heart.
And that was her biggest danger of all. He couldn’t seduce her. He had to send her away. Had to—
Lilley glanced back at him, her lips parted. He saw the tip of her pink tongue dart out to the edge of her mouth and he nearly groaned. He wanted to taste those lips. Plunder her mouth with his. He wanted to rip the clingy red dress off her body, to spread her across his bed, to push himself inside her, to fill her hard and deep—
Basta. He broke out into a hot sweat. As the ambassador droned on to him about the fluidity of Asian exchange rates, all Alessandro could think was that it was a good thing Lilley was standing in front of him, blocking others’ view of his trousers. Where was his self-control?
In front of him, Lilley stiffened. For a moment, Alessandro wondered if she’d felt his desire for her—how could she not? Then he saw she was looking over the crowd.
“Jeremy,” she said in a low voice.
For a moment, Alessandro couldn’t remember what she was talking about. Then his insides burned. He felt envious of this employee in his jewelry-design department, this man who’d had her at his command and let her go.
“Excuse us,” he said to the people surrounding them. Ignoring their protests, he pulled Lilley to a quiet corner next to a window.
“Where is he?” he said, keeping his expression impassive.
“Over there.”
He followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed in the desire to see this paragon but no one stood out to him at all. He felt irritated. Irritated wasn’t a strong enough word. Jealous? No, impossible. Jealousy was for the weak, for sad, vulnerable men who served their hearts on platters to be shredded and devoured.
So he didn’t feel jealous. He felt … annoyed. Sì. Annoyed.
He’d said he would help Lilley get the man back. Now he regretted his promise. Why should he help another, less-deserving man get what he himself wanted—Lilley in his bed?
But if Lilley truly loved this Jeremy, Alessandro would do the honorable thing. He would step aside with the noble self-sacrifice of a damned saint.
“Va bene,” he ground out. “If you still want this idiot, this imbecile without a shred of sense or loyalty, I will help you win him.”
Lilley flashed him a grin. “Um. You’re too kind?”
“Just tell me one thing,” he demanded.
“Only one?”
His fingers moved down her shoulders, stroking down the warm, bare skin of her back. He saw her eyes widen, felt her shiver and he fought back the urge to yank her body hot and hard against his own. “Why would you want him back, after he made you weep?”
Her smile fell. She took a deep breath, then lifted her left wrist. “Look at this.”
A change of subject? He looked down at the bracelet on her wrist. He’d noticed it earlier, a pastiche of welded materials—colorful crystals on a brass chain, interspersed with rusty-looking numbers and held together with a tarnished buckle. “What about it?”
“I made it.”
He grabbed her wrist, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head as he tried to make sense of the bracelet. He pointed to the metal number dangling off the chain. “What’s that?”
“A room number from an eighteenth-century Parisian hotel.”
It seemed strange to him, an artistic hodgepodge of junk. “How do you source the materials?”
“At flea markets and vintage shops, mostly. I create jewelry using old things I find.” She swallowed. “I met Jeremy at San Francisco’s trade show a few months ago, when my employer thought I was visiting my family. Jeremy loved my jewelry. We decided to be partners and open a boutique together. He was going to handle the financials. I would create the inventory.” She blinked fast, and looked away. “When he chose my roommate over me, I lost that dream.”
He could see her eyes were shiny with tears, and his insides gave a little twist. “The man’s a damned fool,” he said roughly. He tried to think of how to comfort her. “Perhaps it’s for the best,” he tried. “Running a business is a huge risk. You might have lost your investment. People don’t want old trinkets. They want their jewelry shiny and new.”
Her lips trembled, curving as she looked up. Her eyes were bleak. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”
His attempt at comfort was a clear failure. But Alessandro knew words weren’t enough to make anyone forget the loss of a dream. He had no idea how to make Lilley forget her pain. He knew only one way, the same way he used to forget his own.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t allow himself to make love to her.
The orchestra started a new song, and the notes of an exquisite classical waltz swirled around them like cherry blossoms tumbling from the sky. Lilley looked out at the crowded dance floor wistfully.
She’d told him she wasn’t a good dancer, but he didn’t believe that for an instant. He’d seen the sensual way she moved. Even walking, her body swayed like sunset against ocean waves.
But he couldn’t dance with her. His hands tightened at his sides. He was helpless to offer comfort.
Unless he made love to her.
What could it hurt? His lust argued against his brain.
One night of pleasure. A few hours of comfort. One night wouldn’t risk making her fall in love with him. It wasn’t as if she were a virgin.
Although she was shockingly close. Two boyfriends. He still couldn’t believe she’d only been with two men. She truly was innocent. And yet she’d seemed embarrassed of her number. He wondered what she would think if he told her how many women he’d slept with. Something he would never do, even if he knew the number.
“I’m sorry I don’t dance,” he said slowly.
She looked down. “It’s all right.”
The scent of her hair was like wild roses. He moved closer, fascinated by the swoop of her neck, by the snub edge of her chin. Her cheeks blushed a soft pink against creamy skin as her dark eyelashes fluttered. He asked suddenly, “How old are you, Lilley?”
“Twenty-three.” She furrowed her brow. “Why? How old are you?”
“Ancient to you. Thirty-five.”
“Thirty-five, and still not married?” She sounded as astonished as his shareholders. “Where I come from, most people are married by thirty.”
“Advantageous for farm life, I assume.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t exactly come from a—”
“In my world,” he interrupted, “a man marries to ensure his line, to make sure he has a son to inherit his title and estate when he’s dead.”
She flashed him a grin. “Gee, you make it all sound so romantic.”
“It’s not about romance, Lilley,” he said sharply. “Marriage is an alliance. My wife will be a leader in society. An heiress with proper lineage, the future mother to my heir.”
Her grin faded. “Like Olivia Bianchi.”
Even hearing her name irritated him. “Yes.”
Lilley’s eyes were huge beneath the glittering light of the chandeliers. “So if she’s the perfect bride for you, why am I here?”
“She threatened to leave if I didn’t propose, so I told her to go.”
Lilley