Secrets and Seduction Las Vegas (Sexy Italian Imports Book 1) (19 page)

“Please, be careful. Monica is worried about you, and I am, too. You’ve led such a sheltered life, I can see this man trying to take advantage of you.”

“I’m going into this relationship with my eyes wide open, Mother.”

“Yes, but sometimes men have a way of…luring you to do what they want. Your hormones take over, and pretty soon, you’re…” She leaned forward again and whispered, “…pregnant. And alone.”

“Yes, Mother. I watch soap operas, too.”

She pointed her finger. “Don’t discount this, Valerie. Antonio was a gentleman that evening at your house, but I just don’t know that he’s the right kind of man for you.”

She furrowed her brow. “What kind of man do you think is right for me?”

“Well, a professional, for instance—another doctor, or someone with a higher education.”

“Antonio has a Masters in Creative Writing.”

Dena waved a hand as if that degree didn’t count. “I know, but I mean a business professional. Upscale.”

“Writing bestselling novels is not professional enough?” She looked down at her hands, not realizing she’d been nervously wringing her napkin under the table. She smoothed it back onto her lap.

“You know what I mean. He’s the arty type. Moody, unstable, no real place in the community.”

“I don’t find that an issue.”

Dena put her hands palms up on the table. “You should be dating someone who’s made a name for himself the way you and Monica have—a prominent citizen.”

“I see what you’re saying, but I don’t agree.”

“Okay.” Dena sat back in her chair. “Imagine marrying Troy and having children. What a good father he’d be. But now imagine marrying Antonio.”

Oddly, she couldn’t. She wasn’t able to picture herself walking down the aisle toward Antonio.

Dena continued. “From what Monica said, he’s not the marrying kind. And even less the father figure you’d want for your children.”

Her mother made a good point. Their dinners arrived, and she pushed her squash ravioli around her plate. What was she doing chasing after a man like Antonio? Could she imagine him evolving, changing into a person she’d want to marry? And have children with?

She sensed her mother watching her.

“Valerie, please just promise me you’ll think about this a little more. I don’t want to see you hurt. Maybe there’s a man out there who can give you everything you want: a romantic life and a family life, too. Someone who embodies the best features of Troy and Antonio.”

Taking the easy way out of the conversation, she nodded. “I’ll think about it, Mom.”

“Really?” Dena patted Valerie’s hand. “Oh, I’m so glad, dear. Monica and I are very concerned about you.”

But despite Dena and Monica’s best intentions, all they did was feed the kernel of doubt that was already planted in Valerie’s mind.

Chapter
Sixteen

Valerie headed to Antonio’s after work on Thursday. She punched in the code he gave her for the underground parking, pulled into the empty spot next to his garage, and rode the elevator up. She smiled and carefully tucked the card with the codes into her purse. Silly, but it meant a lot for him to trust her with access to his home.

When the elevator doors opened, she stepped out and saw him walking toward her in his usual T-shirt and worn jeans. Barefoot, sexy, and more determined than she ever saw him before. He advanced on her, and she felt a chill ripple through every nerve. Her nipples hardened, and her blood pooled in her belly. God, he made her hot.

He pulled her into his arms, put his hand in her hair. “Baby, I’ve missed you.” His eyes searched her face like he wanted to memorize her features. He touched his lips to hers, once gently then, with a groan, he took what he wanted. His lips molded hers, his tongue entered her mouth and found hers, teased it, circled it, touched her teeth. He spread his legs apart, put a hand on her bottom, and pulled her hips to his. His hard arousal pressed against her muff.

Her purse hit the floor. She grabbed on to him, overheating, every inch of her skin sensitive. She wanted to be in his bed, tangling naked in the satin sheets. Another shiver rippled through her body, and she felt herself becoming wet between her legs.

“Burning,” he said against her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered. How could he tell? She teased his lips with her tongue.

“My dinner,” he clarified. “It’s burning.” He laughed softly, removed his lips from hers, and smiled.

She felt the room tilt. “Oh.” She smelled the aroma of something spicy and mouth-watering. “Sorry.”

He picked up her purse and put his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll get back to this later.” He led her into the kitchen, pulled out a barstool, grabbed her waist, and lifted her onto it. Standing at the stove, he moved pans around.

She bit her lip, tempted to ask him to turn the burners off so they could get back to
it
right now, but she held back. Something always held her back with him. What was it?

“What is it?” she asked instead. “It smells wonderful!”

“I’m making for you…” He thickened his Italian accent. “…my own recipe for
Cacciucco
.”

“Tell me what that is.”

“It’s a fish stew from Tuscany. Wine?”

“Yes, please. May I help?”

He handed her a glass of white wine. “This one’s all mine. You just sit there and look beautiful.” He leaned over the counter, she leaned forward, and they kissed. It was the sweetest kiss she’d ever shared.

He went back to cooking.

She closed her eyes for a second and sniffed. “I smell onion and garlic and…parsley?”

“Very good. And I added tomatoes, red wine, and hot red peppers.”

“Spicy.”

“Like me?” He turned from the stove and winked at her.

“Si. Tonto spinto.”

He gave her a look. “After we eat, I’ll show you how spicy.”

Her breath came faster, her body tingled.

He took thick slices of toasted bread out of the oven, rubbed garlic on them, and set them in the bottom of two deep, white bowls. “I hope you brought your toothbrush,
bella
. You’re going to have a lot of garlic on your sweet tongue.”

She reached in her purse on the back of the chair and held up a toothbrush. “Yup.”

“Mmmm. What else did you bring?”

She teased, “I used your packing list. Toothbrush, bathing suit, condoms, and clean underwear.”

He stopped, completely still, and stared at her. “You test me, woman.” His voice came out deep, quiet. “A man can only stand so much.” He turned back to the stove.

She sipped her wine and taunted, “Before what?”

He looked at her, fire sparking in his eyes. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, jitters of anticipation making her stomach tingle. Yes, she would find out very soon.

He set two steaming bowls of red chowder on the counter, refilled her wine, and sat next to her.

Lifting his glass to hers, he stared deep into her eyes. “Tonight, Valerie.”

She smiled. “Tonight.” Touching her glass to his, the ting of crystal buzzed like the excitement she felt. The intensity of his gaze potently reminded her what would happen. Tonight.

“Eat,” he said. “Tell me how you like it.”

She took a hot spoonful, blew on it, and tasted. “It’s fabulous! Spicy hot. It’s delicious.”

“I’m glad you like it. I haven’t made it in a while. Thought I forgot the recipe.”

“I’d love to have it. I’d like to publish a cookbook someday.”

“When you’re ready, I’ll have my agent contact you. We’ll get you on the shelf in record time.”

She loved how he took charge of situations. “Did you write today?”

“A few pages.”

“How far along is the book?”

“Almost half finished.”

“Really? You write fast. May I read it?”

He avoided her gaze and sipped his wine. She could feel his sudden withdrawal. When he finally looked at her, his brows drew together. “It’s difficult for me to let anyone read—” He stopped when his phone rang, got up and picked it up off a side table, and looked at the caller ID. “Huh. Odd. It’s my parents. Do you mind if I take this?”

“Of course not.”

“Pronto!?”
His face creased with worry. “Is he all right?” He asked it in Italian.

Something was wrong. She got up and stepped quietly from the kitchen into the living room and took stock of the masculine, modern furniture. She’d be more comfortable on the couch in the bedroom. Wandering in, she glanced at the bed.

“Tonight.” He’d promised her that, and she couldn’t wait to take him up on the offer.

She sat on the ottoman and picked up a couple magazines from the table. The issue with her name in it sat on top, and papers were sticking out of it at the page where, next to her photo, she was listed as one of the top psychologists in Vegas.

A small slice of unease had her heart beating faster.

She glanced at the paper. She’d taken handwriting analysis classes as part of her holistic approach to her doctorate. His cursive told her exactly what she already knew about him: bold, masculine, creative. Something caught her eye. The word “psychologist.” She looked at the top.
Never Too Famous to Die
, outline.

This must be the outline of his book. She read the first sentence. “Las Vegas’ Psychologist to the Famous, Mallory Tate, has kept her patients’ secrets long enough.” Was this about her?

She looked out toward the kitchen and heard him speaking in Italian. She didn’t want to snoop, but her curiosity got the best of her. The outline went on to detail how Mallory burned out mentally dealing with the narcissistic stars she counseled. She listened to their selfish whining too long and decided it was time to end their suffering.

Mallory began videotaping the sessions with her famous patients and blackmailing them.

“Oh, God, no.” That slice of unease swelled to a breathless panic.

Once she accumulated millions in her Swiss bank account, she left a trail as though she skipped town. Disappeared. But she was still here. Her sister, a prominent Las Vegas plastic surgeon, remade her face so she could continue to live in Vegas as a rich widow. Then the murders started. With her sister’s help, Mallory began killing the stars one by one.

Valerie was shocked. Did this prove that Antonio was the blackmailer? All this time, was he was playing her, using her profiles and the personal things she told him about herself to write his book?

She started breathing too fast and her gaze shot around the room. Maybe her mother was right. Who was this man? What did she really know about him? Who had she gotten herself involved with? Was he some kind of psychopath?

She scanned the outline again, her heart racing, a sick, numb sensation creeping under her skin. Her brain snapped into a dizzying panic mode and headed for an anxiety attack. She pinched her wrist where the reflexology would stop the attack, and she fought to get her breathing under control.

Hearing his footsteps on the hardwood floor coming toward the bedroom, her panic swelled, enveloping her. Her mouth dried, her muscles tensed. Pinching as hard as she could, she forced her breaths to become slower but couldn’t stop the lightheadedness. She needed more oxygen, wanted to run, had to hide.

Antonio came into the room. “My father. He went into a ditch on his bicycle and broke his arm.”

She blinked, trying to pay attention to what he said, but, in the midst of a full blown anxiety attack, nothing registered.

Then he noticed. “Valerie, sweetheart! What’s wrong?”

She knew what he saw. Beads of sweat glowing on her chalk-white face, her eyes wild, her stiff body, one hand bruising the other, hanging on as if it were a lifeline. And her breathing, it sounded like a train to her ears.

He knelt at her feet, his face a mask of concern. Her instinct told her to jump up, get as far away from him as possible, but she’d faint if she stood right now.

He touched her shoulders. “What can I do? What’s going on?”

“Anxiety attack,” she choked, and just doing that eased her tension enough that she could begin to bring herself under control.

“What do you need?”

She looked at him. God, she knew so little about him. “Explain this to me,” she managed between gasps. She touched the sheets of paper sticking out of the magazine: the outline of his book.

The look on his face told her he knew exactly what he’d written on those pages. He stood, took the magazine, and opened it.

“This is something I jotted down weeks ago.”

“Then why is it in a magazine published this week?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is this what your new book is about?”

“No.” He looked at her strangely. “I asked you not to read my work.”

“No, you didn’t!” Her voice came out loud as the panic seized her again, and, though she fought to calm herself, her brain misfired. All she could see was his duplicity. “Is the blackmail all part of your research? Was Betina going to be in your book, then I came along and you conjured up a new plot?”

“You’re talking crazy. I’m not the blackmailer. Just calm down, and we can—”

“Do you want to crucify me? And my sister? This book would ruin both our reputations in Las Vegas. Mallory Tate—Valerie Kane. How transparent is that? You have no idea how celebrities guard their privacy. Any hint of impropriety on my part me would be spread so quickly, I’d be blacklisted.”

He stood motionless as rock. “I never meant to write the book.”

She unsteadily got to her feet and walked to the back of the couch, hanging on to it for support. “How am I supposed to believe that when you keep so many secrets from me?” Her voice was loud; she barely recognized it through the ringing in her ears. “You see my name in the magazine and think about how much money you can make. And it wouldn’t matter anyway. By the time the book came out, you’d be done with me, right?”

“Don’t make assumptions about me, Valerie.” She heard the barely leashed anger in his tone, but she was just as angry and twice as scared.

“Assumptions based on your past history? Tell me you don’t discard women quickly.”

“That’s my past.” He took a step toward her. “Things are different between us.”