Dirty Lies Page 9

  Luca's breath caught, and he gazed again at my breasts. His thumb stroked the edge of my dress as he inched the fabric downward, threatening to expose more skin.

  "I want you," he whispered. "Will you stay tonight? I want you in my bed so I can play with you for hours and hours. Let's go inside. Please? I can beg if you want me to. It'll turn me on to beg you."

  I wriggled out from under him, sat up, and tucked my legs underneath me. I tugged my skirt down. My dress was wrinkled and stuck to my hot skin. I tried, and failed, to catch my breath, instead shuddering out a big, sloppy inhale.

  Being around Luca was overwhelming, and I didn't want to tease him. It wasn't as though I was physically afraid of him. Quite the opposite, in fact. There was an underlying kindness, a gentle undercurrent about him, that made me trust him.

  But…

  "I'm sorry. We need to slow this down." My voice was firm, but inside, I was scattered.

  He sat up and smoothed my tangled hair with a gentle hand. "Don't worry. I have condoms. And I've been tested recently. I went to the doctor when I first arrived on Palmira and I haven't been with anyone in a while."

  I had to admire his honesty, but shook my head. "It's not that. It's…I'm not ready to sleep with you. Please don't be angry."

  "Hey, hey. Mia cara." He took my face in his hands. "I'm not angry. At all. But can I ask why?" He paused. "Are you a virgin?"

  "No."

  He brushed his lips over mine very quickly. "Okay. Are you religious?"

  I shook my head, puzzled.

  "So, you're not attracted to me? You seem like you're attracted to me."

  I rolled my eyes. "I am crazy attracted to you. I think that's why I'm not ready. You kind of scare me."

  "You're attracted to me, but you're not ready to be with me? I don't understand. I'm not trying to scare you."

  "I know you're not. But I don't want just a one-night stand."

  "Okay," he said with a foxy smile. "How about if you stay all weekend? It's only Thursday, so we have until…what? Monday morning?"

  I swatted him on the thigh. "You know what I mean."

  "I guess." He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. "I've found American women are more…I don't know, open about sex."

  That earned him a skeptical smirk. "Yeah, and…?"

  "American women are feminists who like casual sex. So…what happened to you?"

  I raised an eyebrow. "What happened to me?"

  "I assumed you'd be like that."

  "Like what?" My voice was icy. "Easy?"

  He smiled and nodded.

  I sighed. Men could be so obtuse. "Being a feminist isn't about casual sex or no sex. It's about making the best choices for me and my body. That changes from day to day, situation to situation. Right now, in this moment, I'm a bit guarded because of something—someone—in my past. And because I don't know you. And because you have stupid assumptions about American women."

  "Fair enough, I guess." He ran his hand up my bare calf, leaving sparks in its wake, and I shivered. Why couldn't I just be like any other twenty-two-year-old and have a casual hookup?

  "And anyway," I cleared my throat and shifted my leg out of his grasp, "I get the impression you've had lots of sex—and good for you. That's totally cool. But you're a bit judgmental about American women taking control of their bodies and their sex lives."

  He shrugged. I put my hands on the tops of his thighs and rubbed. He sure was sexy, but it seemed he had some caveman-like beliefs. I'd have to prove to him otherwise, if he'd let me.

  "If an American woman wants to sleep around, how is that any different than you, an Italian man, sleeping around and never committing to one woman?"

  Luca lifted his shoulders again.

  "I think that's probably what you want from me anyway. Just sex."

  "How do you know what I want?" he growled.

  I pulled at the hem of my dress. "I don't even know if you have a girlfriend. Or a wife."

  He laughed. "Neither. Promise."

  "Good to know. But I take it you're not looking for one either. And that's okay, because I don't want to get married or anything. I just don't want to be used."

  Luca's expression grew troubled. "I'll admit I can't promise you anything long-term, but not for the reasons you think. I don't want to use you. I don't know how long I'll be on Palmira. I'm hoping a few months. But…I like being with you. I want to make love to you. Let's just see where this goes, no?"

  "I'd like to take it slow," I replied. "You're fun. As far as the sex, you'll have to wait. I'll understand if you don't want to, though." She glanced at him. Maybe he would be honest enough about wanting no-strings-attached sex, say goodbye, and I could move on with a bit of dignity.

  He was silent as he chewed on his bottom lip. I knew this would be our first and last date, because he'd never agree to what I was asking.

  "You're not used to waiting, are you?"

  He shook his head. I re-buttoned part of his shirt because his chest was distracting.

  "Guys like you don't wait, do they?"

  He cocked his head, then answered. "But I will. For you."

  I was shocked into speechlessness, and narrowed my eyes in disbelief.

  He kissed the tip of my nose. "I know you don't believe me. But I'll wait. I think you're worth waiting for. But answer one question. What are you waiting for, Skylar? Why deny yourself pleasure? And weren't you going to use me to get to a good story?"

  "That's three questions."

  He growled and brushed his lips over mine.

  "My last relationship was pretty toxic," I said when he pulled back. My mouth was still tingling. "I want to make sure I'm fucking someone for the right reasons and not because I'm being manipulated or used."

  Luca put his finger to my lips. "Hold on. I'm not going to fuck you. That's not what I want. I'm going to make love to you. Fare l'amore."

  "Hmm." I was skeptical. Wouldn't this be what he'd say if he was a player?

  "Say it in Italian. Fare l'amore." He kissed my nose.

  "Fare l'amore," I repeated.

  "Very nice."

  I shook my head, trying to steel myself against his flirtation. "I don't know. I also want to make sure you don't think I'm boring, or fat, or lame in bed. And I want to make sure you're not…like my ex-boyfriend."

  Luca scowled. "Did your ex tell you that? That you were boring, fat, and lame in bed?"

  I nodded.

  "He's not here on this island, right?"

  I shook my head.

  "Good. Because I'd have to have a word with him, and it probably wouldn't be a pleasant one. In fact, I'd probably want to kill him. And I hate violence. But hearing that makes me angry." He leaned over to gather me in his arms. "You're none of those things, you know that, right? You're the opposite. You're gorgeous. Your body is perfect. I want to devour you."

  "Whatever." I rolled my eyes, but it felt good to hear. "Do you think I'm a tease?"

  "Maybe a little. But teasing isn't a bad thing. It makes me want you more. If you want to tease me, go ahead. I'm looking forward to teasing you too. This will just make it so much sweeter when we do end up together." He kissed me deeply, our tongues tangling, then paused and placed his forehead to mine. "You're going to be the one to decide when we should have sex. If we should. It's all up to you. I'll feel better if you're comfortable and really want to be with me."

  "So…" I stared deep into his eyes, "if I go home now because I feel like things are getting out of control, you'll want to see me again?"

  "Yes."

  "You're not going to pressure me to fuck…uh, have sex every time we're together?"

  He smiled. "Nope. No pressure. But don't mistake that for me not wanting you. Because, when you're ready, I'll be ready. I want you very badly."

  I didn't ask the obvious question, but it loomed in my mind. Would he still be around by the time I was ready for him?

  I didn't ask because I didn't want to know the answer.
/>   Chapter Seventeen

  Sweet Dreams

  LUCA

  I sat alone at the edge of the pool, my feet and calves dangling in the water. I sipped from a full glass of wine, swallowed, then grimaced. A humid breeze barely cooled my hot skin, which still blazed from kissing Skylar goodbye.

  "You're dangerous," she'd whispered to me right before she left.

  "You don't know how dangerous, mia cara," I'd responded. Little did she know…

  Swirling my feet in circles under the water, I wondered why I was so captivated by Skylar. The American girl was frustratingly bewitching. She could turn into a bit of an obsession if the frequency of my thoughts about her were any indication. And all because she kept putting me off.

  Or was there more to it?

  I couldn't get her orange blossom scent off my skin. I could practically feel her breath on my neck and her warm lips on mine. And how she talked, animatedly, about writing and books.

  Her intelligence was a turn-on. And her eyes, big and ocean-colored, made my heart crash around in my chest. I wanted something I'd never desired before: to get to know a woman beyond a quick screw. What made Skylar tick? What motivated her? How had she become so strong after her mother died?

  No matter how many times I'd jerked off to the thought of her, the end result was the same: I wanted her—desired her more each time I saw her.

  It defied explanation and reason.

  When Skylar eventually said yes, the erotic rush would be so worth the wait. She'd let me in, drop that eggshell-thin yet impossibly tough exterior, and reveal her innermost desires. Once she gave herself to me we'd be explosive together.

  Wanting her, and the buildup, would eclipse all my other worries in the coming weeks. Skylar's surrender, her vulnerability and secrets, had the potential to turn me on more than a thousand models. Although…something about her little lecture about feminism and sleeping around unsettled me.

  Did she really think of me as promiscuous? Was I? It had never occurred to me that I had a double standard about promiscuity. How odd, that with a few words, Skylar could make me look at something differently.

  Still, I'd have to soon tell her I definitely couldn't get serious. The thought of having that conversation made me feel guilty, because I hadn't been totally upfront like I normally prided myself on being. I was a hypocrite because of my circumstances. I wished my life wasn't so screwed up, otherwise I'd just let the relationship unfold normally. Like a well-adjusted man.

  I glanced down at my phone, wondering if she'd actually text like I asked to confirm she'd arrived back at her condo safely. I sighed at the phone's blank screen and swiped at an app, making sure my incoming and outgoing text messages were encrypted.

  Her safety was a priority, even though she wasn't aware of it. Plus, her confession about her parents and ex-boyfriend had touched something soft and protective inside me. She was alone, with no one to look out for her.

  Skylar was like me in more ways than one. Broken. Hurt. Maybe not as broken and hurt as I was, but there was a melancholy in her. I could make her joyful for a while, if only she'd let me. God knows she'd already lifted my mood.

  So, I'd wait. It was early August. Skylar was my summer fling. Autumn was still weeks away in Florida.

  My phone buzzed with a text.

  Home safe! Thank you for the amazing dinner! Next time, I'll cook.

  I caught myself smiling. Hell. In the short time I'd known her, she'd affected me like no other woman.

  Maybe I should walk away. That would be the safer route—for both of us.

  After what happened to Annalisa in Italy…

  My mood instantly soured when I thought of the woman I'd slept with a couple years ago while working at the newspaper. We'd been colleagues, and I'd told her I wasn't interested in anything serious, which was my usual speech.

  She'd taken it hard, but we'd eventually parted as friends. She was a fun woman, and a talented writer. Then my book came out and my parents were murdered. A week later came an ominous, anonymous letter saying Annalisa had disappeared. That's when I'd left Italy. That's when I'd realized I couldn't be a normal person anymore.

  It made sense for me to be concerned about Skylar's safety, but my uncle kept reminding me I was secure here. Things seemed calm. Bruno Castiglione was under house arrest and awaiting trial. Surely Skylar wasn't in danger. Right?

  I tapped out a text to her.

  I look forward to your cooking…sweet dreams.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Obsession

  ANNALISA

  When I drove over the bridge to Palmira Island in the rented Toyota, I felt like a caged panther, trapped.

  It was a surprisingly small island. But I wouldn't be here long. Luca would surely want to take me somewhere even nicer. The Caribbean, perhaps?

  Methodically, I drove the road ringing the island, noting all the quaint stores and bars and restaurants.

  Where could Luca be?

  The area was so small, I could practically go door to door looking for him—and I would, if it came to that. Americans were so friendly, surely someone had seen him and would tell me. He'd stand out here like a sparkly vampire in a teen movie, I thought with a laugh, passing retirees on three-wheeled bikes and golf carts. He was probably going crazy on Palmira, bored out of his mind.

  I found the Sand Castle Hotel, which looked both run-down and like a 1960s beach movie set. Online, it had looked quaint and clean. Now, I wasn't so sure, and that sent me into a snit.

  Pouting, I flounced into the office. An older guy at the desk looked up and smiled.

  "I have a reservation. The last name is De Rossi." Of course I would register under a fake name. Why not one similar to Luca's?

  "Yes, miss. You're in room one-ten. Great view of the water and sunsets."

  I filled out the paperwork quickly, thankful I'd taken time to practice my English while in the hospital. My stepfather's words echoed in my mind. You're beautiful and brilliant, but you're just not right in the head.

  "You from Italy?" the hotel desk clerk asked, sucking his teeth.

  I nodded and shot him a tight-lipped smile. "How did you guess?"

  "Your name. Your look. My father was in World War II, and he brought home photos of all the pretty Italian girls. Like you."

  I laughed. Jesus Christ.

  The man slid a key attached to an aqua-colored piece of plastic toward me, then a few tourist brochures and pointed with his pen to a number imprinted on the plastic. "Here's your room. We have breakfast every day from seven to ten. Coffee, pastries, juice. And here's some things to do around Palmira. Of course you'll go to the beach."

  I forced a tight smile. When would he stop talking?

  The man unfolded another brochure. "This is pretty neat. Palmira Preserve. Hardly anyone goes there anymore. There are boardwalks over the swamp. Lots of birds, turtles, big alligators. Might want to check it out if you're looking for something different."

  No fucking way. I shuddered.

  "Tell me…" I scooped up the key and pamphlets, "I heard a well-known Italian-American lawyer has a home here on Palmira. Maybe you know him? Federico Rossi?"

  The man's mouth dropped open and he pointed at me. "That's so funny you ask. I was just reading about him." He turned and rifled through a stack of newspapers on a shelf, then handed me one. "Here. That's the local rag. The Palmira Post. He's got a big case coming up. They did an article."

  I skimmed the front page. There, in full color, was Federico Rossi. He was striking, and his eyes were so similar to Luca's, I almost gasped. Shooting my sexiest, most rewarding smile at the clerk, I lowered my eyes to absorb the headline: PART TIME PALMIRA RESIDENT FILES CLASS-ACTION LAWSUIT ON BEHALF OF PET OWNERS.

  "Oh, miss? I almost forgot. I need a driver's license. Or a passport. For my records."

  "Of course."

  Extracting my Gucci wallet out of my matching purse, I took out the fake license I'd bought on Miami Beach a week before and handed
it to the man, who studied it.

  "Sabrina De Rossi. Any relation to the lawyer?"

  I shook my head. Not yet. "He's Rossi. I'm De Rossi. They're variations on a common name in our country."

  As he scribbled down the pertinent information, I skimmed at the byline on the article. Skylar Shaw. I frowned, wondering if it was a man or a woman's name. Sometimes it was difficult to determine the gender of English names. Skylar. It sounded like a little boy's name. And this Skylar person was another possible way at finding Rossi, and maybe even Luca.

  "How do I get in touch with this reporter?" I asked the clerk, tapping on the newspaper. "Do you know Skylar?" I wasn't even sure I was pronouncing the name correctly.

  The clerk shook his head. "The paper's downtown on Main Street. Near the Bacchus wine bar. I'm sure you could just stop in and ask."

  I carefully tucked the newspaper under my arm and went to my car. I flung the brochures on the dashboard and grabbed my bag. From there, I went to the dank, shabby hotel room, and once inside, sank into a hard chair straight out of a mid-century museum exhibit so I could pore over the newspaper article. The story was all about a pet food lawsuit, Rossi's political ambitions, and his background as a young lawyer.

  Useless.

  Scowling, I took out my phone and pecked out the name "Skylar Shaw," and the words "Palmira Post" into a search engine.

  Check out the latest tweets from Skylar Shaw.

  I tapped on the link. I tapped again to see the profile picture.

  Fuck. Skylar Shaw was a woman. A young, gorgeous woman. A little on the plump side, but definitely pretty. She had big, innocent blue eyes, and I would have liked to be her friend.

  In another lifetime.

  I wished I hadn't seen Skylar's photo. Now I'd obsess all night, maybe all week, that Luca had met this girl. I would think and think and think until the pressure grew too great, and then I would have to slice my skin until I felt calm again.

  Chapter Nineteen