A Weekend of Misbehaving by Carmen Falcone

Author:Carmen Falcone [Falcone, Carmen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2016-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Why the hell did he admit to wanting her badly? Why on earth would he give her so much power by voicing his raging desire? Lorenzo curled and uncurled his fists and couldn’t help stealing a glance at Alice’s ass once again. No underwear. That revelation had been a blow below the belt. Well, so was his painful hard-on. No pun intended.

He was grateful he had been able to pull his coat together from both sides, and he visualized cock-blocking images all the way from the gardens to the party indoors.

First things first. They couldn’t just disappear from view. He had performed poorly at the soccer match, and he couldn’t afford to not impress Viola. Especially since Joan had been smart enough to pretend she was interested in a friendship with Alice. What if she discovered Alice was, in fact, his nanny? His whole plan would be compromised—and he would become a laughingstock.

Barbara was bragging about being super close to sealing the deal with Viola when he and Alice joined the other guests at the table. He would have chosen to sit far away from Paul, but as the host had shown him in the beginning, they were assigned the same table.

“She should announce her decision tomorrow,” Barbara said, tossing her hair to the side. “Well. Make it official, I mean. It’s a slam dunk.”

“Good for you,” Joan said, then moved on to ask Alice something about her costume.

Lorenzo looked at the bubbly champagne and was about to take it to his lips, when Paul said, “Lorenzo, what part of Italy are you from?”

With a sigh that didn’t disguise his annoyance for one bit, Lorenzo gave the man sitting across from him a glance before downing the champagne, a tad quicker than what was considered polite. “Southern.”

“Interesting. Where exactly?”

Lorenzo cut into his medium steak. “Why?”

Paul flashed a grin. “Curiosity. I Googled you and couldn’t find the answer. I figured if you were from a dinky little town, the residents would probably be proud of who you became.”

“Cut the crap, Smythe,” he said, so low he imagined only the slimy little weasel heard him. He brought a bite of tender meat to his lips and chewed on it to keep from saying anything else. Testa di cazzo! If Paul discovered anything—

“So direct, Lorenzo. I must say I find it most intriguing you’re so eager to buy those paintings. The artist is a no-name. But you said you are not interested in selling.” Paul leaned back in his chair, and a glint of amusement hit his eyes.

Be cool. If he let his hot blood get the best of him, Paul’s suspicions would only increase. “You shouldn’t believe everything I say, Smythe.”

“Shouldn’t I? Because if you are indeed keeping it to yourself, one must conclude you are personally invested in that art. Why, I wonder?” Paul scratched his chin and peered at the ceiling, as if he was trying to figure it out.

Without waving at the waiter, Lorenzo grabbed the bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilling inside the silver ice bucket and poured himself some more.

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