What the hell had she agreed to?
And what was it about the Ryan family that necessitated fake marriages? She’d laughed her ass off when Nick told her he needed to marry in order to inherit their uncle’s company, Dreamscape Enterprises. Thank God, setting him up with Alexa proved to be the best decision, especially when they fell in love and made it real.
Of course, the only reason Alexa agreed to a marriage of convenience with her brother was to save her family. Maggie had no lofty reason to save a business or childhood home. But you have the opportunity to protect family, her inner voice whispered. Alexa and Nick had something real. Michael remained a constant threat: his sensual smile, lilting voice, and come-hither bedroom eyes wrapped her best friend in a false state of protection. Finally, her suspicions confirmed truth.
He admitted he loved her best friend.
When the words fell from his lips, a strange flare of grief pierced her heart. Ridiculous, of course, and she quickly buried the embarrassing emotion. Of course, he wrapped it up in the term friendship, but it was only his way to throw her off base. A powerful man like the count would not be content to wait on the sidelines for long—not if he believed he’d have a shot with the woman he loved. Maggie couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t use the available weapon to keep Michael away from her family.
But at what price? Meeting his sisters and mother. Sleeping in his bedroom. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t?
Her fingers tightened around the glossy pages, and she breathed in through her nose, and out through her mouth. The shrink she’d forced herself to visit prescribed yoga and stress-reducing exercises. She absolutely refused to be medicated and controlled by anxiety. Starting from one hundred and going backward, she forced away the crazed need to gulp for air and reigned herself in. Visualizing her heartbeat slowing, she breathed.
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-seven.
Ninety-six.
Ninety-five.
“Studying for your shoot?”
She waited a few beats until she was under control, then looked up. He leaned back in the seat, one ankle crossed over his knee, a relaxed smile on his face. Funny, she’d always had a thing for long hair on a man, enjoying the modern-day pirate image. His powerful frame was wrapped in a black sports jacket, jeans, and low black boots. His eyes filled with humor as he motioned to her fashion magazine.
A quick lash of irritation caused her to cock her head and adopt a southern drawl. “Sorry, darlin’, pictures are all I can handle. Too many words on a page makes me all aflutter.”
She’d always hated the easy assumption she couldn’t handle literature more challenging than a fashion magazine. Of course, she did nothing to convince anyone otherwise. She boasted no college education and made her own way in the photography world. She liked the control it gave her in a relationship to keep things hidden. Especially her addiction to crossword puzzles and Civil War literature. If only her dates knew she DVR’d the History Channel more than Project Runway.
He reached over to the minibar and poured himself a Scotch with ice. “Nothing wrong with Vogue. It was my sister’s bible.”
“I read, too. The articles in Playgirl are entertaining.”
He laughed, the sound coating her skin like the slow slide of creamy caramel. “Why don’t you tell me a little about your work? How did you end up being a photographer?”
The true answer skittered across her mind but she refused to say it aloud. Because the world was better viewed through a lens? Because photography gave her control to watch others—almost like legal voyeurism? She sipped at her glass of Chianti. “One Christmas I got a Nikon with all the trappings and was told to show up at photography camp for a week. The nanny had a vacation coming and they had no one to watch me, so off I went. The instructor was top rate and taught me a lot. I got hooked.”
His probing stare burned through barriers and demanded the truth. Fortunately, the mess of emotions had been steeped in deep freeze for so many years there was nothing left to show. “Sounds like you received money but no emotional support. The fashion industry is quite competitive, especially in Milan. You must be extremely talented and dedicated to be so much in demand.”
She shrugged. “I’ve always had an eye for fashion.” She gave a fake leer. “Especially ones including muscled, half-naked men.”
Maggie expected a laugh, but he kept quiet and studied her. “Have you ever tried to expand your focus?”
She stretched her legs out and settled back in the comfy seat. “Sure. I’ve done shoots for the Gap and Victoria’s Secret during a dry spell.”
“You don’t like to talk about yourself much, do you, cara?”
The intimate rumble ruffled her nerve endings and made her want things. Bad things. Like his tongue deep inside her mouth and those hands all over her naked body. Oh, this man was good. All charm and humor and sensuality wrapped up in a power package deadly to women. His sinful eyes practically forced confessions from a woman’s lips. “On the contrary. Ask me anything you want. Boxers or briefs? Mets or Yankees? Disco or hip-hop? Hit me with your best shot.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
She refused to hesitate. “My father is on his fourth wife. He loves money, hates work, and only sees me to rack up brownie points with his new wife. Seems she likes family closeness, and he’s trying to make her happy. For now. He’s handsome, charming, and completely empty. My mother envisions herself a celebrity and despises the fact she’s aging and has two grown children. She’s currently shacked up with an actor and begging for two-bit parts as an extra on various sets.”
“And your relationships?” His aura burned with a curiosity that made her uneasy. “What about them, la mia tigrotta? Have you given up on commitment because of your parents?”
Her breath caught at his directness, but she forged on. “I have many healthy relationships on my own terms.” She uttered the lie without a shred of guilt. “Do I believe finding real love in this lifetime is almost impossible? Hell, yes. It’s proven over and over again. Why bother? Why dive into obvious pain and heartache unless you find someone you’d die for? And personally, I don’t think he’s out there. But I have a damn good time finding Mr. Right Now.”
The low hum of the plane’s engine was the only sound between them. “I’m sorry.”
His softly spoken words made her lips tighten. “Why?” she challenged. “I wasn’t beaten, starved, or abused. I grew up in a mansion with nannies, cooks, and any toy I asked for. I do what I want, when I want, and don’t answer to anyone. Why on earth would you be sorry for me? I got more than most.” He nodded, but she sensed he didn’t believe her. “I feel sorrier for you.”
Michael jerked back. “Me?”
“Sure. After all, I already know your secrets.”
The taunt hit the bull’s-eye. He stiffened and deliberately took a sip of his Scotch. “Ah, but I feel the same way. I am what you Americans call an open book.” The matching wedding band flashed as he waved his hand in the air.
She practically purred with the delight of taking the focus off her. “You had a close family with plenty of support. Money and success on your own terms. And you couldn’t find one woman to pretend she loves you for a lousy week. No wonder your mother is insistent on keeping to tradition. Has there been even one serious relationship in your past?”
Anger flashed in his coal-black eyes.
“I date,” he responded coldly. “Just because I haven’t found The One yet doesn’t mean I’m closed off.”
“Nice recovery. So what are you looking for, Count? What type of woman gets you all hot and bothered to settle down?”
He muttered something under his breath, and she settled back to enjoy the show. “I’d love to settle down and give my mother what she wants,” he finally stated. “But not at my expense. You see, cara, I believe in the love you say is impossible. I just believe it’s hard to find, and I refuse to compromise.”
“So all these women you take to your bed, do you seduce them for the challenge, the pleasure, or because you hope she’s The One?”
His eyes glittered as she threw down the gauntlet. Again, he impressed her with his dual ability to switch from smooth charmer to a man who refused to play games. “I hope. I take them to bed, concentrate on their pleasure, and hope in the morning I want more.”
Her breath strangled in her throat. Her surroundings tilted as his words echoed her own empty search for someone to slay the demons in the evening and be enough under the harsh morning light. Her heart galloped but this time it wasn’t panic that caused the blood rush.
It was Michael Conte.
Her fingers clenched around the delicate stem of her glass. The leashed sensuality radiating around his figure pulled her in and kept her caught in his web as he stared at her in sudden realization. “You experience it, too, don’t you?”
His harsh question made her flinch.
“Do you take them to bed to escape the loneliness, hoping it will end up to be more? Do you wake up in the morning with a sick feeling in your stomach, knowing you lied to yourself again? Do you wonder if you’re meant to be alone? Wonder if something deep down is holding you back?”
God, yes.
Sudden tears threatened. The horror of such messy emotion made her fight back for her control. She’d never admit such weakness and want to this man. He’d use it against her, to climb under her skin and probe for secrets. She knew what drove her, knew the empty hole inside of her started at sixteen when a boy she trusted took everything hopeful and good and bright and crushed it beneath his heel. But she’d gotten strong and chosen revenge in her own way. She’d never let anyone take away the choice of her sexuality or her control.
If Michael stripped her bare, she’d have nothing left.
So she smiled and lifted her glass in a salute. “Sorry, Count. I take them to bed because they look good. But thanks for sharing.”
The insult did what she hoped. The openness closed up as if a thundercloud passed over the sun and choked off the light. Her stomach flipped as the gleam of disappointment flashed in his eyes along with a tinge of regret. For one moment, she’d felt more connected with a man than ever before. Even in bed.
“I see. We shall play by the rules then, yes?”
She didn’t answer. With deliberate motions she picked up her magazine and tuned him out. Michael took the hint and they passed the next few hours in silence. Finally, the intercom lit up and the pilot’s voice came over the speaker.
“Sir, we are due to touch down at Orio al Serio within fifteen minutes. Please fasten your seat belts.”
Michael pressed the button. “Thank you, Richard.”
They clipped their buckles. Maggie drained her wine and ignored the empty ache in her gut.
• • •
Michael glanced at the poised woman by his side as he wound his way through the curvy hills toward his home. The top was down, and her gold-red hair blew in the wind in a tangled mass, but she didn’t seem concerned. Her pursed lips told him she was thinking hard, probably getting into character to meet his family. During the last twenty-four hours, he’d learned a lot about Maggie Ryan.