Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

R OCCO'S EYES GLINTED with something like sympathy and Maddie had to fight an urge to slap him. Her fingers tingled and she wrapped one hand firmly around her champagne flute, just in case she gave into temptation.

"I think we've established that."

She let out a slow breath. "How did you even find these houses?" She muttered, changing tack. "Why this street? There are hundreds in the area that would suit your purposes."

"True," he agreed.

"So why Honeybee Lane?"

"I'd been looking for an opportunity such as it presented for a long time."

She rolled her eyes. "It's not an opportunity; it's where we live."

"Both can be true at the same time."

She sipped her champagne.

"There are relatively few houses, for the size of the street—meaning fewer owners to win over—the fact it's directly across from the beach. But I had also been dealing with a couple of realtors and knew of two residents in the street looking to move on. That left only eleven other homeowners to convince. Given the state of several of the houses, I suspected funds had tightened— out of step with the value of the land."

She gaped at him. "That's kind of cynical."

"It's very normal, in fact. When an area becomes valuable, in terms of real estate but the professions and lifestyles of occupants don't keep up. When people learn they're living on a gold mine, it's very tempting to take the money and run."

"And you've offered so much money."

"I've offered above market value, in order to effect a quick settlement."

"Why does it have to be quick?"

"Because time is money. I've already spent more time on this than I wanted," he said, and there was something in his tone that told Maddie his confession had been accidental. Unintended and unwanted? Regretted, even.

"Is there something more important you need to move onto?" She pushed, enjoying the fact that her grandfather's reticence to accept the deal might be causing the suave, sexy, arrogant Rocco Santoro some inconvenience.

"It is simply a question of value."

"I'm sorry if my grandfather's legacy is boring to you."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did. You just admitted that time is money and I'm wasting your time."

"Well, if we are to call a spade a spade, I believe that's exactly what you're doing."

She gasped. " You're the one who invited me here!"

"I do not mean this, here, with you and me," he ground out. "I mean the house. You are prevaricating because you do not wish to sell, when you know it is the right thing to do. You are hesitating because you need time to come to terms with the sale, but the sale is inevitable."

"I don't believe that" she whispered, though on so many levels, deep, deep down, she had to admit that he was probably right. She couldn't stop the inevitable, and the idea of living in the house, surrounded by some modern monstrosity he constructed on either side, filled her veins with ice. Not to mention what the surrounding development would do to the sale value of the house. It would tank it—because who'd want to live somewhere like that? And whatever nest egg Jack had built up by investing so wisely would be ruined. Because of her.

Because of her inability to let go of the house that had become a safety shell for her. A space of heart—a home when she had been utterly cast adrift.

He was right, and that only served to make her furious.

"I think you do. I think this is all about you, not your grandfather. Why is that, Maddie? Why is it that a grown woman who should be an independent part of the world is so wedded to the practical decisions of her grandparent? Why is it that you care so very much what happens to your grandfather's house?"

Without any effort, he'd homed in on the crux of this issue. She floundered, looking for a response. "Shouldn't I care?"

"Care, yes," he amended with impatience. "But why overrule him?"

"He's never told me he wants to sell," she muttered.

"That's not the same thing as whether or not you know it to be true."

She threw back the remainder of her champagne and then glared at him with all her frustration and anger.

"You have a floristry business—a successful business at that."

"How do you know whether I'm successful or not?"

"You have a large number of five-star reviews."

Her jaw dropped. "You looked me up?"

"Do you really think there's any stone I will leave unturned in trying to get this sale across the line?"

"Including seducing me?" she demanded.

He stood up then, and the veneer of his suave sophistication was nowhere to be seen. Rocco was all feeling; a brooding, angry billionaire, moving his large, powerful body closer to hers. "I literally told you two minutes ago that what's happening between us is a separate issue."

"What if I don't believe you?"

His nostrils flared. "You're the one who accused me of sleeping around; do you think I'm so hard up for female companionship that I would need to target a woman I'm otherwise at loggerheads with?"

"No, but it wouldn't surprise me if you were so arrogant you thought sleeping together would make me fall head over heels in love with you."

He visibly paled, blanching before her eyes. "I'm not—love is not something either of us is discussing."

That was very true, but also very interesting, because he said the word as though it were a poisoned chalice. And how could she fail to notice? Nor to be interested in what that revealed?

"And my interest in you tonight is purely physical."

"Then why are we talking about his house?"

"You brought it up."

"I—," she had, but mainly because she needed to solve the riddle, to work out how to get rid of Rocco. Only, the more time they spent together, the more she realized that wasn't going to happen. And if it did, it would be to Jack's detriment.

She ground her teeth together, so angry with him for the position he'd maneuvered her into.

"I wish you'd never found Honeybee Lane."

"Believe me, cara, right now, so do I."

"Charming," she scoffed.

He glared directly at her, so their eyes met and the air between them ignited with a thousand sparks.

"But I did find it, and I am one house away from owning the whole damned street, so let's not keep talking about it as though there's a purpose to such conversations."

God, how she hated him in that moment. Hated him with a passion that was wild and lurid, bright and shimmering. Hated him with all the intensity of the lonely little girl she'd once been, rejected by her own mother and left with an indelible sense that no one would ever really love her enough to stay with her.

She jerked her gaze away from him, glaring across the bar, but it did nothing to quell the racing of her heart.

"Come upstairs with me," his voice grew thick, his accent heavy and rich with a need that she understood. Despite her anger and hatred, that very same need was tightening in her chest, making her whole body thrum with a heady rush of longing.

Fight it, her brain whispered. Succumb to it, the rest of her pleaded.

"I will never forgive you for this," she said, pressing a finger to his lips because she needed him to hear that. No matter what happened between them, no matter what came next, it was important to Maddie that Rocco understood: he was persona non grata to her, and always would be.

"Do you think you are the first person to say that to me? Part of my job is to make enemies."

"And you're okay with that?"

He opened his mouth, his intelligent eyes probing hers, and then he grinned. The kind of grin designed to dissolve any resistance, like caustic soda on grease. She felt herself bubbling and humming, she felt her brain power growing smaller and smaller so only her body's pleas remained.

"It is as it is. Everyone has their role to play: in my family, I'm the negotiator."

"Bulldozer, more like," she muttered, but his words were less an answer and more a path of questions. What was his family like? Why did he have to do this role? Did he like it? Did he regret it?

"Are you feeling pressured?" his voice was gentle—dangerously so. She could spar with him when he was arrogant. But when he softened…

She nodded once. "Obviously."

"You mean?—,"

"I mean about the house," she clarified. Because he was right; this was something else. Standing so close, being near to him, smelling him, wanting him to touch her. It was intoxicating and merciless, but totally unrelated to the business they had to deal with. "Isn't that the point of being a skilled negotiator?"

He dropped his head then, so his lips pressed to the flesh just below her ear and she startled, almost jumping out of her skin. She was so sensitive there, and his touch was somehow so intimate, so passionate, so everything. She hadn't been expecting it.

"I would prefer it to have been a seamless transaction," he muttered. "But then, we would never have come to know one another."

"You wouldn't have cared," she said, forcing herself to remember that. "You would have met several other women in the time we've known each other."

"Perhaps not several," he growled against her flesh, his hand moving to the small of her back, guiding her forward.

She hated this man. She hated him, and what he was forcing her to do with Jack's house, she hated his plans for the sweet, seaside hamlet, his ruthless commitment to development and progress; she hated him in so many ways, but she couldn't fight her body's desire for him. She didn't want to. Was he right? Could these be two very distinct things?

"And I am glad I met you," he admitted. "Even if you are a total pain in my ass."

She pulled back and surprised them both by laughing. Laughing, because he was right—she supposed she could see that, from his perspective. And how inexplicable her resistance must have seemed, regarding the sale of the house.

"Believe me, that's mutual. In fact, you're such a pain in the ass, I wish we'd never met, but I suppose seeing as we have, there's no point ignoring the silver lining in all this."

"Which is?"

Her response? To bunch her hands into the front of his shirt and pull him towards her, kissing him with all of her angry, desperate, hungry, resolute passion. Kissing him without any care for the fact they were in a swanky, busy bar. Kissing him because, in truth, she'd been waiting all day to do exactly that, only this time, she didn't want it to end.

She'd seen his hotel room once before, and even if she hadn't, this was not the time to observe the details. The moment the elevator doors pinged open, and they stepped into the luxurious suite, Rocco was lifting her against his chest—so broad and strong—and carrying her with long, impatient strides towards a door that sat slightly ajar. He shouldered it inwards to reveal a large bedroom with exquisite views of Manhattan, placed her on the edge of the bed, then stepped back to study her.

"Do you need more reassurance?" She asked, standing when he'd sat her down. Standing to be his equal, standing to get closer to his eye height. Standing because she didn't want him to change his mind, now, of all times. Don't let him get an attack of conscience when they'd spent the last few minutes kissing like desperate teenagers, and she was so hungry for him she couldn't believe it.

A muscle throbbed in his jaw. She reached for the buttons of his shirt and began to unfasten them, one by one. His chest jerked as he sucked in a sharp breath and she bit back a smile; a deep, curdling sense of satisfaction. If she was willing to eat out of the palm of his hand, then he was likewise.

"I trust you," he said, after a beat.

It was a strange thing to say, and yet Maddie liked hearing it.

"You tell me this means nothing? I believe you. You tell me you can separate this," he gestured from his chest to hers, "from the house? Good. Because you need to understand both of these statements are true for me."

Her eyes lifted to his. On one hand, how could she not find that slightly offensive? On the other, his honesty was refreshing. He was a wolf in wolf's clothing, unlike Brock, who'd pretended to be something so soft and gentle. Who'd pretended he was decency personified and then turned into the devil when she'd broken up with him.

Maddie pushed the thought aside; this was not the time to think of Brock, nor his awful betrayal of her trust.

"We understand one another," she agreed, pushing his shirt off to reveal a tanned, hair-roughened chest that took her breath away. Her fingers ran over it of their own accord, and a thousand bolts of lightning seemed to ignite in her bloodstream.

He had the physique of a man who engaged in some kind of demanding physical job. He wasn't honed as a man who worked out in a gym might be, but rather well-built. Strong all over, defined, muscular without being sculpted. It was sexy as all get out, but more than that, it spoke to some deeply concealed, unwanted, primal part of Maddie's psyche that yearned to be protected and cossetted. It spoke to the woman inside of her who'd sought protection all her life—from her mother's partner, from loneliness, and then from Brock.

It was a ridiculous way to feel, particularly because it was inspired by the mere sight of his broad, ruggedly naked chest, so she refused to dignify it with any more examination. He was just a man, she was a woman, and this was just one night.

Rocco rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, biting back the string of Italian curse words that had threatened to explode from between his lips.

What the hell had that been?

Sex.

Just sex, he reminded himself. Ignoring memories of the way it had felt to plunge deep inside her tightness, to feel her muscles squeeze his length, to feel her lose herself again and again as he shifted and moved. Her abandon, her total euphoria, her pleasure, her willingness to give. For the first time in a long time, Rocco had needed to concentrate not to come within a minute of taking a woman. He wasn't a teenager any longer; it had been a long time since he'd felt inexperienced and gauche, but sex with Maddie had been a revelation. She'd stirred parts of him he hadn't known existed, and when finally, he'd given into his body's urges—or at least stopped fighting them with every fiber of his being—he'd exploded in a triumphant burst of release that had surely been felt on the moon.

It was totally unexpected.

He enjoyed sex. A lot. He was able to say that he was experienced and knew how to pleasure a woman, and he knew that chemistry varied. He'd also known that something about Maddie called to him and had done from the first moment she'd stormed into his life, looking at him as though he were the devil incarnate.

But he'd expected this to be a tension release. The lifting of a pressure valve; a way to get the sex out of the way and focus on the business at hand. He'd presumed they could sleep together and move on.

Now that he'd had her? Moving on was the last thing Rocco Santoro wanted. At least, it was for now…

She was still on his mind the next day, when a call came in from his youngest brother, Rafaello. So much so, Rocco thought about not answering. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't want to do anything that might dispel the memories of how being with Maddie had felt. Her skin, so soft, like velvet. Her touch, so uncertain at first, so sweetly tentative, and so boldly possessive by the end.

The end.

He frowned, because he'd woken up to find her gone. Disappointment had seared him; he'd expected to wake up and roll over, wrap an arm around her, and draw her back to his body. He'd craved her; yearned for her, and not being able to have her had put him in the kind of mood one didn't easily shake.

He stared at his phone, showing his brother's face, and reached for it just seconds, surely, before the ringing would stop, swiping to answer.

"Ciao," he greeted, his voice unintentionally curt.

"Rocco. You're busy?"

He closed his eyes and saw Maddie's face. He opened them again, swiftly. "Always. What's up?"

"I won't keep you long."

Rocco felt a hint of guilt. None of this was Raf's fault. Not the Hamptons deal taking way longer than it should have, not the situation with Maddie, none of it. "Nah, it's all good. How's things?" He made an effort to soften his tone, to relax—or at least sound it. And in doing so, he realized that Raf's voice was the opposite.

"I have news."

Rocco sat a little straighter in his chair, his eyes hitched to the view without really seeing it. "Yeah?"

"Marcia and I?—,"

Have broken up, Rocco mentally supplied, internally celebrating this news. "Yeah?"

"We're getting married."

Rocco's eyes swept shut once more, his whole face scrunching up in a physical rejection of that. NO. He wanted to pull rank, to tell his brother there was no way he'd let the marriage go ahead. He'd been a de facto father to both his younger brothers for long enough to feel that was his right. Marcia? Marrying Raf? Rocco couldn't allow it.

"She's pregnant," Raf continued. "It was…unplanned."

Rocco's gut churned. Pregnant. A baby. Everything shifted, and he felt his brother's conundrum. Or perhaps it wasn't a conundrum for Raf. Not in the way it would have been for Rocco. Raf had been seeing Marcia a long time. Far longer than anyone thought it would last. He obviously saw something in her that no one else did.

"I see." It was the best he could do. It wasn't the hearty congratulations a happy engagement warranted, but Rocco was not able to lie easily. Particularly not to his brother. "Are you happy?"

"What kind of question is that?"

An appropriate one, Rocco thought, wincing. Because it was hardly the response of a deliriously content groom-to-be.

"We're going to do it quickly. Next week, I guess."

Rocco nodded, brushing a hand over his chin. With Marcia's pregnancy, he could understand why time might be a factor.

"Where?"

"Gianni and Maria's."

"No pizza though, right?" Rocco quipped. Their uncle Gianni made famously terrible pizza, always opting to experiment with the toppings and combining the strangest of things.

"Definitely not. I have no idea what the wedding will look like," Raf said. "It's all happened so quickly. I suppose Marcia will have ideas."

"Brides tend to, don't they?" Especially brides like Marcia, who'd been angling for a proposal for almost as long as she'd known Raf. And now, she was pregnant. Well, that was one way to seal the deal, Rocco thought, catching the ungenerous thought and strangling it before it could take hold. A baby was always something to be celebrated; that would be his focus.

"She mentioned something about a wedding planner in Rome," Raf continued. "I guess they'll do all the heavy lifting."

Rocco sat a little straighter and then, because ideas were like lightning, and the electricity of a thousand volts was flooding his body, he stood, unable to contain himself. Weddings meant flowers. Lots of flowers. "I know someone," Rocco said, slowly, when the idea was exploding inside of him. Too fast to question if it was wise. Too fast to think it through properly. "An exceptional florist. Let me gift you her for the wedding."

"A florist?"

"Well, the flowers," he amended. As he said it, he imagined Maddie having to work with Marcia and almost wanted to retract the offer. But wasn't it the kind of opportunity dreams were made of? To travel to Italy and do the flowers for a wedding like this? High society, it would be in the magazines; she'd have an unlimited budget to create something spectacular.

And? A little voice prompted.

And, he admitted to himself, he'd have her in Italy. To seduce in his bed and convince about the house, all at his leisure…

It was the perfect plan.

"Actually, that would mean a lot to Marcia. I know how the family feels about her. I know, I get it—she can be…abrasive, at first. A gift from you would go a long way to making her feel welcome."

"Of course," Rocco grimaced, ashamed of how little his thoughts had been for his brother's bride. "You're marrying her, Raf. If I'm honest, she's not who I thought you'd end up with, but that doesn't matter. It's your life, your choice." He frowned, stroking his chin, before finishing the call with words he discovered were true after all, "I'm happy for you."

And he was.

The fact that one of them had managed to salvage a somewhat normal approach to the concept of relationships and marriage after what their father had put them through was a good thing. For Rocco's part, having seen their father's never-ending string of women after their mother's death had done something to his concept of relationships. The very idea of ‘happily ever after' was anathema to him. He preferred ‘happily for now', and usually ‘right now'. As in, for a night or two.

Because he was the oldest, and he'd seen beyond his father's cavalier treatment of whomever he was sleeping with at the time. He'd seen the way he'd fallen apart after the accident that had killed their mother. Rocco had witnessed the old man drinking, more and more each night, grieving in a way that was impossible to stop. Grieving in a way that prevented him from being there for his sons, who were also in mourning, for they had buried their beloved mother.

Rocco saw that pain and wore it like a visceral scar. His mother had died, and his father might as well have. From that moment on, any indication of the man Matteo Santoro had once been had evaporated, like ash in the wind.

He'd never imagined himself settling down, getting married, having children. It simply wasn't a part of what he wanted in life. Instead, he gave all of himself to his work. To the family. To making money. It was where he poured all of his energy, and how he measured his success in life, why he was so ruthlessly determined to succeed, no matter the cost.

Why the current predicament on this Hamptons deal was driving him crazy.

Perhaps another man would have walked away years ago; but not Rocco. He knew what the potential was for this development, and he'd move hell and high water to see it through.

But then, there was Maddie. Any success he had on this project would always have come at a cost. He never got involved on a personal level—it had never been necessary. Money talked.

Not with old Jack. And not with Maddie. It wasn't moving the dial, not like he'd hoped. The only thing that seemed to get through to Maddie was when Rocco pushed her on what was best for Jack. And Jack was entirely concerned with what Maddie wanted. They were family and they loved one another. That wasn't a foreign concept to Rocco. Despite his father's failings, Rocco, Francesco, and Raf had been brought under the wing of their aunt and uncle. They'd spent much time with their cousins. Rocco understood the value of family, and the importance of duty to them. He wouldn't let his family down by failing in this deal. He just needed to make sure Maddie could come out of it with everything she needed to walk away happy.

He didn't want to think back to his time with her with guilt.

He didn't want to think of her at all, damn it, when this was over. He needed to get her out of his system, and wrap this thing up, so he could move on with his life. Another deal, another project, another woman. That's just how Rocco lived—and always would.