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.