“Do you think I was born yesterday? I know you very well. I’m sick of your shenanigans. If your father hadn’t already paid for your year abroad, I wouldn’t let you go to California. You may fool him into believing you’re going for your education, but I know all you care about is parties and sleeping around.”

I pull my arm from her grasp and rub the sore spot. I’ll have an angry red mark there, but that’s not what’s making my eyes burn. “Go ahead, Mother, just call me a whore.”

“You sound so offended,” she sneers. “I know very well what you were up to in Milan. Your cousin filled me in on the sordid details.”

“Paola is a fucking liar!” I finally lose control of my emotions.

Fury flickers in my mother’s eyes. She grabs my chin, digging her long nails into my skin painfully. “You’d better watch your tongue. I’ll not tolerate that kind of filthy language.”

I step back, freeing myself from her sharp talons. There are so many things I want to say, but the words get lodged in my throat. Yes, I have ulterior motives for going to California. I want to escape all the fucking stares and gossip from All Saints. Thanks to my cousin’s lies, everyone thinks I’m a nympho. The distance is also a great motivator. Maybe with an entire ocean and country between us, my family will forget I exist.

“Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll make sure to keep my profanities to a minimum.” I turn on my heels and flee back to the house. I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

I don’t find Max and Alistair anywhere, and for that, I’m grateful. If Max sees me in this state and the mark on my arm, he’s going to lose his shit. He’s another one who hasn’t been very lucky in the parental department. While my mother abuses me mostly with words, Max’s father enjoyed using him as a punching bag. Thank fuck that asshole is now in jail.

I veer toward the kitchen, where the caterers are in full swing preparing food for the party. I spot what I’m looking for right away, and before anyone can say anything, I wrap my fingers around the bottle of Chianti and bolt out of the room.

But the problem is, where can I hide? If I manage to slip outside unseen, I can take the track down the valley and find a spot out of sight.

I veer in that direction but stop after a couple of steps when I hear the sound of overly cheery female voices approaching the house.

Paola’s friends. Ugh.

Looking left and right, I make a split-second decision and enter the first room to my right.

It’s not empty. Alistair is there wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.

My jaw drops while my heart jumps up to my throat, getting stuck there.

Mamma mia.

I don’t care that my reputation is already in the gutter. I’m so riding that tonight.

4

Alistair

I freeze when I hear the door open, finding Chiara standing there with a bottle of red wine in her hand. The deer-in-headlights look on her face tells me she didn’t come looking for me. On instinct, I place my hands in front of my crotch to cover the sudden arousal her presence has caused.

Jesus fucking Christ. I’m not a perv. Why is my body acting like I’m one?

Her gaze drops below my waist, and I fight not to squirm where I stand.

“Madonna Santa! I’m so sorry. I thought the room was empty,” she says but makes no motion to leave.

“I was about to change into the clothes your cousin brought me.”

“Right.”

She closes the door behind her and ventures farther into the room, making me even more tense. What is she playing at here? I’m not naïve when it comes to women and their games. I’ve seen plenty of them in action before. However, instead of preparing to rebuff her if she tries to come on to me, I’m actually looking forward to it.

Maybe Nadine and her betrayal did irreparable damage to my brain and turned me into a perv after all.

“Starting the party early?” I eye the Chianti in her hand.

Chiara cradles the dark bottle with both hands and stares at it, almost absentmindedly. “Yes. We love our wine.”

She sits on the edge of the bed, curling her smooth legs under her. I swallow hard as my cock twitches inside my boxer shorts. Fuck. I’m so screwed.

She seems oblivious to what she’s doing to me when she raises her lovely blue eyes to mine. They’re a little red. Has she been crying?

“I’m sorry my mother was rude to you. She’s stressed with the wedding.”

I know bullshit when I hear it. I’ve never seen a woman look at her daughter with so much venom in her gaze.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Narrowing my eyes, I notice redness around Chiara’s chin. Fuck. Are those nail marks?

She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, and the movement draws my attention to her forearm. There’s an angry mark there too, as if someone grabbed her by force. Sudden anger unfurls in the pit of my stomach, making me see red.

“Did she do that to you?” I grit out.

Chiara’s face turns ashen before she glances down, curling her fingers tighter around the bottle of wine. “This is nothing.”

I clench my jaw hard as I fight the urge to seek out her mother and give her a piece of my mind. I don’t know where this overwhelming need to protect Chiara is coming from. I just met her, but something about the petite blonde has managed to rekindle a fire in my heart that I thought had gone out forever.

Shit. I must be losing my mind.

Chiara notices I’m still staring and clears her throat. “I should go. You probably want some privacy.”

“You can stay. I don’t mind.” My voice is thick, and I don’t know if it’s because of anger or desire. Probably a mix of both.

Chiara looks down at the bottle in her hand and frowns. “Cazzo! I forgot to bring the bottle opener. What a rookie mistake.”

While she’s distracted, I reach for the pair of slacks Max lent me and put them on quickly. They’re an inch too short, but they fit nicely around my waist. Standing there wearing almost nothing was unnerving me.

“I’m sure there’s one here though,” Chiara says to herself before jumping from the bed to search the room. She opens drawers and cabinets, completely ignoring me.

While she’s on her mission, I finish getting dressed. I’m in the process of fastening the last button of my shirt when she pivots on the spot, brandishing a small object in her hand: a corkscrew.

“Aha!” Victory is etched on her face, and I catch a glimpse of a much happier woman. It mollifies the anger from before.

She proceeds to open the bottle, and I watch her as if I’m in a daze. I’ve met my fair share of beautiful women before—God, I was married to one for four years—but none of them captured me in this foreign way. I can’t make sense of it.

What kind of bullshit am I thinking now? If I’d been drinking, I would attribute my idiotic thoughts to alcohol. But I’m stone-cold sober.

Chiara finally opens the bottle with a pop, throwing the opener with the cork still stuck to the screw onto the bed before bringing the rim to her lips and taking large gulps from it. Before she can drown in red wine, I reach her in a couple of long strides and pull the bottle away from her.