A Scandal in the Headlines(48)

“For the record,” he said, laughter in his voice, “‘that poor man’ comforts himself with a new Maserati every fiscal year. He’s certainly not weeping as he cashes his paycheck.”

“If you say so.”

“Come here.” His voice dropped, became something else. Something that wound through her like honey, golden and slow, making it hard to remember that he even had an assistant, or why on earth she cared.

“You’re at your place of business,” she said primly, but she went to him, anyway. “Smiting down every assistant in your path, apparently. All in a day’s work, no doubt.”

He slid a hand around to the back of her neck and then tugged her off balance so she sprawled against his chest.

This was familiar, finally. His scent, his heat. That gleam in his eyes. Her immediate reaction, molten and hot. And only as it washed through her did she understand how much she’d needed the reminder. That it didn’t matter how formidable he might seem here. How distant. That this was still theirs, this electric current. This need.

It was why she was here.

“Ah, Elena,” he murmured, simply holding her there against the wall of his chest, his thumb moving against her nape, his expression so intent it made her knees feel like water. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Do you mean in general or in this elevator?” she asked, aware of the breathlessness in her voice, the pounding desire that she had no doubt he could see all over her, the way he always did.

His mouth curved. “I already know what I’m going to do to you in this elevator,” he told her, his other hand wrapping around her hip and pulling her against him, letting her feel how much he wanted her. His voice lowered to that sexy growl that lit her up, heating her blood, making her melt. “It might be acrobatic, but I think you can handle it.”

Elena heard the ping that announced they’d arrived at the ground floor, but Alessandro didn’t move. Her hands were pressed against the fascinating muscles of his perfect torso as she arched into him. It wasn’t enough, and she didn’t care where she was. This was his company—let him care. She lifted herself up on her toes and moved her mouth so close to his that if she licked her lips, she’d taste him.

“Go ahead, then,” she whispered, daring him. “Show me some acrobatics.”

On some level she was vaguely aware of the elevator doors sliding open, but all that mattered was Alessandro. That dark, consuming green gaze. That familiar fire, still so devastating and far too hot. As if he blacked out everything else.

He laughed, sex and heat and delicious challenge, and she shivered in anticipation, because she knew that sound, she knew its sensual promise—

And everything exploded.

Flashing lights, shouting. The press of too many bodies, the harsh slap of all that noise—

It took her too long to make sense of it—to understand that a scrum of paparazzi crowded into the open elevator door, cameras snapping and tape rolling, while Elena was still plastered against Alessandro’s chest, clinging to him, announcing their relationship in stark, unmistakable terms.

But then she understood, and that was worse.

It was the end of the world as she knew it, right there and then.


Elena couldn’t stop pacing.

Alessandro’s penthouse spread out over the top of the Corretti Media tower, three stories in all. It was magnificent. Glass, steel and granite, yet decorated with a deep appreciation of color and comfort. Lush Persian carpets stretched in front of fireplaces and brightened halls. Stunning, impressive art hung on the high walls, all bold colors and graceful lines. He favored deep chairs, dark woods, and all of it somehow elegant and male. Uniquely him.

And she couldn’t enjoy any part of it. She could hardly see it through her panic.

“Of course he’ll see the pictures,” she said, not for the first time, worrying her lower lip with her fingers as she stared out the great windows. “You can count on it.”

Alessandro was sprawled on one of his couches, a tablet computer in his hand. He shot a dark, unreadable look in her direction, but he didn’t answer. But then, Elena was really only talking to herself.

He’d dealt with the paparazzi as best he could. He’d stepped in front of her, concealing her from view. He’d alerted his security, then whisked her up to his penthouse and hidden her away from any more cameras.

“Jackals,” he’d snarled when the elevator doors finally closed again, leaving them in peace once more. “Nothing but scavengers.”