Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (23 page)

It was such a beautiful day. Despite the high temperature, the breeze off the ocean cooled everything off, and it was perfect. Alessandro was so lucky. I envied him his life.

We walked past an infinity pool and a small tennis court before coming to a pebbled path leading into the woods. We walked in silence for a while, but once we were deep in the forest, he said, “Let’s have a seat over there.”

I followed his gaze to a small clearing in the forest, where some pretty Adirondack chairs had been set up.

“Sure.”

What a fabulous little oasis. Alessandro certainly was living the dream…

Once we were settled in, he turned to me and asked, “What’s your earliest memory, Lila?”

Hmm. That was an interesting question, and nothing like the sort of questions I’d been preparing myself for. I had to take a moment to think before I answered.

“Well, to be honest, that’s debatable,” I answered. “I
think
it was when my little brother was born, but I was only three, so I might have created a memory where there wasn’t one, you know?”

“I do know.” He nodded.

“But I definitely remember going to the circus with my grandparents when I was four, so that’s my earliest memory on record.” I smiled.

“I see,” he said, smiling back at me. “And what’s the best gift you ever received?”

“The best gift I ever received…” I exhaled slowly. I knew the answer to this question right away, but I didn’t feel all that comfortable telling him. It was kind of pathetic, given the way my life turned out. But he didn’t need to know
that
. “That would have to be my grandmother’s wedding veil. She gave it to me just a couple of weeks before she died.”

Alessandro gave me a sympathetic look and reached down to stroke my arm as he gazed into my eyes. The physical contact made my heart leap with mad attraction to the man, which was a strange reaction because I was also feeling sad and low, thinking about my grandmother, missing her. I had to look away.

When she gave me her veil, she told me she wished she could be there to see me walk down the aisle wearing it. Fifteen years later and that still hasn’t happened. I prayed Alessandro wouldn’t ask me to elaborate on my answer.

He didn’t.

“What’s been the accomplishment that you’ve been most proud of?” he asked.

I didn’t have to think about how to answer that one either.

“It was completing the Ironman triathlon.” And then I hastened to add, “I did it years ago, right after I graduated from college. And it was only the seventy point three mile race, not the full hundred and forty point six.”

I didn’t need to see his shocked face, wondering how a former athlete could have gotten so hefty. Luckily I didn’t. Either I’d done a good job of explaining things, or he was doing an amazing job of hiding his surprise, or he really wasn’t surprised at all.

“If someone gave you a hundred thousand dollars tomorrow, what would you do with it?” he asked.

It was
so
tempting to say, “Why? Are you offering?” And it was so hard not to, but I managed to suppress the urge.

“Well, I’d quit my job immediately, of course, and I’d cash in about ten thousand dollars to go traveling for a month or so. I’m pretty frugal, so I think that’d be more than enough to get me to Nepal and Rio and Paris and all the places I’ve always wanted to go as long as I stuck to basic accommodations. After that, I’m not totally sure what I’d do. Probably just live frugally until I figured out what I really wanted to do—graduate school maybe, or possibly I’d buy a house somewhere affordable. Or put a down payment on a condo somewhere not affordable.”

It occurred to me that I’d been yakking away, letting my imagination carry me off to my own personal fantasyland, so I turned to Alessandro with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I’m totally babbling here.”

“Don’t be sorry, Lila. This is more helpful than you could imagine.”

Huh. That was interesting. The whole method was interesting, especially how he moved so quickly from one question to the next, but to be honest, I was already feeling a bit drained. It was a complicated dance—trying to be honest, but at the same time making sure I wasn’t revealing too much. Also, there was the added stress of ensuring that I wasn’t coming off as sad or pathetic. It probably would have been easier if Alessandro weren’t so freakin’ handsome.

“Tell me about the first person you fell in love with,” he said.

Oh, great.

“Ryan Murphy. He was my boyfriend when I was sixteen. He had the greenest eyes, and such a goofy sense of humor. He really made me laugh. He wanted to be a film director, so he always carried around this little video camera his folks got him for his birthday.”

What a shame that the good memories of Ryan were tainted with the bad memories of our breakup. I would never forget the sense of helplessness I felt when he dumped me for Carrie Lloyd.

“What’s your greatest fear?” Alessandro asked.

I clapped a hand over my mouth and searched his eyes—for what, I don’t know. I just wasn’t sure if I could say it. Could I really reveal such personal information about myself?

His lips were curved up slightly into a gently encouraging smile. I don’t know what it was about him, but for some unknown reason, I felt I could trust him with my innermost secrets.

“Dying alone. Never finding a soul mate or significant other,” I said in a voice that was barely louder than a whisper.

His eyes softened into pools of liquid chocolate, and he reached down to stroke my arm.

“What’s the worst nightmare you ever had?”

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, we got up from our chairs and headed back to Alessandro’s house. I felt battered and beaten and so, so raw.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he murmured, slinging an arm around my shoulder and pulling me close.

My heart danced at the physical contact. Even though I was in emotional turmoil, my body was still working as it should, which was a good sign, I supposed.

“Yeah, I’ll be all right. This portrait had better turn out to be pretty damn spectacular, considering what you just put me through,” I said with a grin.

I could always count on humor to diffuse things when they got tense.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Lila. I really am,” he said, squeezing me even tighter as we walked in sync. “But you can count on the fact that we’re going to end up with a fairly awesome painting. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but we went really deep today, and that’ll translate onto the canvas. You did great, you know.”

I smiled. “I’m glad.”

He smiled back at me. Our gazes locked, and my heart kicked up into a sprint. His expression was so soft; it was almost a loving expression. It was almost like he was a guy who was captivated by me, but I knew better than to think such a ridiculous fantasy could possibly be true. He was a gorgeous billionaire and I was…well, I was me.

We reached the house, but when we got to the door we’d exited from earlier, we kept on walking. All the way on the other side of the massive, massive house (seriously—I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that the place had ten bedrooms) we entered another octagonal room with six walls of comprised completely of glass.

It was Alessandro’s studio. Up against the windowless walls were towering shelves filled with paints, brushes, tarps, palettes, canvases, pencils and all sorts of other supplies. The room wasn’t furnished unless you count the chaise lounges, which were obviously there for Alessandro’s “subjects” to recline on. There were easels, light stands and even a wind machine. There was also a small folding table with stacks of fabric on top of it. And next to the folding table was the overnight bag I’d filled up with a few clothing options.

“Now,” Alessandro said, clapping his hands together. “This is ultimately up to you, of course, but I would love to have you sprawled out nude on the leather chaise with black lace fabric draped over you.”

I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“Am I to assume that you’re not up for posing nude?” He smiled.

“You assume correctly.”

“Okay. That’s no problem.” He walked over to the stacks of fabric on the folding table and sorting through them. “Could I see what you brought?”

After considering a few different options, I did the unthinkable by granting Alessandro’s original wish. Sort of. There was absolutely no way I was going to pose nude, but as it happened, I was wearing a black lace bra and matching panties. It turned out the lace he’d wanted me to be draped with wasn’t particularly see through if you layered it, so while Alessandro’s back was turned, I stripped down to my underwear and shrouded myself in layers of silky soft black lace.

“I’m ready,” I said, carefully positioning myself on the chaise lounge.

“Oh, Lila. It’s perfect.” He gazed down at me with the warmest, most beautiful smile. “There’s just one thing missing… Be right back.”

And he hurried out of the room. He was back after a couple of minutes with a vintage necklace.

“Wow. This is stunning,” I said, gazing at the shiny stones and the intricate metal tooling.

“Isn’t it? It was my grandmother’s. I knew it would look amazing on you.” He snatched it out of my hand and hooked it behind my neck. “Sorry to be so impatient, but we need to get this show on the road. I want to make sure we finish before we lose the late afternoon light.”

“No problem,” I said, hoping my face wasn’t flushed, but figuring it most likely was.

When Alessandro affixed the necklace behind my neck, he leaned close enough for me to smell his delicious cologne, close enough for me to see the dark stubble on his cheek, and my nerves were tingling like crazy.

Once he had me all set up, he threw a smock on over his regular clothes, positioned an easel just so, propped a canvas on it, grabbed a pencil and started sketching on it.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

I reminded myself that he wasn’t talking about me. I reasoned that he was talking about the whole setup—the lace, the light, the meaningful necklace. It wasn’t easy, though, because I
felt
beautiful. I figured it was his Latin blood, but Alessandro had a way of making me feel like I was someone truly special. And also—it has to be said—the fact that I was wearing nothing but a bit of lace and my underwear was making me feel pretty sensual.

He worked in silence. The only sound in the room was the scraping of his knife against the palate and the cry of the birds circling in the sky outside as well as the occasional soft plunk as he set down a paintbrush or discarded a pencil. The scent of the sea blew in through the open windows, dissipating the noxious smell of turpentine and other cleaning fluids.

Alessandro’s eyes were narrowed when they were focused on his canvas, but not when they were gliding over my form. I could practically feel the heat from his gaze on my hands, my breasts, my ears, my lips.

When he was painting some part of me that was nowhere near my face—like my arm, for instance—I was free to stare at his features. He had the most perfect Roman nose (it looked like it might have been sculpted by one of the masters) and he had a faint little scar over his eyebrow. I wondered how he got it. I wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to break the silence between us because as silly as it sounds, it felt a bit erotic—being under such intense examination without any words to keep things light.

But when Alessandro was obviously painting my face, it was a real challenge to keep my composure. I kept meeting his eyes, those sensual melted chocolate eyes, and they were just so intense! I reasoned that it was because he was working. He was in the zone. He was a world-renowned artist for heaven’s sake. Of course he got all intense and impassioned when he worked. Those looks had nothing to do with me.

Admittedly, though, if a guy seated across the bar at happy hour was giving me the same sort of look Alessandro was, I would correctly assume that he was into me in a “I want to take you home and screw your brains out” kind of way. Even though I was sure that the look on Alessandro’s face had only to do with work and nothing to do with me, my body could not be convinced. Under his gaze, my pussy tingled.

After a surprisingly short amount of time, Alessandro stood back and said, “All done.”

“Really?” I was a bit disappointed, to be honest. I had really been enjoying the intimacy of his eyes on me in the silent room on the sea.

He nodded. “Come take a look.”

I made sure the lace was firmly wrapped around me before I jumped up and crossed the room to get my first glimpse at his masterpiece.

Wow.

Oh, wow.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the painting. The light, the color, the width of the brush strokes—it was such a harmonious composition, definitely museum quality work. And me…

He’d painted me true to life; he hadn’t tried to downplay my fleshy bits, but still I looked so freakin’ sexy! The black lace was absolutely perfect. I was glad he’d convinced me to wear it. But all of these things—the lace, the curves of my body and the composition of the painting—were secondary to the most powerful element of the painting: my eyes.

I couldn’t begin to imagine how he could pack so much emotion into two tiny little orbs composed of canvas and paint, but somehow he managed it. To be fair, he did
enlarge
my eyes. In actuality, they weren’t that large in comparison to the rest of my face, but even so, they were brimming with emotion—fear, wonder, loss, love and hope. Mostly hope.