Page 7 of Dating the Billionaire
CHAPTER THREE
“SAVANNAH,”BLAIRSAID, the lie slipping out of her lips almost unbidden. It wasn’t entirely a lie, though.
Savannah was legally her first name, but she never used it. For some reason she didn’t want this man to call her the name everyone else—even her mother after many protests—used for her. What the hell was wrong with her?
As Matteo had pointed out, she wasn’t the type to be talked into something she didn’t want to do anyway. If she had, she never would have survived the career path she’d chosen. Hell, she would have never entered it at all...if she’d listened to her mother.
Which she never did.
Which was why her mother had given up calling her Savannah, since she’d never answered to it because she’d always protested that it sounded too girlie.
“Savannah,” he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue like melted chocolate. He held out a hand to help her from the car they’d taken from the hotel to an area north of Milan that appeared to be mostly industrial. There was already a gallery in this area; Miranda had mentioned it once to her, and the name had reminded her of an airport hangar. When she stepped onto the pavement and glanced up at the building they’d stopped in front of, she tensed, because this building actually was an airport hangar.
Had he been messing with her all along? Had Miranda actually told him all about her? She never should have trusted her friend or him. She tried to pull her hand free of his grasp, but he held firm and stroked his thumb across her knuckles.
“Delighted to meet you, Savannah.”
His touch, and his charm, disarmed her for a moment, so that when he released her, she didn’t move. He turned back to the chauffeur, who’d closed the door behind them, and said in Italian, “We won’t be long, so don’t go far.”
Before she could stop him, the chauffeur slid into the front seat and drove the idling limousine away. Another long black car took its place, and more luxury vehicles were lined up behind it. So it was pretty likely that this metal-and-stone structure wasn’t actually an airplane hangar anymore.
Not unless the flights were extremely short...since he’d told the chauffeur to return soon. “We’ll put in a brief appearance,” he told her as his hand cupped her elbow again to escort her around the corner of the hangar.
The overhead doors stood open, light spilling from inside the building onto a courtyard filled with flowers, tall tables and people. They didn’t even make it into the courtyard before a woman rushed up to them and threw her arms around Matteo’s neck. She planted a big kiss on his cheek, leaving an imprint of her bright red lipstick on his skin when she finally pulled away.
Or had he pushed her? His hands cupped her shoulders. But it was hard to tell if he was fending off the woman or holding her close. Not that many men would want to fend off a woman who looked like her. With long, curly brown hair and wide, heavily lashed brown eyes, she was beautiful. A white dress clung to her curves and complemented her tan skin.
Grabbing his hands in hers, she asked in Italian, “What do you think? Isn’t it perfect?”
“I don’t know,” he replied—in English. “You haven’t let me see anything yet.”
She linked her arm with his and began tugging him toward those open doors. But he stopped her short and admonished her in Italian, “Francesca, you’re being rude. I have a guest.”
“You brought someone?” she asked in surprise.
Blair wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t noticed her; she seemed to only be able to see Matteo. Not that Blair blamed her. He was a beautiful man, as beautiful as the woman was. They looked good together, and it was obvious they were close.
“I told you to come alone,” she admonished him. “You were not supposed to bring a plus-one.”
So why had he chosen to bring a date to the opening?
To make the woman jealous? Or to force her to accept that they were done?
And he’d said he didn’t play games...
The woman focused on Blair now, her dark eyes narrowed as she studied her. “Where did you find this Amazon?” she asked in Italian.
If his intent had been to make Francesca jealous, apparently he’d succeeded.
“Francesca,” Matteo said again. “You must stop being rude.”
“You were rude to bring along someone when I specifically told you to come alone,” she admonished him.
“Actually, you’re both being rude,” she informed them—in Italian, and she turned on her heel to head back toward the front of the building. Hopefully she could hire one of the cars bringing guests to take her away from the gallery. If not, she was angry enough to walk to the airport hangar where she’d stowed the plane she’d flown to Milan earlier that day. She hadn’t known then, when just flying in for lunch with Miranda, that she would be staying. And now she wished like hell that she hadn’t agreed to the date Miranda had already set up for her.
She didn’t make it far before a long arm snaked around her waist and stopped her—the rear of her body pressed up against the front of his. The long, muscular front of his...
Heat rushed through her—the heat of desire and of anger. She warned him, “You better let me go!”
