Jennifer Probst - The Marriage Trap

“Michael. I am angry with you but will make you pay later.”

He chuckled and ran a finger down her wrinkled cheek. “Mi dispiace. I promise to make it up to you.”

“Si. Come inside and get settled.”

His senses swam with the familiar sights and scents of his home. He took in the sloping terra-cotta roof, wrought-iron balconies, and the elaborate stone pillars flanking the front door. Bright yellow and red surfaces competed with masses of wildflowers in vivid colors. Set atop the peak of a hill, the three-tier home sprawled like a queen over her subjects, boasting more than five acres of grassy fields. The carved-stone pathways led to a private terrace and pool area surrounded by lush gardens and walkways. The Alps shimmered in the distance, their massive white-peaked tips visible from the balcony.

While his sisters buzzed over Maggie’s ring, he made his way through the doors and was assaulted with the smell of garlic, lemon, and basil. Ceramic tile gleamed clean and bright and set off the pine cabinets and heavy table. Massive counters surrounded the space that was covered with fresh herbs, tomatoes, and an array of pots and pans. This was his mother’s domain and heaven on earth when they were first introduced to the sweet lure of pastries and luscious fillings. She’d passed her talent down to each of her children, but none had her expert skill, and they relied mostly on the famous chefs chosen to run their bakery empire. Funny, they all seemed to favor their father’s genes for business, but Mama had never forced them to be someone they weren’t.

The memory of his own dreams teased the fringes of his memory, but he refused to linger on regrets. Not then. Not now.

Not ever.

He glanced over at Maggie. She chatted with his sisters and seemed smugly at ease after her shocking entrance. Obviously, she assumed he’d meekly accept her outrageous actions in gratitude for her agreement to the whole farce.

“Maggie, I need to speak with you for a moment.”

As if she sensed his irritation, she shot him a look and hiked up her brow. He smothered a chuckle.

“Bring your luggage up to your room,” his mama ordered. “I’ve gotten it ready for you. After you settle, we shall meet in the garden for some coffee and snacks.”

“Si.”

He retrieved the luggage from the car, walked back in the house, and motioned for Maggie to follow. She broke away from his sisters and they ascended the stairs toward their bedroom. He dropped the luggage, kicked the door closed with his heel, and faced her.

“A very amusing opening to our week, la mia tigrotta. But I think it’s time you realize who makes the rules here.” He took a step closer and towered over her. “Now.”

More than six feet of irritated man loomed before her. Though he didn’t touch her, her body stilled as if restrained. His usual relaxed charm disappeared and a dangerous aura crackled in the air. She’d seriously pissed him off. Unfortunately, instead of fear, excitement tingled along her nerve endings. Damn, what would he be like in bed? Naked and muscled and . . . demanding.

Usually, she stayed far away from men who had any dominance or control tendencies, but Michael didn’t scare her. At least, not in a bad way. Her lips parted in an unconscious invitation for him to take it a step further. Onyx eyes sharpened on her mouth and darkened. She ached to know how he tasted. Craved to experience his tongue claiming her mouth, his hips slamming against hers, without forcing her to make the choice.

A beat passed. Another.

The words slipped out of her mouth before she caught them. “What’s the matter, Count? Cat got your tongue?”

He turned away and a stream of colorful curses shot in the air. Her body relaxed from his retreat, but his threat caused a shiver to work down her spine. She ignored the flare of disappointment from a missed opportunity.

“Be careful, cara. Toying with me may be fun, but eventually I will tire and force your hand.”

Maggie snorted. “You sound like those erotic romances I love. But I’m no sub, baby, and you’re not my dom. My gamble paid off. I figured I’d challenge your family from the start so I don’t have to play a role I’m not comfortable with. Eventually they’d realize I’m not a great pleaser or traditional Italian wife.” She grinned. “Your mom’s a pisser.”

“She’s ill, so please be careful.”

“Oh, no, Michael. What’s wrong with her?”

He gave a deep sigh and rubbed his hands over his face. “Besides an arthritic knee, her heart is delicate. She needs to watch her stress and activity, so I intend to humor her this visit.” His brows lowered. “And I hope you will, too.”

“I can play nice for a week.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he murmured. “Be sure you don’t try to deck me when I kiss you.” He looked thoughtful, and Maggie almost gulped with unease. “In fact, perhaps I should kiss you right here. Right now. For practice, of course.”

She hissed like a ticked-off snake. “I can manage not to jump when a man touches me.”

“I’m not convinced.” He stalked over and invaded her personal space. The heat of his skin pulled her in. “One slipup and this charade ends. I can’t afford it. Especially when a simple kiss beforehand may make the difference.”

“I’m real good at faking it.” She tossed him a mocking smile. The delicious scents of musk and man beckoned her to steal a sample. Her heart tripped at the thought of him calling her bluff, which only made her more obnoxious. “No one will ever know I’m not interested in kissing you. No need to put ourselves through a practice run.”

He studied her in silence and she began to relax. “Let’s test the theory, shall we?”

He grasped her shoulders and yanked her forward. She collided with a rock of carved muscle, and her arms came up in automatic protest to push against his chest. When she hit resistance, her fingers gripped the soft material of his T-shirt. His feet straddled hers and kept her off balance. His lips stopped inches from her own.

“Take your hands off of me.” Sweat beaded her brow. Oh, God, what if she melted and looked like an idiot? What if she moaned when those full lips slid over hers? She could not respond. She could not respond. She could not—

“What are you so nervous about?” Humor danced in his eyes. “You’ve done this a million times, remember?”

“I don’t like to be manhandled,” she shot back.

His lip quirked. He lowered his voice to a husky purr that promised her pure bodily pleasure. “Maybe you haven’t had the right man handling you.”

“Give me a break. Do women really fall for that line? Because if they do, they must come from the land of the stupid. Take your hands—”

His lips covered hers.

His warm, soft mouth stopped the angry flow of words and distracted her from any other thought she’d ever had except how this man kissed.

Her senses short-circuited. She liked kissing and had experienced her fair share, but with Michael everything seemed different. His body heat reminded her of a werewolf in those Twilight films she secretly loved. His tongue probed the seam of her lips, then dove in without apology. She could have fought him if he got greedy; instead, the slide of his tongue seduced and asked for her to come and play. His stubble rubbed the sensitive curve of her jaw. His hips slanted against hers as his arms came down and cupped her rear, bringing her up to meet the hard bulge between his thighs.

She moaned. He caught it and pressed a bit deeper, and Maggie opened her mouth and gave in.

He plundered and commanded in complete thrusts, reminding her of how he’d claim her body if she gave him a chance. She tried to surface and gain control of the kiss, but her mind crumbled and her body sang. He murmured her name, and her legs got shaky as she held on to him for dear life and kissed him back.

How long had passed? Minutes? An hour? He finally pulled away, slowly, as if he regretted ever breaking the contact. She hated herself in that moment. Instead of slapping him away, or coming up with a smart-aleck comment, she just stared helplessly. Her tongue ran over her swollen lower lip.

He groaned. Uneven breaths lifted his chest. “You’re right,” he said softly. “You fake it really well.”

She jerked back and prayed her cheeks didn’t look flushed. She forced out the words. “Told you.”

He turned and stacked the luggage in the corner of the room and opened the closet door. “There’s plenty of space for both of us. This will be our room for the week.”

Reality crashed over her. Rich details made the room comfortable yet masculine, from the royal-blue throw rugs, cherrywood furniture, and lack of frilly clutter. A deep red quilt finished off the polished look of the bed that took up the center of the room. Maggie stared at the bed, a bit smaller than what she expected, and realized there was no sofa or cushy rug. The knowledge they’d be squished together rattled her nerves. Dear God, she’d just melted from a lousy kiss. What if she rolled over in her sleep? What if her fingers accidentally hit one of those sleek pec muscles and she made a fool out of herself?

Irritation bit at her from the ridiculous situation so she did what she learned best. Go on the attack first. “Nice bed.”

He cleared his throat. “Is this acceptable? If not, I can always put a blanket on the floor.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m a big girl, Count, just stay on your side. I’ll take the left.”

“As you wish.”

“You don’t snore, do you?”

A twinkle of amusement glinted in his eyes. “I’ve never had anyone complain before.”

“Well, I’ll let you know for future reference if they’re lying.”

He gestured toward the bathroom and glass doors that led to a balcony. “Why don’t you take some time to freshen up and come downstairs when you’re ready? I’ll show you the property and the rest of the house then. When is your Milan shoot?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll be there most of the day.”

“Very well. I’ll meet you there in the afternoon so we can file our Atto Notorio and Nulla Osta at the consulate’s office. I’ve already arranged for witnesses. Don’t forget to bring all your papers—I had to pull some strings so Mama wouldn’t suspect we wish any delay.”

Maggie swallowed a gulp. “I thought you said it was impossible to get a priest to marry us?”

“It is quite difficult to get a priest to perform a ceremony last minute, and Mama will only accept this type of wedding. There’s no way they can be approved in a week.”

“Okay.”

They stared at each other for a few moments in silence. He shifted his weight, and the fabric of his jeans strained against the bulge dead center. His black T-shirt did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders and chest. Or the corded, sinewy length of his arms covered with dark hair. Her traitorous body responded to his confidence as heat burned between her thighs and her nipples tightened to achy points.

When was the last time she’d been so turned on by a man? Maybe it was the chase. Women always craved men who were off-limits. Especially if they obviously had it bad for another woman.

Right?

“Maggie? Are you okay?”

She shook off the reaction and blamed it on jet lag. “Sure. I’m going to shower. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He nodded and shut the door behind him.

Maggie groaned and quickly rummaged through her suitcase for a change of clothes. All she had to do was get through seven days without making an ass of herself, and she’d be free of Michael Conte for good. She wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into him at Alexa’s home, and she’d have her family all to herself.

The bitterness of the image mocked her satisfaction and screamed she was a liar. She’d gotten used to him over the past year. Too much so. And every time she gazed into those wicked dark eyes, the thought of her humiliation flashed in her mind and made her squirm.

The bathroom was small but boasted a deep marble tub and a shower stall. She decided to keep it quick and have a long soak later. She stepped under the stinging jets and let the heat relax her knotted muscles. Accustomed to forced blind dates from many colleagues, Maggie hadn’t thought twice when Alexa swore she’d found the perfect man for her. She remembered entering the expensive, intimate Italian restaurant and expecting a certain sort of man. A little cocky. A little too smooth. A little too attractive.

She’d been wrong.