Luca couldn’t recall ever meeting someone quite as intractable as this one. She’d basically shunned him from start to finish and he was starting to take it personally. But why did she? He discreetly held his hand to his mouth and breathed into his palm, taking a sniff. Didn’t detect any foul aroma. But who knew? Maybe she had an overly acute sense of smell. So if it wasn’t his breath, then what? All he’d done was try to be nice to her. He’d reached out to help her get into Ciao, Bella when he saw her struggling. But why would that put her off? Damn, this woman was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.
He decided he’d just keep his cool and slowly try to erode her defenses all the while attempting to understand this vexing creature.
He ushered her into Sandro’s private suite of offices where they’d have no interruptions. Luca extended his arm, offering her a seat on the sleek black Italian leather sofa then handing her a bottle of San Benedetto water as he opened one for himself. He settled in on the other side of the seat, keeping a respectful distance so that she didn’t lunge at him in rage or something. He didn’t know what she might be capable of, given her seemingly mercurial temperament.
Larkin pulled out a reporter’s notebook and a pen and flipped open to a page on which she had taken notes. Clearly, she was prepared for this meeting.
Crossing one leg over the other, Luca stretched his arm casually across the back of the sofa. “So,” he said, stealing a glance at her, noticing from this angle he could just make out that she had an actual figure despite her usual plain, brown paper bag-type outfit. Damn. The girl had a pretty nice rack on her. What with her dowdy fashion style, it had, until this point, been impossible to tell. “What is it you’d like to ask me?”
She cleared her throat, adjusted her glasses, tucked her blond hair behind her ears, and started firing questions at him. “Clearly,” she said, spreading her arm out to demonstrate the type of environment to which he’d become accustomed, “you lead a life of privilege, gallivanting around the globe, doing whatever you please. What’s it like not having to work, having no responsibilities, not a care to be had? And do you feel guilty about that when there is so much deprivation in the world?”
Luca scrunched his brows and squinted his eyes. Huh. She didn’t even wait a polite minute to bring out the high-powered weaponry. Evidently, this was not going to be one of those softball interviews. No wonder the press office put off responding to her boss’s interview requests.
He took a deep breath. “So, that’s what this is about, then?” he said. “You have some antiroyal thing? Some ax to grind against the ‘haves’ on behalf of the ‘have-nots’?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you implied it.”
“Perhaps you inferred it. A little elitist guilt, perhaps?”
Luca uncrossed and recrossed his legs. He was worried that at this rate, squirming would soon ensue. He chuckled. “Elitist guilt, then? Funny, the question smacks a bit of some reverse discrimination. Like maybe you’ve predetermined me to be someone I’m not.”
“So you’re not rich?”
He shook his head. “Me, personally? Not exactly,” he said. “Of course, there is family wealth. How could there not be considering my family has ruled our country for hundreds of years. But most of that is tied up with the state itself. And while what liquid assets there are will eventually be disbursed and split amongst my siblings someday, until then, I rely upon the largesse of my family.”
“Right. You’re rich.”
“Understand that in my capacity within the Monafortian monarchy, I spend many, many hours working tirelessly on behalf of my nation.”
“For which you are paid handsomely, no?”
“For which I receive a stipend.”
“And said stipend keeps you in more than, say, McDonald’s hamburgers for supper.”
Luca ran his fingers through his hair. God, she was insufferable. What an unpleasant creature she’d turned out to be. “So you’d rather we show up at events wearing hoodies and sweatpants and eating French fries? Would that make you more satisfied?”
“No need to get uppity.”
“Me? Uppity?” he took a swig of his water, wishing instead he had something substantially stronger to ingest.
“So is it then considered part of your ‘capacity’ within the monarchy,” she continued, making air quotes for emphasis, “to sleep around as you do?”
Luca had barely started to swallow when he heard that question and spat a mouthful of water all over the table in front of him. He was glad at least it didn’t go on the sofa, as Sandro would have killed him, spoiling his primo furniture.
“I beg your pardon!”
“From what I hear you never have to do the begging,” she said, pulling out some articles that she’d tucked into her notebook from various tabloids and laying them out on the sofa between them for his perusal. Each story showed him squiring yet another beautiful woman. In some, he was caught in a tight embrace, in others, he was kissing, and still others showed women making contact with him in an intimate way, such as stroking his thigh while seated next to him at a performance.
“Is it really your business what I do with my personal life?”
She tipped her head forward as if to say “come on, don’t think I’m stupid.”
“Come on,” she said. “Don’t think I’m stupid. This type of thing is as old as the hills: rich man exploiting his power and wealth against innocent young women.”
If he had a tie on, he’d have to loosen it. He was getting awfully hot under the collar. “Are you barking mad?” he said. “I don’t think I should dignify your intrusive questions with responses but I feel the need to defend myself against this assault on my character. If you think for one second those are innocent young women—”
“Oh, so you go after the women then? Blame the victim, is it?”
“If you’d at least let me finish talking,” he said, his voice elevating several octaves. He felt as if his eyes were about to bug out of his head. “There are no victims here. We are all consenting adults. And by all, I don’t mean countless numbers. I mean a few.”
“Don’t you think it’s particularly irresponsible sleeping around like a hyperactive tomcat, spreading diseases like Johnny Appleseed scattering his seeds?” she said. “Sounds to me as if you’re a veritable Typhoid Mary. Or at the very least, a manwhore. You choose.”
Luca stood up and began to pace, trying hard to tamp down his anger. “Manwhore? Typhoid Mary?” he sputtered, barely stifling his outrage. “Who the hell are you to presume that what you read about me is factual? And who the bloody hell is Johnny Appleseed and why don’t you go write a bloated, false exposé on him instead of me?”
“You ever hear the phrase ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire’?”
“You ever hear the phrase, ‘don’t believe everything you read’?” he said. “And while we’re at it, you ever hear the phrase ‘mind your own bloody damned business’?”
Silence descended upon the room as Larkin scribbled furiously on her notepad. Luca wondered what lies she was scratching out on her poison pen to repeat to the world, her sources clearly the most unreliable ones, what with articles from such sleazy publications as Blitz! spread out before him.
On the one hand, sure, he’d had his fair share of hookups since that little ego blow from Eleanor. How could he not, if only to try to bolster his self-esteem after it had been shaken so badly? But on the other hand, even he recognized now that being a player no longer felt like a particularly mature way of handling heartbreak. Meanwhile, each scenario from the images she’d thrust before him as “evidence” was a complete misinterpretation anyhow.
He began to bolster his defenses, preparing to pelt her with facts like a gathering storm pummels passersby with its wrath. “I’ll have you know”—he grabbed her photographic “proof” of his sleaze and thrust the images before her face—“that I never slept with a one of these women. Not a one of them. Manwhore my ass.” He crumpled the pictures and threw them to the ground with emphasis.
“So you’re telling me you don’t use and abuse women for your pleasure?”
“Honest to God, what type of reporter are you? I thought you were with a reputable newspaper. But this line of questioning is so beyond the pale,” he said as he pounded his fist into the wall, which hurt like hell since they built walls a lot sturdier a few hundred years ago when this place was built. “But no, in answer to your offensive question, I have never used or abused even one woman for anything. I’m not even sure how one would do something like that. If I’m with a woman, I am respectful and courteous and treat her with kind consideration.”
“What about the woman who was all over you at the fashion show, then?” Larkin placed the tip of her pen between her lips and despite himself, Luca couldn’t help but stare as her tongue played with the end of it, thinking that damned tongue could be put to far better use than lobbing false accusations at him. His patience was running out even though he couldn’t help but feel a little turned on by her. Is this some weird, latent, chase-me-beat-me streak I’ve got going? he wondered.
He tried to even remember that woman’s name but it escaped him. So that wasn’t a shining example of relational steadfastness, that one. But still, not like he was skanking around Europe, manwhoring himself, or whatever the hell she wanted to believe. Besides, he and what’s her name had a lovely time and she wasn’t looking for anything more than a little fling as well. Besides, they never even consummated things! Not that it was any damned business of this miserable reporter. But then it came to him...
“Ohhh...” he said. “Now I get it.”
Larkin creased her brow. “Get what?”
He pointed at her. “You’re jealous,” he said, rubbing his hands and smiling with glee. “You, Larkin Mallory, cub reporter, are jealous.”