Naughty and Nice, page 1
Naughty and Nice
ITALIAN STALLIONS NOVELLA
MARI CARR
Copyright © 2023 by Mari Carr
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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To the Golden Girls.
We may have started as work colleagues, but that quickly gave way to a true sisterhood. I love knowing you’re always up for skinny dipping, wine time, traveling the world, and that you’re never more than a text away when I really need you.
This one is for you - Deb (Dorothy), Lisa (Rose), and Nan (Blanche) from Mari (Sophia).
Contents
Naughty and Nice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Tempted and Taken
About the Author
Naughty and Nice
One unforgettable night…with the wrong man.
If there’s one thing Liza excels at it’s making bad decisions. Which is why she knew it was stupid to invite the guy she’d just started dating to the gala she was hosting. When he gets overly familiar, she asks him to leave. He refuses…
Until sinfully sexy billionaire, Matt Russo, intervenes, leading to Liza’s worst decision ever. Because a holiday hook-up with Matt, her family’s enemy, would definitely land her on the naughty list for life.
If Matt’s past has taught him anything, it’s that true love doesn’t exist. Then he spies Liza—the only threat to his simple existence—across the hotel ballroom. A slow dance leads to a heated embrace that ends in his hotel room. And for the first time ever, he imagines a very different future for himself.
Unfortunately, it’s one he can never have.
Chapter One
Liza Moretti looked across the crowded hotel ballroom and smiled. Months of planning and preparation had come together much better than she could have hoped. As Executive Director of the Philadelphia Initiative—a foundation that worked to increase philanthropic donations in the community—she was no stranger to fundraising, part of which included organizing shindigs like this one.
Tonight, the Initiative was hosting a Snowflake Gala, the proceeds going to support a local shelter, Promise House, that offered a place to live for young people facing homelessness and survivors of sex trafficking. The home was very near and dear to Liza’s heart, and she’d begun volunteering there every weekend since first touring it shortly after her promotion to the executive director position.
She’d put countless hours into planning tonight’s festivities, making sure it was considered a not-to-miss event amongst Philadelphia’s wealthiest. Sometimes she felt like she had dissociative identify disorder as she lived in two very distinct worlds, working with the city’s most troubled and destitute youth at Promise House, while rubbing elbows and hobnobbing with the elite, all in an attempt to get them to open their wallets to help.
The Ritz-Carlton’s Grand Ballroom was dripping in twinkle lights and white tulle, looking so elegant, it took her breath away. Her team had been working since yesterday to fashion the romantic atmosphere, creating a true winter wonderland. The soft lighting from the massive chandelier in the center of the room added to the effect, and she had been pleased by the number of astonished—impressed—gasps she’d heard when the guests first arrived.
They’d just completed the three-course dinner, so guests had begun to mill around, some opting to socialize, while others were dancing to the five-piece orchestra that had played throughout the meal. The orchestra’s time was winding down. In a little while, she would take the stage to give a presentation about the Promise House. After that, she’d hired an extremely popular local band to liven things up and take the party to the next level.
“Here you go,” Davis Taylor said, handing her a glass of champagne.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at her date for the evening.
Ordinarily, she attended work events stag so that she could handle any last-minute problems that might surface. However, when she turned Davis down for a date tonight, due to this work obligation, he’d asked if he could accompany her, reassuring her it wouldn’t bother him if she was called away to deal with any emergencies.
This was her sixth official date with Davis, which made him this year’s record holder.
No. Liza reconsidered that. That wasn’t true. He had the distinct honor of being the record for this year and last, the first man in at least the last twenty to make it past her three-strikes-you’re-out dating regimen.
Liza, single and thirty, was a professional when it came to weeding out the unsavory candidates in her ever-dwindling dating pool. As such, she had a system. Her dates—found either online, through setups, or even the occasional met-in-line-somewhere—started with the coffee break. If that went well, they moved on to the lunch date, which ensured that if things went south, her pain was limited due to the need to return to the office. After that, they graduated to a proper dinner date.
Davis had soared through the first three dates, and even made a decent showing for the fourth and fifth—both dinners, with the added drinks and dancing at a nightclub afterward.
So tonight, after a two-year dry spell, she was on an honest-to-God sixth date and hopeful that perhaps Davis would clear the next and most important hurdle.
Sex.
Her girl parts were hungry. Starving, in fact.
Liza was anticipating a full-on pussy rebellion if she tried to get herself off with her vibrator one more time. She’d worn out every fantasy in her vast repertoire, struggling to find anything new on porn sites or in erotic romance novels that could get her motor revving. She’d hit the limit on ways to turn herself on.
She needed a man.
Stat.
So, she’d gone ahead and offered Davis the invitation to tonight’s gala and, unbeknownst to him, if all went well, she had a room reserved upstairs.
“This is quite an event,” Davis said, surveying the room much as she’d just been doing. “You should be very proud, Liza. Not everyone could pull off something of this magnitude. And with this many big names. Your guest list is a who’s who of Philadelphia society.”
“Well, it’s for a very good cause. Plus, I’ve discovered the secret to increasing the number of yes RSVPs is to up the price. At ten thousand dollars a plate, this suddenly became the social event of the season.”
Davis laughed. “You’re as brilliant as you are beautiful.”
Liza hoped that wasn’t a line. Then she decided she didn’t care if it was.
She reached up on tiptoe to give her charming date a kiss on the cheek. They’d shared four good-night kisses so far. The first two were too sweet and short to give her any real insight on his abilities in that area. However, the third and fourth kisses had opened her eyes. They were what had convinced her to reserve the room here. Because Davis had some skill. For which she was very grateful. She’d kissed way too many frogs in her life.
“Would you like to dance?” Davis gestured to the floor. The orchestra was playing a waltz, the tune familiar though she didn’t have a clue what the name of the song was. Classical music was not her forte. Instead, her music tastes—much to her rockin’ and rollin’ family’s dismay—began and ended with country. She’d been introduced to it by her college roommate, and she’d been hooked ever since.
She took Davis’s proffered hand, then stepped into his embrace once they found an empty space on the dance floor.
She rested her head against Davis’s shoulder. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was taller than her by a couple inches. They fit physically in a way that wasn’t always true of her and other men. She wasn’t particularly tall, rather she considered herself medium height. However, she’d had a couple of dates fall apart when the men—shorter than her—decided they couldn’t handle looking up at a woman. Which, in truth, suited her fine because she looked banging in a pair of heels, always willing to suffer for fashion. Flats weren’t something she’d ever switch over to, just to soothe some insecure man’s pride.
When she looked back on her track record, she figured she could check just about every dating failure box there was, which was why tonight felt steeped in promise. And while Liza was too much of a realist to let herself get carried away, there was no denying that she was genuinely hopeful and happy.
God, please let him be good in bed.
Davis’s hand remained firmly on the small of her back. She’d splurged on the deep-red ball gown, knowing the moment she saw it in the shop window she had to have it. It had hurt her bank account a little but given the fact she was a single woman with a good-paying job, and precious little debt, she’d decided to call the dress a Christmas gift to herself.
The A-line style suited her frame and made her feel elegant and sexy. The top was lace with cap sleeves, the full skirt chiffon with a long slit that reached the middle of her right thigh. The back of the dress had an open keyhole that revealed quite a lot of skin and meant she couldn’t wear a bra. Not that that was a problem, as it had a bra built into it, and it wasn’t like she was overly endowed.
The devil in her wished Davis would lift his hand a little higher to touch her bare back. While he’d proven himself to be a very nice guy, she sure as shit wouldn’t complain if he revealed a tiny bit of a bad bo y side.
Ugh. She dismissed that thought.
Beggars can’t be choosers. He had ticked off every box that mattered, so who cared if he toed the “gentleman” line when it came to politeness and public appropriateness and didn’t sneak a touch.
That was her hormones talking.
They swayed together and she let herself sink into his embrace, enjoying the peacefulness of the moment after so many long, stressful hours spent making sure everything about tonight went off without a hitch.
“I can’t believe the mayor is here,” Davis murmured. “I’ve been trying to get an appointment with him for the past two weeks, but I can’t get past his secretary.”
Davis worked in the district attorney’s office, though he’d confessed at dinner the other night, he was considering pursuing a career in politics somewhere down the line. Then he’d regaled her for the better part of an hour, discussing some of his more fascinating cases. He was intelligent and witty, two things she was certain would help his political career.
Truthfully, so far, that was the only tick mark in the meh column. She wasn’t a fan of politics or politicians, but she wasn’t ready to call it a deal-breaker. Especially since he was only thinking about it.
Liza gave him a playfully narrowed gaze. “No distracting my guests, Mr. Taylor,” she teased him. “Tonight is all about raising money for homeless teens.”
He gave her a quick nod and smile. “Of course, of course.”
The sound of a woman’s loud laugh captured Liza’s attention, and she looked toward the source. It took all the strength she had not to roll her eyes.
Patricia Eddington was Philadelphia society’s It Girl, though Liza had a hard time understanding why. Obviously, she was beautiful in the typical style of all rich-bitch blonde Barbie dolls. She and Liza were the same age, though their paths had never crossed when they were younger. Liza was public school, Patricia private. Liza was nightclubs; Patricia was country clubs. And while Liza had known who Patricia was, thanks to the local paparazzi and their fascination with the socialite, they hadn’t met in person until Liza began working for the Initiative, hosting events like tonight’s.
Heiress to a fortune, Patricia had cut a wide swath through the most eligible bachelors on the East Coast over the past decade. She’d also been engaged something like twenty times—Liza was exaggerating, but not by much—though she’d never once made it down the aisle.
Liza figured Patricia might have completed one of those trips if Philly had ever managed to land a Real Housewives reality TV show. That kind of shit was right up Patricia’s alley as she insisted on being the queen bee no matter where she was, her need to be the center of attention in every single room she occupied borderline obnoxious.
Actually, scratch the borderline.
Patricia’s latest billionaire bachelor boyfriend—say that real fast three times—was none other than Liza’s arch-nemesis, Matt Russo. Matt served as chairman of the Initiative’s board, and he’d managed to be a constant thorn in Liza’s side, ruining what was otherwise her dream job.
In addition to their work issues, she and Matt also had a long family history that ensured they would always be on opposites sides of whatever lines formed between them. Matt was a Russo, Liza a Moretti. Two names as infamous in Philly as the Hatfields and McCoys, the Montagues and the Capulets.
The animosity between the two families had started way back with Liza and Matt’s great-grandfathers, and it continued still today, four generations later.
She couldn’t begin to guess what Matt—or any man, for that matter—saw in Patricia. Perhaps it was the sizable inheritance she had coming her way, although Matt was already richer than Midas. Or maybe she was just shit-hot in bed; all those men couldn’t be wrong. Either reason wouldn’t be enough for Liza to spend more than three minutes in her presence.
Of course, it didn’t help Patricia’s case that she had an annoying habit of treating Liza like she was the hired help.
Matt caught her staring at him and his date, but he offered her nothing—no smile, smirk, or even middle finger. Instead, his eyes held hers for three beats too long before looking away as if he hadn’t even seen her at all. It was always that way with him. He’d capture her gaze and…time slowed down. Just the tiniest bit, and it always took her too long to recover.
Liza turned her attention back to Davis as the song came to an end, the musicians rising and carrying their instruments backstage.
“I need to get ready for my speech,” she said, as the two of them stepped apart. She’d prepared a special video about the Promise House, featuring interviews with some of the teens living there, for whom they were trying to raise money. She’d also prepared a few words—her pitch, for lack of a better term. “Will you be okay without me for a few minutes?”
She’d put the finishing touches on the video yesterday morning with help from the Initiative’s media department, and even though she’d seen the footage a hundred times, she’d still blown through half a dozen tissues as she watched the completed show.
“I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself. I might go over and say hello to the mayor,” he joked, winking at her.
“Talk only about the Promise House.” She swatted him playfully on the shoulder as he walked away, giving her the crossed-heart motion.
She walked over to her table to grab her notecards from her clutch.
“Davis Taylor?” a deep voice rumbled from behind her.
She sighed as she turned around.
“You have a problem with that?” she asked, staring Matt Russo down, despite her surprise that he was commenting on her date.
“Do you think that’s two last names or two first?” Only Matt Russo could make a joke in such a deadpan voice—and without cracking a smile—that she wasn’t even sure if he was trying to be funny.
“Careful, Matt. Someone might mistake that for humor and your reputation as a grumpy bastard would be shattered forever.”
Matt’s only response was the slightest narrowing of his eyes before his expression flattened out to his typical look—stoic, solemn.
Typically, their conversations were restricted to work. And, for better or worse, most of those discussions became contentiousness, given the fact Matt viewed her as overly ambitious when it came to her goals for the Initiative, while, in her opinion, he was far too conservative, too slow to act.
During their last meeting, he’d told her she needed to scale back on her planned fundraisers for the upcoming year, claiming that too many philanthropic projects would “wear out” her contributors.
Wear them out.
Those were the words he’d actually used. As if the wealthy had a limited amount of endurance when it came to writing checks and spending money they wouldn’t even miss. She’d told him that when the needs of the less fortunate were smaller than the overflowing coffers of the wealthy, she’d slow down. But until then, her project goals would remain the same.
Tonight, he was breaking the pattern by touching on something more personal.
“You never bring dates to work functions, Ms. Moretti.”
Ah. And there it was. The connection. The son of a bitch stressed the word work like she was breaking some sort of rule or something…which she wasn’t. She also didn’t appreciate him talking to her like she was his subordinate. She didn’t work for him; she worked with him, a concept he struggled to grasp.
Plus, it bugged the hell out of her that he always called her Ms. Moretti rather than Liza. What the hell was that about? It made her feel like a naughty schoolgirl, and not in a sexy way.
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but I am perfectly capable of handling my duties.” She held up her notecards to prove her point. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to—”
“I’m surprised to see you with him,” Matt interjected.
Liza hesitated to reply for a moment, thrown for a loop.
