Tempted and Taken, page 1
Tempted and Taken
ITALIAN STALLIONS
BOOK SIX
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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Contents
Tempted and Taken
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About the Author
Tempted and Taken
Some mistakes are worth repeating.
Liza knows that cocky billionaire Matt Russo is the wrong man for her. She could make a long list of reasons why she’d be smart to stay away, including his tenacious ex-girlfriend, the fact he’s trying to destroy her family, and, oh yeah, did she mention he’s a cold, distant bastard? However, after their tempestuous one-night stand, she’s finding it hard to hang on to their well-established nemesis routine.
Matt is the master of control—of his life, his emotions, his future. Except, of course, for that night he slipped up…with Liza Moretti. Reassuming his grip on the reins, he’s determined it won’t happen again. Unfortunately, doing the right thing in regards to the tempting woman fails because doing the wrong things with her—to her—are too alluring to resist.
An impromptu invitation to share his private plane leads to an unexpected break from reality and some very steamy nights in Hawaii. Until real life comes knocking and Matt is forced to face the mistakes of his past. Mistakes that could destroy the one thing he can’t control, and the one thing he can no longer live without—Liza.
Chapter One
Matt Russo rubbed his forehead wearily, then swung a right at the next light, kicking his own ass for agreeing to this dinner. He was too hungover—an uncommon state for him—to deal with this shit tonight. He never drank to excess, but he had last evening. Or more accurately, this morning.
The bottle of Scotch he’d consumed in the wee hours before dawn had been the final fuck-up in a long list of mistakes he’d made last night.
Matt sighed, concerned the three ibuprofen he’d just taken weren’t going to kick in before he got to the restaurant. This dinner date was going to be tricky enough with all his faculties functioning. Doing it with this nonstop, throbbing pain behind his eyes…shit.
He applied the brakes at a red light, his mind drifting back to why he was in this predicament to begin with.
Last night had started just like any other night. He’d donned his tuxedo, picked up his current plus-one-with-benefits, Patricia Eddington, and headed to the Ritz-Carlton for the Snowflake Gala, a fundraiser held by the Philadelphia Initiative to raise money for the Promise House. The charity was a good one, one he was more than happy to support, seeing as the money went toward helping teenagers in the city who were facing homelessness or who had been victims of sex trafficking.
The problem wasn’t the fundraiser; it was the organizer.
Liza Moretti.
Simply the name Moretti should have been enough to ensure Matt kept his damn distance from her, but Liza had captured his attention a year and a half ago, and since then, she’d been the cause of too many sleepless nights.
As chairman of the board overseeing the Philadelphia Initiative, Matt crossed paths with Liza more than was comfortable—for either of them—as they tended to butt heads regarding the Initiative’s goals. Of course, their professional disagreements notwithstanding, they were also dealing with the fact their families had participated in a four-generations-long feud fueled by marital infidelity, broken hearts, destroyed businesses, and outright petty revenge.
Matt wasn’t stupid enough to pretend the Russos hadn’t been the perpetrators of most of the bullshit, and that he hadn’t contributed more than his fair share to the continued ill will.
The moment he’d walked into the gala last night and seen Liza in that deep red ball gown, he’d known he was in trouble. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her, and in a moment of weakness, he’d asked her to dance. That dance had been his first mistake because holding her in his arms, recalling the softness of that tiny bit of skin exposed by the keyhole slot in the back of her gown, had sent his thoughts down paths best left untrodden.
Unfortunately, his date hadn’t appreciated him paying so much attention to another woman. Asking Patricia out had originally seemed like a smart move because they traveled in the same circles, both had more money than God, and neither of them was looking for a relationship. In hindsight, he could see he’d been short-sighted, given the fact he had quite a few business ties with her father—her doting, spoiled-Patricia-rotten father.
Matt hoped Richard wouldn’t be petty after the way things had ended between him and his daughter, but he couldn’t bet the bank on that, either. Patricia had given off “woman scorned” vibes when she’d stormed out the hotel last night.
Matt pushed the gas when the light turned green, recalling his argument with Patricia. After the gala, he had broken things off between them in the lobby of the Ritz, proclaiming their relationship—the word he’d really wanted to use was “association”—had run its course. Patricia, whose jealousy had reared its ugly head throughout the evening, took his rejection badly.
Very badly.
“How dare you end things this way!” Patricia yelled.
“Keep your voice down, Patricia. I have no interest in drawing a crowd.”
“I will not keep my voice down. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to expect my date to treat me with courtesy. To pay attention to me. I didn’t enjoy watching you staring at her all night.”
“She has nothing to do with this,” Matt replied.
“Bullshit,” Patricia scoffed.
Absentmindedly, Matt raised his hand to his cheek, the one Patricia had slapped before stomping off. The argument had been unfortunate, but he hadn’t viewed it as something he couldn’t recover from. He suspected everything might have been okay…if his night had ended there.
But there had been a witness to his and Patricia’s confrontation.
Liza Moretti.
She’d seen—and heard—everything.
“She slapped you?” Liza asked.
“Yes.” Matt didn’t bother to touch his cheek. “I will admit she’s not the first woman to slap me.”
“I suspect she won’t be the last, either. You broke things off?”
Matt nodded.
“Because you were staring at…someone?”
“You know I was,” he said, holding her gaze. “Because you were staring back.”
After that, they had walked to the hotel elevator together. They’d both gotten rooms at the Ritz, anticipating very different endings to their nights. Matt had planned to spend the night with Patricia in his bed, Liza with her date for the gala, Davis Taylor.
Liza had given her date the heave-ho before the party had even ended, and it had bothered Matt to see her looking so…depressed didn’t seem like the right word. No. Liza had looked resigned. Like she was so used to getting the short end of the stick in her relationships, she didn’t even feel disappointment or sadness anymore.
He had to give it to her. Liza rallied quickly, bantering with him as they walked to the elevator.
“You got a room here for tonight?” she asked.
“I did.”
“Hoping for a romantic interlude?”
Matt shook his head. “Hoping for sex.”
“Oh.”
“You have a room?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Romantic interlude?” he threw back at her.
“Nope. I was hoping to get fucked. So, I’m resorting to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?” he asked as the elevator doors slid open.
“A long soak in a hot bath. And self-care.”
Matt wasn’t sure what had driven him to kiss her the second the elevator doors closed. All he knew was one second, she was reaching out to push the button for her floor, the next, he had her back against the elevator wall as he drove his thigh between her shapely legs, working them both into a frenzy.
That had been his second mistake.
And because he was on a roll, he’d made the third—and deadliest—mistake just moments later when he asked her to join him for a drink in his room. She’d accepted the invitation, the two of them making small talk on the couch in his penthouse suite. Liza had spotted the gift he’d bought for Patricia, and he had insisted she open it. Her curiosity won out as she unwrapped the diamond tennis bracelet. He’d put it on her, despite her demands that he not. He’d loved the way the gems sparkled against her skin, even as he pictured her in something much different.
“This isn’t what I would have bought if I’d been shopping for you.”
“No diamonds for me?” Liza asked.
“No. Diamonds pale next to your skin.”
“Nice li ne.”
“It’s not a line,” he insisted. “If I’d been shopping for you, I would have bought you rubies. I can imagine how the rich, vibrant red hue would shimmer against your skin. I’d cover you in rubies. They’d dangle from your ears. From your throat. From your wrists. And I wouldn’t stop with the traditional pieces.”
“What do you mean?”
“My rubies would dangle from your nipples,” he whispered.
“Where else?” she asked, her voice husky with need.
“From the clamp I’d put on your clit. But the largest ruby would peek out from the plug I’d put in your ass.”
After that, any reticence that lingered between them vanished and they’d moved to the bedroom, all restraint gone.
Matt had slept with countless women in his life—beautiful, sophisticated, experienced women—yet none of them, not a single one, had made him feel the way Liza had. Sex with her had been life-altering, amazing. He’d always suspected the chemistry between them would be explosive, which was why he’d kept his distance from her for as long as he had.
Now having it confirmed was going to be hell on his self-control because he hadn’t expected to discover exactly how compatible they were.
Liza Moretti wasn’t just beautiful, intelligent, his kryptonite.
She was submissive.
When she’d snuck out of his hotel room before dawn, it had taken everything he had not to go after her, to capture and drag her back to his bed where she belonged.
Matt closed his eyes, wincing at the pain in his head.
Not where she belonged.
He’d resisted the temptation to follow her, opting instead for the Scotch. He wanted to call the alcohol mistake number four, but there was an annoying voice inside his head insisting that the fourth mistake was not chasing her down and going for round two.
Matt pulled up to the restaurant, sighing heavily, girding his loins. He was perfectly aware that if he hadn’t been three sheets to the wind this morning, he wouldn’t have answered the phone, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have agreed to this dinner date.
Not that he didn’t need to talk to her. Because he did. But he would have liked to have had this conversation without the hangover and after a good night’s sleep. Right now, he was running on fumes, which put him at a definite disadvantage.
He patted his inside suit pocket, feeling the gift box tucked there, the diamond bracelet Liza had left behind when she’d snuck out of his hotel room.
The valet walked to the driver’s side as he opened the door, and he handed the young man his car keys, even though every fiber of his being wanted to snatch them back, jump in his car, and get the hell away from here.
Instead, he took a steadying breath and walked toward the entrance of Vetri Cucina. The hostess smiled when he gave his name, pointing toward the intimate table for two by the front window. If he hadn’t been so distracted, he might have seen her sitting there when he’d entered.
Walking toward her, he worked overtime to turn his grimace into a smile.
“There you are, darling,” Patricia cooed as he bent down to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. She tried to turn her head at the last minute, hoping to take the platonic out of his kiss, but he moved too quickly, avoiding her lips.
He claimed his chair, aware she’d reserved them a table that ensured everyone who walked by outside would see the two of them dining together. Patricia Eddington loved nothing more than being in the limelight, the center of attention, while Matt preferred to lurk in the shadows.
“I’m so glad you agreed to join me tonight. I wanted—” She paused mid-sentence, frowning when the sommelier arrived to pour him a glass of wine. She didn’t like that whatever speech she’d prepared had been interrupted.
“Sir?” The man held the bottle so that he could read the label.
Patricia reached over, grasping Matt’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of ordering a bottle for us.”
“Not at all,” Matt said, though wine—hair of the dog or not—was the last thing he wanted. Nothing short of water…a gallon of it…was going to help his head.
The sommelier poured him the obligatory taste, which gave him an excuse to pull his hand out of Patricia’s, using it to lift the glass. He took a sip, then nodded that the wine was fine. He planned to nurse a single glass, so he didn’t give a shit what they drank. Pleased, the man filled their glasses, then left.
Patricia took a sip of the wine. “Oh, that’s delicious.”
And knowing her, extremely expensive.
Looking across the table, he was somewhat surprised to realize this was their first time dining together alone in a restaurant, as he’d only dated her in that plus-one-with-benefits capacity, inviting her to galas and fundraisers and charity events—all of which came complete with meals at tables for eight to ten people. That had saved him from having to converse with her too much, so now—on top of the hangover—he was stuck having to make small talk with the obnoxious woman. Previously, there had been no expectations between them for dates such as this, no morning-after calls, and no contact between swanky events.
It had been perfect.
Until last night.
It belatedly occurred to him that Patricia was viewing this as a date. Yet another reason why he’d been stupid to accept the invitation. He should have suggested they meet for lunch in the middle of a workday somewhere a hell of a lot less romantic.
“I’ve heard wonderful things about this restaurant,” Patricia continued.
“I’m sure it’s very nice.” Matt glanced around the small dining room. There were no more than a dozen patrons, all couples, all looking as in love as his brother, Gage, who spent ninety-nine percent of his time these days walking around with damn hearts in his eyes.
Gage, much to Matt’s surprise, had fallen head over heels in love with Penny Beaumont, the quirky woman who had worked in the IT department of Russo Enterprises for seven years. Married not quite a year, it appeared the honeymoon was nowhere near over for Gage and Penny.
It was Gage’s marital state that had opened his eyes to Patricia’s changing view of their—fuck it—association. What they’d shared had not been a relationship, and he didn’t give a shit if Patricia took offense to that word. Last night, she’d wondered aloud if all Russo men made good husbands before suggesting the two of them get married. He’d dismissed the idea out of hand, but she’d doubled down, and that was when he had known it was time to cut his losses.
Patricia put her wineglass down, then leaned closer in a blatant attempt to draw his attention to the cleavage revealed by her low-cut dress. She had seduction in mind.
The small table ensured they were too close for Matt’s comfort, especially when she reached out and cupped his cheek in a way that, from any other woman, might feel like affection, but from her felt more like a calculated move.
He reached up and grasped her hand, pulling it away from his face. “Patricia,” he started, ready to set her straight.
“I was unhappy with the way things ended last night.” She’d said as much on the phone this morning when she called to invite him out to dinner.
If he’d been clear-headed, he would have pushed her off, suggested the lunch date, but Scotch, a lack of sleep, and fucked-up feelings about Liza had worked against him, and his brain had failed to engage.
“I handled things poorly,” he said.
Patricia lit up, her smile wide, and Matt realized he’d given her the wrong impression. Score one for the hangover.
She laid her hand on his forearm. “I’m afraid neither of us was at our best. Such a silly misunderstanding.”
He hadn’t misunderstood a damn thing.
Patricia had proposed the marriage idea not because she’d caught feelings but because she coveted power and fame, and she viewed merging her family’s billions with his as a way to catapult herself into the same category as the Bezoses, Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan, the Gateses—pre-divorce—the Beckhams, and God only knew who else.
