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her golden skin.

      In his eyes the chief bridesmaid outshone everyone, including the famous supermodel bride.

      The last time he’d seen Alessandra she’d been wearing a short, cream lace dress with black beading and a pair of black shoes so high he’d been amazed she could walk in them. But walk in them she had, beautifully, her delectable bottom swaying with every step. That was the last time he’d seen her clothed. The last time he’d seen her properly she’d been burrowed naked under the bed covers in her apartment.

      The wedding party had moved from the beautiful gardens by Lake Como and into the Villa Mondelli ballroom. The wedding dinner was over, the evening celebration about to start. He’d made his best man’s speech and managed to raise some laughs from the other guests, especially Stefan and Zayed, who’d substituted the speech he’d written with a bluer version. Instead of relaxing, knowing his job was done, Christian was on tenterhooks waiting for the music to strike up.

      An American A-list starlet kept making eyes at him, a stunning woman with a body to die for. Just six weeks ago he would have been at her side like a shot. If not her, then one of the other gorgeous women littering this star-studded event already being labelled ‘wedding of the century.’ Supermodels, lingerie models, singers... It was like being a child in a sweetshop.

      If that were the case, then he must have diabetes, because none of the sweets looked remotely tempting.

      Except one. The forbidden one.

      How could he have allowed things to get so out of hand? He might flit from bed to bed but he never lost control of himself.

      To have lost his control with Alessandra...

      He could blame it on all the champagne they’d drunk. He could blame it on a lot of things, but all the blame was on himself.

      Alessandra had been vulnerable. Try as she’d done to hide it, she’d been a mess, grieving the loss of her grandfather, the man who’d raised her since she’d been a baby and who’d been buried barely two weeks before.

      Christian had dropped in at the House of Mondelli, the world-famous fashion house, on his way back from Hong Kong, expecting to take Rocco out for a night on the tiles, maybe spend the weekend together on his Italian friend’s yacht. But Rocco had been in New York and he’d bumped into Alessandra, who’d insisted he take her out instead. Under normal circumstances he would have made his excuses and got back in his jet to fly on to Athens. If he hadn’t caught the desperation in her beautiful honey-brown eyes, he would have done just that, not found himself recalling how she’d barely been able to stand during the funeral service.

      When they’d set out for the evening, the last thing he’d expected was that they would end up in bed together.

      Women came and went in his life on a regular basis. He could only assume that it was the fact Alessandra was someone who was in his life, so to speak, that meant he was having a hard job forgetting and moving on. That and the guilt of it all. She might have been the one to instigate the kiss that had led to them making love, but the blame for what followed lay firmly on his shoulders.

      He should have been stronger.

      In the six weeks since he’d seen her, he’d worked hard to push her from the forefront to the back of his mind, enough so that he’d arrived at Lake Como confident he could handle being in her presence without any problems.

      He’d taken one look at her and all the guilt had churned itself back up. They’d exchanged a few brief words over the course of the day, the same basic pleasantries they’d exchanged with everyone else, but that was the extent of their interaction. So far, at least. There was still the dance to get through.

      Whether he liked it or not, he would have to hold her in his arms one more time.

      Stefan said something to him at the exact moment the band started their warm-up. As he spoke, Christian saw Olivia lean in close to press her ear to Rocco’s mouth. It was a gesture that reminded him of his dinner with Alessandra, the way she’d leaned into him to hear him speak over the noise of the restaurant; the way her sultry scent had played under his nose...

      From the corner of his eye he could see her chatting to the official photographer, the photographer probably getting tips from her. Alessandra Mondelli was one of the most famous fashion photographers in the world, a remarkable achievement, considering she was still only twenty-five. She’d made it all on her own. Just as he’d made his name on his own.

      Stefan repeated himself; he’d been talking about the charitable foundation they and their friends had formed some years back.

      Italian Rocco Mondelli, Sicilian Stefan Bianco, desert Prince Zayed Al Afzal and he had all taken a keen interest in running and raising money for their charity. They were the so-called Columbia Four, although he couldn’t recall which of them had dubbed them so. Whoever had come up with it, it had stuck. They’d met during their first week at Columbia University and, as incredible as it was to look back on, the bond they’d formed had been instant. That bond had grown and a good few years later, when it had become obvious all four were heading towards the Forbes World’s Billionaires List, they’d formed the charity. Christian was extremely proud of their charity, founded to ensure disadvantaged kids could get the education they deserved but were unable to afford. It felt good for them to be doing something together that didn’t involve drinking and bedding as many beautiful women as they could.

      They all believed the bond between them to be unbreakable.

      But even the strongest steel could be destroyed.

      He answered with what he hoped sounded like intelligence but, in truth, what came out of his mouth sounded so unintelligible he could be speaking Martian.

      Luckily Stefan’s attention was diverted by the band striking up their first song.

      The bride and groom glided onto the dance floor to loud applause.

      Christian’s eyes drifted to his right, back to Alessandra. She was looking straight at him, a trapped expression in her eyes.

      His chest tightened.

      A powerful slap to his shoulder broke the spell.

      ‘Time to get yourself on the dance floor,’ Zayed said, sitting on the empty seat to Christian’s left.

      Theos. He had to dance with her. Olivia, the bride, had ordered it. The best man and chief bridesmaid...

      Alessandra met him halfway, her obvious apprehension mirroring what raced inside him.

      It would help if the band were playing one of the usual upbeat tunes that had made them one of the most famous groups in the world rather than the cover of a romantic ballad they were currently warbling.

      Gritting his teeth, he walked by her side to the dance floor and took her into his arms.

      His heart jolted at the first touch, a dozen memories playing in his mind. Her scent. Her taste...

      The back of her dress was low, leaving him no option but to touch her silky skin. It was either that or hold on to her bottom. His hand lay rigid against her bare back, hardly touching her.

      Yet, no matter the physical distance he tried to impose between himself and her slender form, his senses filled with Alessandra, her sultry scent playing tricks on him as they moved over the dance floor in a manner more akin to a pair of robots than a couple who’d had a wild night of sex just six weeks before. The stirring that had begun when he’d watched her walk up the aisle and had simmered since took on new life, an ache forming in his groin that he willed away with increasing frustration.

      Think of Rocco, he ordered himself, staring at his loved-up friend who was locked in the arms of his equally loved-up wife. Rocco caught his eye and nodded briefly before leaning down to kiss his bride.

      That one action felt like a knife in Christian’s guts.

      What would his friend say if he knew his best man had taken his sister’s virginity?

      The

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