Something had been missing.
Tony wasn't missing anything.
But she wasn't going to think of him like that. She wasn't one of those women who lusted after a man who didn't want her. She was great, and she knew she deserved the best.
Although as he undressed, she wondered if he wasn't one of the best. She didn't know how old he was, but he had years on Jeremy, who was twenty-six, and he looked better than the young actor. His shoulders were muscular, his abs were defined, and he had just the right amount of hair on his pecs to make him manly.
There was challenge in his eyes as he stripped slowly out of his suit, down to his boxers. He stood before her like an Italian god.
She wanted to lap him up. She dropped her gaze to his boxers. "I'm waiting."
"You'll have to wait longer." He walked to the tub and got in without taking them off.
"Modesty?" she asked with a lift of her eyebrow.
"I want to keep your virtue in tact," he said as he eased in. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back. "Is this what you do while I'm out?"
"Only once a day. Okay, sometimes twice."
He cracked an eye open and looked at her.
"I like to soak." She surreptitiously moved her legs so she wouldn't be tempted to rub against his. "This is a good tub, even if it looks like Caesar's lost palace. Who'd you get to design this house? I thought Liberace was dead."
"It came this way when I rented it for Daniela. "
"And you still wanted to live here."
"Maybe I enjoy the sense of absurdity." He eyed her. "You obviously like living here."
She couldn't deny it. Something about the place felt more like home than her fashionable bungalow in the Hollywood hills. "I felt like slumming."
He made a sound.
She watched him silently. His head propped back on the edge of the tub, his eyes half-lidded. He looked so relaxed and at ease with himself. How did he achieve that? Was it an act? She didn't think so. A man like Antonio Rossi, who had everything, didn't need to act like anything other than himself.
"You have your notebook out even here?" he said, startling her.
She turned around, self-consciously closing it under his watchful gaze. "Is that a problem?"
"Defensive. It makes me wonder what you're writing in there." He arched his brow. "You have it with you all the time."
She leaned back, carefully exposing just the top swells of her breasts. Breasts always distracted men.
Apparently Tony was immune. "What do you write in there? Is it a diary?"
She started to frown but caught herself. "It's none of your business."
"You know that only makes me more curious. Maybe I'll sneak into your room and make myself at home while you're out."
Sophie narrowed her eyes. "Do it and risk castration."
"Are you writing about me?"
"Conceited much?" she asked, even if she had written about him—a lot.
"What do you write?"
Like hell she was going to tell him. But then she heard herself say, "Scenes."
"Scenes?" He sat up. "Are you writing a screenplay?"
She bristled at how surprised he sounded. "What if I am?"
"Then you should do it."
"What?" She gaped at him.
"You have experience with scripts, characters, and stage direction. You'd probably write a good screenplay." He smiled mildly. "Don't tell me you've never thought of it."
She hadn't, not beyond a way to pass the time without going insane from boredom. She turned and stared at her journal. Tony was right: she had ideas. And hadn't every director she'd worked with in recent history accused her of trying to direct the movie?
Pursing her lips, she imagined herself on the other side of the camera. Not that she'd have to be. She could do both. Look at Woody Allen.
Tony skimmed his arms over the water's surface. "This was a good idea."
"I'm full of good ideas," she flirted without thinking about who she was taunting.
He must have sensed it, because he speared her with a look that brooked no nonsense. "Don't, Sophie."
Knowing she was playing with fire, she poked his leg with her toes. "What are you warning me
Tony wasn't missing anything.
But she wasn't going to think of him like that. She wasn't one of those women who lusted after a man who didn't want her. She was great, and she knew she deserved the best.
Although as he undressed, she wondered if he wasn't one of the best. She didn't know how old he was, but he had years on Jeremy, who was twenty-six, and he looked better than the young actor. His shoulders were muscular, his abs were defined, and he had just the right amount of hair on his pecs to make him manly.
There was challenge in his eyes as he stripped slowly out of his suit, down to his boxers. He stood before her like an Italian god.
She wanted to lap him up. She dropped her gaze to his boxers. "I'm waiting."
"You'll have to wait longer." He walked to the tub and got in without taking them off.
"Modesty?" she asked with a lift of her eyebrow.
"I want to keep your virtue in tact," he said as he eased in. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back. "Is this what you do while I'm out?"
"Only once a day. Okay, sometimes twice."
He cracked an eye open and looked at her.
"I like to soak." She surreptitiously moved her legs so she wouldn't be tempted to rub against his. "This is a good tub, even if it looks like Caesar's lost palace. Who'd you get to design this house? I thought Liberace was dead."
"It came this way when I rented it for Daniela. "
"And you still wanted to live here."
"Maybe I enjoy the sense of absurdity." He eyed her. "You obviously like living here."
She couldn't deny it. Something about the place felt more like home than her fashionable bungalow in the Hollywood hills. "I felt like slumming."
He made a sound.
She watched him silently. His head propped back on the edge of the tub, his eyes half-lidded. He looked so relaxed and at ease with himself. How did he achieve that? Was it an act? She didn't think so. A man like Antonio Rossi, who had everything, didn't need to act like anything other than himself.
"You have your notebook out even here?" he said, startling her.
She turned around, self-consciously closing it under his watchful gaze. "Is that a problem?"
"Defensive. It makes me wonder what you're writing in there." He arched his brow. "You have it with you all the time."
She leaned back, carefully exposing just the top swells of her breasts. Breasts always distracted men.
Apparently Tony was immune. "What do you write in there? Is it a diary?"
She started to frown but caught herself. "It's none of your business."
"You know that only makes me more curious. Maybe I'll sneak into your room and make myself at home while you're out."
Sophie narrowed her eyes. "Do it and risk castration."
"Are you writing about me?"
"Conceited much?" she asked, even if she had written about him—a lot.
"What do you write?"
Like hell she was going to tell him. But then she heard herself say, "Scenes."
"Scenes?" He sat up. "Are you writing a screenplay?"
She bristled at how surprised he sounded. "What if I am?"
"Then you should do it."
"What?" She gaped at him.
"You have experience with scripts, characters, and stage direction. You'd probably write a good screenplay." He smiled mildly. "Don't tell me you've never thought of it."
She hadn't, not beyond a way to pass the time without going insane from boredom. She turned and stared at her journal. Tony was right: she had ideas. And hadn't every director she'd worked with in recent history accused her of trying to direct the movie?
Pursing her lips, she imagined herself on the other side of the camera. Not that she'd have to be. She could do both. Look at Woody Allen.
Tony skimmed his arms over the water's surface. "This was a good idea."
"I'm full of good ideas," she flirted without thinking about who she was taunting.
He must have sensed it, because he speared her with a look that brooked no nonsense. "Don't, Sophie."
Knowing she was playing with fire, she poked his leg with her toes. "What are you warning me
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