It was the question of the night, it seemed, as TJ’s guests tried to work out how an uptight management consultant could possibly ensnare the infamous Tino Ventura. She grabbed her water glass and stiffened as she felt Valentino’s strong fingers grip the back of her chair. He’d done that constantly throughout the meal, sometimes playing with the beads on her top, and she’d felt the heat of his touch sear through her clothing and all the way into her bones. The man was like a furnace. Fortunately he took control of the conversation, having already warned her to say very little, but she could see he was as tired of the interest as she was. Tuning out, she wondered if she shouldn’t stage a massive fight right here and end the charade before they slipped up. Or before she slipped up—because he seemed to be doing just fine. And maybe she would feel better if Dexter didn’t keep throwing her curious glances that told her in more than words that he didn’t buy the whole international-racing-driver-boyfriend thing one bit.
