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Read Online Books/Novels:

Possessive Valentine

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Flora Ferrari

Language:
English
Book Information:

A matchmaker service for Valentine’s Day? Hardly romantic. Except when the owner is the modern day version of cupid himself, and the only man I’ve ever loved. Oh, and my brother’s best friend to boot.
When this younger woman makes my intentions for this older man known will he give me the boot, telling me to get lost? Or will he kick every other part of his life to the curb, telling me I’m the only one for him, and that any man who messes with me will get a boot in his behind, as we stand side-by-side, forever?

Books by Author:

Flora Ferrari Books

CHAPTER 1

Valentina

I grab the bottom of my miniskirt and tug it down. Looking sexy is what I’m going for, not cheap.

Italian Introductions, the sign says over the door of the entrance to the high-end commercial office I’m standing in front of. I never thought I’d be using a matchmaking service to find a guy…and I’m not.

I’m here for one man and one man only.

My brother’s best friend.

It’s not that San Diego doesn’t have plenty of options for a woman who’s twenty years old. There are businessmen, athletes, surfers, hippies, and even guys who own vineyards not far away in Temecula.

But none of them own my heart the way he does.

Valentino Valentine. His name sounds like something only a publicist in Los Angeles could come up with, but it’s his god given name…and god is he ever the only man I’ve ever wanted.

And with a name like that, and the deep booming baritone and chiseled body to match, he’s been my Valentine ever since I knew what it really meant to love somebody.

The only problem? He has no idea.

But that’s all about to change. I’m here to show him that I’m not just his best friend’s little sister anymore. I’m my own woman. I can stand on my own two feet, although I’d be more than happy to be swept off them and to find myself flat on my back at the snap of those long, thick, fingers of his.

“Here goes nothing,” I exhale hard.

I straighten my back and lift my high heel up off the parking lot pavement and onto the sidewalk as I march up to the front door.

It takes more strength than I expected to pull back the handle on the thick glass door before I quickly slide inside the small opening I made.

“Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist says, one eyebrow raised so high it’s practically taking up half of her forehead.

“I’m here to see Mr. Valentine,” I say. Her eyes run up and down my body in a very unapproving way. I want to yell out, “Hey bitch, just because I’m showing off a bit of skin doesn’t mean I’m easy in the least bit. As a matter of fact I’m as difficult as they come…difficult as in no one’s ever seen what’s underneath these clothes. Difficult as in never been kissed. Difficult as in if you make this tough for me I’ll show you how difficult I can make your afternoon.”

“Mr. Valentine isn’t able to accept walk-ins I’m afraid.”

And I’m afraid I’m going to walk these uncomfortable as hell stilettos all over your face if you don’t quit looking at me that way.

She pops her gum as if that’s the auditory cue that my bubble has been burst.

But I don’t give up that easily.

“Well, I can just wait on him,” I say, looking over at the Eames Italian swivel chair and ottoman in rosewood and black leather. The design is classic Italian, a masterpiece from the old country, just like him.

“He won’t be in the rest of the day,” she says, starting to become even more visibly annoyed by my presence.

And then he graces me with his…

“It’s okay, Bamber,” a deep voice says just before a custom suited man walks through the doorway of the adjacent room holding a small espresso cup in his hand.

Bamber?

But I don’t care about Bambi, or Thumper, or whatever the heck her name is. All I care about is him…Valentino.

He sips from the cup as he drinks in the sight of me from head to toe.

“She’s a friend,” he says.

Friend. The word makes the beads of sweat trickling down my breasts and the chills racing down my spine freeze. I hate the word he uses to describe me.

I clench my teeth and run my eyes across his lightweight Italian wool suit…the one that he probably doesn’t even have to visit the tailor to get fitted for. I can literally imagine him saying something ridiculous like, “Just take the measurements from Michelangelo’s David and it should fit perfectly.”

Even with the suit on you can see his body looks like it’s been carved from marble, but not in the gross weightlifter, “Hey bro, can you stick this needle in my glute,” kind of way.

It’s not that he doesn’t play sports or lift weights, either. He was the striker for the San Diego State University soccer team while my brother was the goalkeeper. He was the Andrea Pirlo to my brother’s Gianluigi Buffon, at least that’s the comparisons to the Italian national soccer team that the fans liked to make, although to me he was absolutely incomparable.

I remember sitting in the stands watching him play. The way his tall, toned, sunkissed body moved across the field as he seemed to score at will…and I was here hoping that both of us could score in another way entirely.


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