‘Italian grandmothers are not known to be forgiving—especially when it involves food. I’m surprised you survived.’
Leo thought of his own upbringing. The array of servants in the castle kitchen. The silent meals alone with his nanny. Surprising himself with the direction of his thoughts, he sat forward, focusing on Dara’s smiling features.
‘It wasn’t a laughing matter. That woman cooked twelve different types of pasta in the space of one hour.’ She shook her head. ‘It was the most dramatic reaction to food I have ever encountered.’
‘My countrymen are not known for their delicate sensibilities.’ He finished his coffee, regarding her as she sat still looking pensively out of the window. ‘Tell the truth: have you eaten a plain tomato sauce since then?’
That earned him a smile. ‘Not if my life depended on it.’
‘Then you’ve passed the second test,’ he proclaimed.
He watched as her expression drifted, all trace of their playful conversation melting away.
‘Exactly how many tests do you have in store for me?’ she asked as she took a sip from her water.
He leaned back into his seat, casual and in control. ‘I don’t like to put a limit on progress, Dara. As a businesswoman I’m sure you can understand that.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, actually. I was considering showing you some ideas that struck me for your event tonight.’ She reached for her handbag, then paused. ‘Unless that violates my role as your temporary consultant?’ She raised a brow.
Leo sighed. The woman was hell-bent on annoying him.
‘Make it quick.’
She busied herself taking out a sleek tablet computer and unfolding the case into a neat stand, so that it stood upright as an impromptu presentation screen. She launched into a flurry of rough outlines, pinpointing the areas in which she felt his current plan lacked variety.
‘So, you see, if you split the evening into two parts you will avoid alienating the business clientele,’ she concluded, finally.
Leo sat back in his chair and tilted his head to one side. The flow chart on the screen was genius. She had just achieved in one brainstorming session what a team of seven event organisers had failed to.
The Milan relaunch had been heavily debated for weeks, due to the awkward combination of ‘party hard’ celebrity guests and the more staid businessmen and politicians. Finding an event structure that could keep all groups entertained had proved impossible, and yet Dara had seen the solution after simply looking down from an upper floor window.
‘Could you achieve all of this before you attend the event tonight?’
‘Without a doubt.’ She nodded confidently, her grey eyes lighting up with determination.
‘I’ll call my team in and you can get to work.’
She looked surprised for a moment. ‘Would your team not resent having a newcomer treading on their toes?’
‘I’m beginning to wonder if I should be the one resenting them.’
She visibly relaxed into her chair. ‘I’m glad you’re open to change.’
He laughed, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘“Change” is an understatement. Things clearly need a shake-up. They’re paid so well they’ve lost their creativity.’ He sat forward, flicking the screen of her computer across to look through the images once more. ‘I’ll have my management team on hand—anything you need, they are at your disposal.’
‘You make me sound important.’ Her eyes sparkled as she closed down the screen and placed it back into her bag.
‘And what about the uniforms?’ he enquired casually, and smiled when her expression turned rueful.
‘I don’t expect you to overhaul your branding after one little statement.’
‘Ah, but I’m an impulsive man, Dara.’ He waved a hand, signalling to the waiter for their coats. ‘Your comments last night have wounded my overblown pride. I’ll expect that to be remedied by this evening too.’
Her eyes widened, her delicate hands twisting in her lap as she absorbed his challenge. ‘It take it that this is another test?’
‘You say you’ve never lost a challenge. Consider it an experiment.’
She straightened her shoulders. ‘You trust me to make changes to your event and overhaul your signature uniform in less than seven hours?’
‘Are you telling me you can’t do it?’
‘I can do it,’ she said, all confidence. ‘I just don’t understand why you’re giving me this opportunity when you’ve refused so many others.’
He sat back in his chair, once again taken by her honest approach to business. He had invited her tonight because of his attraction to her. But now, after she had once again proved she was more brains than body, he felt tempted to tell her at least a half-truth.
‘Ten years ago I commissioned those uniforms as a gimmick. We had only been open a few months, and it was the first New Year’s Eve event we ever held. The party was in full swing when a notorious designer came staggering in. He was drunk, as usual, and he stood in the middle of a crowd of journalists and began to shout that he could see himself in one of the suits.’
Leo laughed as he remembered the night clearly.
‘The man was absolutely trashed, and he was amazed by his own reflection in the material.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘But that’s not how everyone else saw it. Anyway—long story short: word soon spread and our temporary costumes became a brand statement. I found the whole situation hilarious.’
He took another sip of coffee.
‘It was a publicity stunt that worked, and it seemed that I was the only person who could see how ridiculous the staff looked. Until you, of course.’ He raised his coffee cup in mock salute.
‘My attention to detail is what keeps me in business.’
‘Well, I’d imagine being associated with a big brand like Lucchesi doesn’t hurt.’ Leo dropped the name casually, watching her reaction with hooded intent.
‘I’m hardly “associated” with the brand. I’ve been contracted for a few events—one with the Lucchesi Foundation, their charity for the hospitals of Sicily.’
‘You must have made quite an impression for a relative unknown to be trusted by such a family.’
‘I happened to get talking to Gloria Lucchesi and her daughters while I was planning a wedding in Syracuse.’ She shrugged. ‘I wish it was more impressive, but it was rather coincidental.’
‘Nonetheless, you are on first-name terms with a very powerful family. That in itself is an achievement.’
‘I suppose it is.’ She smiled.
Leo mulled over her connection to Umberto Lucchesi. Their recent disagreement had caused a large problem that he was fast losing time to resolve. Not that a wedding planner could pose any solution, but she might possibly be useful.
He watched as Dara sat back in her chair, casually glancing towards him as she folded her napkin into a neat square on the table, then did the same with his.
She looked up and noticed his look of amusement at her actions. ‘Sorry, it’s a force of habit. Organisation is a natural impulse for me. Hence my choice of occupation.’
‘And what does my choice of occupation say about me, I wonder?’
She twisted her lips. ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to say.’
‘You know, not very many women can make me feel as if I’m under scrutiny. And yet it’s as though everything I say or do offends you.’
‘I’m not offended by you. I’m quite aware of the fact that your impulses are the only reason I’m sitting here.’ She shrugged.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that’s the only reason...’ He let his voice deepen slightly as he leaned forward and met her eyes. Dark blonde eyelashes lowered for one split second and her pupils dilated, leaving only a rim of steel-grey around them.
That one re
flex was enough to tell him what he’d come here to find out. No matter how indifferent she claimed to be, she most definitely was not unaffected by this intense chemistry between them.
‘You are here because I want you to be. I always get what I want.’
He smiled as her eyes darkened even more, but this time in anger. Oh, yes, she was just what he needed to break his little spell of restlessness. He would break down each of those polite little barriers one by one, until she couldn’t think straight any more.
She responded by throwing him her most polite smile. ‘I understand that you’re a powerful man, Leo, and that you grew up in a certain way. But sooner or later you will find that not everyone bends to your will. No matter how much you push.’
He ignored her comment about his privileged past. He was used to people’s ignorant presumptions. He most definitely had grown up a certain way—but not the way most people would expect.
He leaned across the table, raising one brow in challenge. ‘Are you sure about that? I’ve been known to be quite persuasive.’
‘Well, there’s something we have in common.’ She smiled, and for a second he caught a glimpse of the fire buried underneath all that ice. He was enjoying sitting here with her, enjoying their sparring. She was nothing like any woman who had sparked his interest before.
She stood up as the waiter approached with their items from the cloakroom. ‘I came here with one goal, Leo. And I never find myself off track—no matter how distracting the scenery.’
‘I would expect nothing less.’ He nodded in agreement.
She paused. ‘Good. Because I won’t be playing any more of your games. I’m a professional, and I like to get things done quickly.’
‘As do I, Dara.’ He purred.
Always the gentleman, he held out her coat, helping her to fit it comfortably around her shoulders. One errant finger lightly grazed the sensitive skin of her neck and he felt her shiver in response. Smiling, he eased back as she turned to face him.
‘Allora, I think we understand each other,’ he said, shrugging on his own coat quickly.
She continued to watch him with a mixture of accusation and reluctant awareness as they made their way outside into the chilly autumn afternoon. He stopped when his chauffeur approached them, opening the door of the limo with polite efficiency.
‘My driver will take you to the club. My team will be at your command.’
Leo fought the urge to slide in beside her on the seat. She felt every ounce of this tension between them—he had seen it in her eyes. She wanted him, but she wouldn’t let herself have what she wanted. That was a lesson that only came after prolonged temptation. He would show her just what it meant to lose control—but first he’d have to take her out of that comfort zone of hers.
CHAPTER THREE
DARA STOOD ON the lower floor of the club and made a final sweep of her surroundings. Leo’s team had been very responsive to her advice—in fact they’d seemed almost relieved to have the responsibility taken from their shoulders. None of them had seemed particularly overjoyed to be planning such a high-profile event. Maybe Leo was right: they were jaded by success and lacked any motivation to strive further.
Well, that suited her just fine. Being in close proximity to such high-profile guests was a networking dream come true. She would make a few new contacts, get her own event contract signed, and then fly straight home to set about planning the wedding of her career. Finally her strict business plan was yielding the kind of results she had dreamed of when she’d left her life in Dublin behind.
Unconsciously she chewed on her bottom lip, trying to supress the memories that her mind conjured up every time she thought of her past life. The well meaning glances filled with pity...the hushed conversations. She would forever be known as poor Dara Devlin back home—it had been the main reason she left it all behind. It would have been impossible to forge a new life in a place filled with such painful memories.
She remembered sitting in the hospital, her dream of ever having a child having just been taken away from her. Only to find herself watching her fiancé coldly walk away from her for the last time.
No. She shook off the thoughts before they could take hold. She had done enough wallowing in the weeks before she had decided to move to Italy. Her life was good now. She should thank Daniel, really. He had set her free to focus on what she really loved. Her career gave her more satisfaction than family life ever could have. She was happy now—she truly was—and now she had the chance to really make a name for herself.
Portia Palmer was the biggest movie star Ireland had produced in the past ten years, and she had chosen Dara to plan her huge weekend wedding. She liked to think that the actress had somehow heard a glowing report from one of her happy clients. But sadly it most likely had more to do with Dara being the only Irish planner on the island. Miss Palmer was all about patriotism and her Celtic heritage.
But that was fine with Dara. Publicity was publicity, and if she hoped for her name to gain status it couldn’t hurt to have a world-famous Hollywood star in her little black book.
Now, after seeing tonight’s guest list, she felt butterflies flapping around in her stomach with the nerves and anticipation. Leo hadn’t been lying when he’d said he had high-profile guests. One quick flip through the hostess’s list had revealed several notable European politicians, at least three racing drivers, a world-renowned fashion designer and the entire cast of the Luscious Lingerie catalogue. People like that could open more than doors for her in her career. They could knock down walls.
The snooty hostess from the night before suddenly appeared by her side. Dara closed the list with a snap, trying not to look guilty.
‘Signor Valente has instructed me to give you this.’ The woman sniffed, holding out a small business card. She seemed quite unimpressed to be running such lowly errands for her employer.
Dara took the card with muttered thanks. It was plain black, with the single line of an address printed on the front. Nothing to indicate what kind of business it was.
‘Am I supposed to go there?’ she asked quickly as the hostess began to walk away. ‘Did he not tell you anything else?’
The woman turned back and shrugged one shoulder, thoroughly bored with the conversation. ‘I am told to give you this and make sure you go to the address.’
The event was less than two hours away, so Dara wasted no time in grabbing her things and taking the sleek chauffeur-driven town car that Leo had provided. Whatever this errand was, she needed to get back to her hotel soon if she stood a chance of looking half decent.
The car came to a smooth stop on one of the most upmarket streets in Milan. Giants of Italian fashion stood shoulder to shoulder here, with shopfronts that screamed luxury. But the address on the black card led her down a narrow alleyway to a door of exactly the same deep nondescript black.
Her hand was hovering uncertainly over the knocker when the door swung open to reveal a tall fair-haired man in a sleek pinstriped suit.
‘Mademoiselle, we’ve been waiting for you,’ he said, taking her by the hand and leading her inside.
‘Excuse me? I don’t even know—’
He continued to lead her along by the hand, ‘Just follow me.’
He was definitely French, she thought as they made their way up a short staircase to a large open-plan loft with carpet so white it hurt her eyes. The walls were mirrored on one side, and a few long purple drapes lined the wall on the other. Dara took a moment to look around, feeling hopelessly confused by the situation. Was she here to collect something?
‘I was sent here by Leo Valente...’ she began uncertainly. ‘He didn’t mention why—’
The blond man hushed her with a sudden snap of his fingers.
‘We don’t have time to chat. My team and I need to begin.’
As if on cue,
a small army of women in black smocks appeared from behind one of the purple curtains. Dara caught a glimpse of row upon row of clothing racks before the curtain swung back into place, blocking her view.
‘Hold on a minute—what is all of this?’
She raised a hand to stop the pinstripe-wearing bully as he loomed near, measuring tape in hand. A tight knot of tension formed in her stomach as one of the women hung a silky red dress on a hook beside the mirror.
The Frenchman gave an impatient sigh. ‘We are here to style you, darling. Everything from hairpins to nail polish.’ He glanced down at her short practical nails and frowned.
Dara clenched her fists, a mixture of embarrassment and anger forcing her to bite her lip. How dared that arrogant Sicilian brute organise this little stunt? As though she was some sort of pauper, here to be dressed up like one of the beautiful people for the night.
Indignation bubbled in her chest and she grabbed her phone from her handbag, ready to launch into a verbal attack on a certain nightclub mogul, only to realize that she didn’t even have his phone number.
The memory of his face at lunchtime swam into her mind—that devilish smirk when she had shivered under his touch. He’d said he wasn’t playing games any more, but that had been a lie. This little manoeuvre was designed to throw her off balance, to put him back in control. He clearly didn’t like it that she was proving of practical use in tonight’s event.
Willing herself to calm down, she took a deep breath and looked back at the sultry red number mocking her from the corner of the room.
‘Did Signor Valente choose this gown for me?’ she asked in a deathly quiet whisper, watching with narrowed eyes as the blond man’s bravado faltered.
‘He picked it out himself this afternoon, mademoiselle.’ He stood up straight to emphasise his point. ‘It is one of a kind.’
Just like the man himself, she thought snidely. This was the same kind of stunt as the cocktail last night. No other man would be so obnoxious as to choose a gown for a woman he barely knew.
She walked across the room and ran her hand down the jewelled fabric. If Leo had sent her here to unsettle her...well, he had succeeded. The thought of wearing something so blatantly sexual was akin to tearing out her own fingernails. Dara did not do sexual—she didn’t even do sex any more.
Resisting the Sicilian Playboy (Winner of 2014 So You Think You Can Write) Page 4