by Meryl Sawyer
Still, Jake didn’t like this acquisition one damn bit.
“What do we know about the Rossi woman?” Jake asked, already angling to figure out a way of dumping her design company.
“Not much,” Troy responded. “Do you want Sanchez to check her out?”
Jake had planned to call the investigator TriTech often used himself. Delegate. His father’s words echoed in his mind. Delegating is the only way to run a big company like TriTech. You can’t be everywhere all the time.
“Yes. I want to know everything there is to know about Alyssa Rossi. Everything.”
Three days later, Jake left Monte Carlo and flew to Florence. He’d accepted the venture capitalist’s invitation to spend the weekend at his villa in Tuscany. The villa wasn’t far from Florence, where Rossi Designs had their headquarters. Jake stopped in Florence first to check out the operation personally.
Duvall’s acquisition was barely a decimal point in TriTech’s bottom line. It shouldn’t bother Jake, but every time he thought about it, a fist-like knot clenched in his gut. He suspected Duvall had deliberately made the deal while Jake was out of the country so he wouldn’t have to discuss it with him.
Why?
Jake didn’t have an answer, so he forced himself to think more positively. He had to admit he was pleased with himself. TriTech was moving to another plane. Centered in the South, he’d continually broadened the company’s base of operations. No question about it, the world was going global, and he refused to be left behind.
One of the benefits of the technological age was that TriTech’s headquarters could be anywhere, not just New York or Silicon Valley. Max Williams wanted to keep TriTech in New Orleans where he “belonged.”
Now there was a joke. Jake’s father had been an Okie. Nothing—not even millions of dollars and a fancy home near Tulane—was going to make him a New Orleans blue blood.
Jake didn’t give a rat’s ass about society, but he was crazy about the business world. Making deals gave him a high like nothing else except being at sea during a hurricane. Even now, almost nine years since his father had suddenly reappeared in his life, Jake couldn’t believe how his world had changed—thanks to Max. If his father wanted to keep TriTech in New Orleans, Jake wasn’t going to complain.
Beep-beep! Beep-beep! The shrill horn of one of thousands of noisy motor scooters clogging Florence’s streets warned him not to step off the curb. Jake’s death wish days were over. He stayed on the sidewalk and checked the address he’d been given for Rossi Designs. He must have walked by it while he’d been absorbed in thought.
Via Cimatori was yet another narrow street twisting through the old part of Florence. He doubled back, looking for numbers, which were nonexistent or hard to find. Number twenty-one must be up the narrow passageway between the two ancient buildings across the street. He looked both ways, then stepped off the curb and into the path of a car barreling around the corner.
“Vaffanculo!” Screw yourself! he yelled to the taxi driver, who seemed to think he was on a Le Mans course instead of a busy street that would have been a back alley anywhere in America.
The walkway between the buildings was dark and barely wide enough for two people to pass. This couldn’t be it, he assured himself. Ferragamo, Ermenegildo Zegna, Armani, and other fashion names he recognized had shops nearby. Nothing out-of-the-way or hard-to-find.
He was turning around, when the sound of excited women’s voices stopped him. It was coming from the far end of the passageway. He kept walking, rounding a turn in the walkway, where he came upon a small courtyard.
“Just like the French Quarter,” he mumbled to himself.
When he’d moved to New Orleans, Jake had become acquainted with the hidden courtyards concealed from the street by high walls or nearly inaccessible passageways. This fan-shaped courtyard was shaded by a gnarled olive tree whose branches strained upward, seeking sunlight from the swatch of sky between the tall buildings. On a square of grass sat a marble bench flanked by immaculately clipped topiary trees.
Three arched doorways opened onto the courtyard. Two were closed while the third was wide open and women’s voices were drifting out into the courtyard. The sign above the door said: ROSSI DISEGNOS. Rossi Designs.
“How did Duvall find this freaking company?” Jake whispered to himself.
He walked inside, planning on how he could dump this loser without alienating Clay Duvall. Not that he cared, but his father was obsessed with the Duvalls and was counting on their connections to bolster his plan to run for the Senate. In preparation, Max intended to adopt New Orleans’ genteel life. What a crock! But okay, that’s what his old man wanted. Let Max have his fun.
Inside, the shop was much larger than it had appeared. Apparently Rossi Designs had expanded into the shops on either side. The doors facing the courtyard were permanently shut, and display cases had been constructed in front of them. At least a dozen women were pawing through jewelry in trays built into the glass cases.
A quick glance around the place assured him most of the jewelry was funky stuff, nothing like the precious gems found in Italian shops like Bulgari. The women didn’t care. They were grabbing bracelets and necklaces and earrings and heaping them on the counter for the clerks to tally. That was his first clue he was in La-La Land. The next sidled up to him, all smiles.
“Isn’t this just fab?” A petite brunette sporting a chunky amber necklace and matching earrings flitted her eyelashes at him.
What she was really showing him was a set of breasts too big to be original equipment. “They have your name on them,” he agreed, moving away.
He was accustomed to women flirting with him now. He wasn’t handsome, far from it. But the years with his father had given him confidence and the money to buy clothes to make him look like a former pro ball player instead of the boat captain he’d been in the days before Max had careened back into his life.
He surveyed the shop once more, wondering if it was even worth his time to ask to speak to Alyssa Rossi. The clerks were swamped and she probably wasn’t even here.
Through the partially open door to the back room, a movement caught his attention. He twisted his way between a trio of New Yorkers who were trying on clusters of starburst beads in bubble gum pink. Women would buy anything, he decided as he peered into the back room.
A tall blonde in jeans and a pale blue shirt with cuffs rolled up to the elbow had her back to him. She was pulling files from a cabinet and packing them in a cardboard moving box. She turned, her profile coming into view.
Man, oh, man. He’d know that drop-dead gorgeous face anywhere.
Phoebe Duvall.
So that’s why Clay had bought this company. For his wife. The jerk had his nerve! It pissed off Jake big-time. Let Clay buy his wife expensive toys with his own money.
The blonde turned and looked at him with an unwavering stare. There wasn’t any indication she recognized him even though he’d met her numerous times when he’d been negotiating to purchase Duvall Enterprises. They’d been out to dinner, and she’d come on to him more than once.
Phoebe wasn’t his type—not at all. He had an aversion to snobby women even if they were knock-outs. Give him a woman in cutoffs who would be happy to sit on the dock and eat shrimp with her fingers.
The blonde turned back to the file cabinet and continued packing. Jake angled his shoulders to the side so he could wend his way through the women trying on jewelry. Closer now, he looked again at the blonde.
Suddenly it struck him that the woman wasn’t Phoebe Duvall, but she looked amazingly like her. Jake recalled what Phoebe had told him about her family. She had an older brother—no sister.
“Who’s that?” Jake asked the nearest clerk, tilting his head toward the office.
“Signorina Rossi.”
Alyssa Rossi. No way! The woman was a dead ringer for Clay Duvall’s wife, Phoebe. Duvall must be crazy. No, Jake assured himself, his street-smarts kicking in big-time Clay Duvall was about as
calculating as they came, but he wasn’t pulling a fast one on Jake.
CHAPTER 3
Alyssa looked up from her packing as the manager of her shop walked in, saying, “There’s a man here to see you.”
“I’m really busy,” she responded in Italian. “Ask if someone else can help him.”
Her manager left, and Alyssa continued placing files in the box. She assumed the intense, dark-haired man she’d noticed a moment ago wanted to see her. Few men came into her shop unless they were with a woman. He probably wanted to sell her something.
She was going to have to find new suppliers, she thought with an inward smile. Not only was she moving to America, but now she could afford to purchase some of the more expensive beads made from semiprecious stones. There was so much to be excited about, yet a prickle of unease kept niggling at her. Sooner or later, she’d run into Clay Duvall again. New Orleans was too small to avoid him—and Phoebe—indefinitely.
“Alyssa, excuse me.”
She turned as her manager handed her a business card. “He insists it’s important.”
Alyssa read the bold, almost aggressive type on the card:
TriTech
Jackson Williams
Chief Executive Officer
Her breath stalled in her throat, and she stared at the card. “Oh, my God!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Tell him to come in.”
What was he doing here so soon after the deal had been signed? Couldn’t the man have waited until she moved to New Orleans before descending on her? She wondered if a promise in writing was worth a thing.
Alyssa began shoving more files into the box as she tried to decide how to handle the situation. Arriving unannounced in the middle of the move was an obvious attempt to catch her off-guard. She’d dealt with enough powerful businessmen to know many of them enjoyed intimidating women who had the nerve to believe they, too, could be successful. She didn’t want to appear weak, but she’d signed the deal, and she’d received the money. She was committed to this new venture. There was nothing to be gained by alienating the CEO, but anger simmered beneath what she hoped was a calm exterior as he walked into her office.
She’d seen him at a distance, but that glimpse hadn’t prepared her to absorb his full impact. She was tall, taller than most Italian men, but he towered over her. A head of unruly dark-brown hair waved across his forehead emphasizing arresting eyes that were almost black and a defiant chin with a deep cleft.
“You must be Jackson Williams.”
“Must be.”
His deep voice was level but there was an undercurrent in it. Alyssa thought she detected a note of hostility. How could she be in trouble already?
She mustered a smile that usually worked magic on men. “I’m just packing. I couldn’t let anyone else do it because I need to make certain I find the files I need the minute I move into my new offices, Mr. Williams.”
“Call me Jake,” he told her, extending his hand. “Everyone does.”
His handshake was firm, yet surprisingly brief, as if her palm was wet or sticky even though it wasn’t. Although not handsome, Jake had a certain presence that commanded a greater measure of respect than she was prepared to give him. Long ago, she’d learned how deceiving a man’s appearance could be.
After a moment of silence, he asked, “Do your friends call you Allie?”
“No,” she snapped before she could stop herself. She attempted another smile, realizing they were getting off to a bad start. “My friends call me Alyssa.” She waited a moment for him to respond. When he didn’t, she added, “How can I help you?”
“I was curious to see what we’d bought.”
Jake’s words—had they been spoken by an Italian man—might have sounded like a double entendre, but he was gazing directly at her with a physician’s cool detachment. Jake hadn’t given her the once-over the way most men did. He was all business, she decided, and no matter what she had in writing, Jake was going to be looking over her shoulder.
“This is my flagship store,” she told him in her most professional tone. “I also have shops in Milan, Rome, and Venice. “Of course, I’m represented in the States by—”
“Where do you do your designing?” he asked, cutting her off and looking around at the cramped area that served as an office.
“In a studio nearby where it’s quieter.” She didn’t add that she lived there as well. Interior designers and architects in Italy often had design studios in their homes, but there was more than a touch of the South in his voice. No doubt, Jake had American sensibilities and a CEO’s ego to boot. He probably expected an elaborate design studio.
“Where’s the manufacturing done?”
Heavens! What had she gotten herself into? If she told him where her designs were produced—no telling what he might say. Without responding, she swung around, grabbed her purse off the desk, and headed for the back door. “It’s warm in here. Let’s go over to Benito’s for coffee. We can talk there.”
He was built like a professional athlete, but he moved so quietly that she had to turn around when she was outside in the alley to see if he’d followed her. She nearly collided with him. The impression of rock-solid immovability momentarily unnerved her. This was a man who would not be easy to manipulate.
In silence, they walked shoulder to shoulder, their strides surprisingly well matched. She stopped outside Benito’s back door. Before she could open it, Jake reached around and held the door for her.
“Ciao,” she greeted the chef. She led Jake through the narrow passageway between the kitchen and the front of the small café.
“Alyssa, mi amore.” Benito, the owner greeted her, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Benito, this is Jake Williams.”
“Aaah,” Benito said with a knowing smile and a wink at Jake.
Alyssa stifled a groan. Benito believed any woman over twenty who didn’t have a steady boyfriend needed his help. He’d been trying to fix her up with every single man he knew.
“Jake owns the company that bought Rossi Designs. We’re business associates.” She motioned to the front of the café where several tables were on the sidewalk under the elms. “Is there a table out there? We have business to discuss.”
Alyssa waited while they shook hands and Jake complimented Benito on the quaint café in broken Italian. The men chatted about soccer, the national pastime and Benito’s obsession, as he led them to a table under a shady elm.
“Did you play soccer in college?” she asked after they were seated.
“I didn’t attend college,” he replied, his tone cool, challenging.
I knew that, she thought, recalling her conversation with Burt Anders. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It would have been football, not soccer. I guess I’ve been in Italy too long.” She attempted a smile, praying her growing distrust of this man wasn’t reflected in her voice.
He stared directly into her eyes, his no-nonsense expression making her aware of how small the table was. They were barely more than a foot apart, and she sensed he knew how much she resented his sudden appearance.
They ordered lattes and Benito’s ginger-glazed biscotti, then Jake said, “You were telling me where you manufactured your jewelry.”
Like a heat-seeking missile, his mind locked on to business. The trip up the alley and the exchange with Benito hadn’t distracted him. Once again she regretted selling her company. She sat back in her chair to put as much distance between them as possible.
“I don’t actually manufacture anything. I purchase beads made in India or South Africa. Sometimes I get them from Japan or China.”
“After you buy the beads, where do you assemble them? What kind of equipment does it take?”
“I don’t have any machinery.”
“You contract out the assembly process?”
There might have been a hint of disapproval in his voice, or maybe that was the way Jake sounded when he was concentrating. She
couldn’t be certain.
“Yes. I have a talented, low-cost workforce. They string the beads for me.”
“Really? Where?”
She hedged, “Right here in Italy.”
“Where?”
“I have them assembled in Rome at the Istituto Religiose Orsoline.” Alyssa sipped the foam on the top of her latte as he gazed at her with narrowed eyes. She let him hang there.
“Nuns?” he said finally. “Nuns assemble your jewelry?”
“Yes. The Ursuline Sisters were famous for making intricate lace by hand.”
“In this century?”
“Well … no. Their work was famous in the eighteen hundreds, but they have the attention to detail needed for lace work and knotting the beads I use. I don’t string my beads on plastic thread the way most costume jewelers do. I use silk and insist there be a knot between each bead. That way if there’s a break, you don’t have beads all over the place. The knots have to be minuscule or they’ll show.”
“I see,” he replied, but it was clear that he didn’t.
If she hadn’t been positive they were going to butt heads, she knew it with absolute certainty now. Why had she been so determined to expand? If she’d been content to remain among the ranks of the small costume jewelers, she wouldn’t have to contend with this man.
“So, you work with inexpensive beads,” he commented. “Like … Mexican Onyx.”
“Mexican Onyx is really alabaster. Often less valuable stones are renamed to sound more valuable than they are. I prefer to use antique beads when I can get them.”
“Are you trying to say you buy old jewelry as well as new beads?”
“Estate jewelry,” she corrected. “Henry Dunay recently discovered antique emerald beads that had belonged to a maharaja. They’re worth half a million—easily.”
If the man was impressed by the name of one of America’s foremost jewelry designers, he didn’t show it. Instead, he asked, “How long have you been making jewelry?”