He inhaled. Found himself in the middle of a smoky, earthy scent that was just a little...dirty.
“Sex.” He opened his eyes and fixed them on hers. “That one is definitely sex.”
Her eyes widened. Shimmered with a heat that snagged his insides. Potent and thick, the air around them suddenly seemed dense—layers deep—all his good intentions evaporating as her gaze dropped to his mouth. Stayed there.
She drifted closer, her floral scent melding with his, the hitched sound of her breathing stirring his senses. It took every ounce of his willpower not to close the last few centimeters between them and cover those lush lips with his, because a decade later, he still remembered how sweet they were...how perfect she’d tasted beneath him. How forbidden.
“Chloe,” he murmured. “Are we almost done? I feel like we should be done now.”
“Yes,” she breathed, dragging her gaze back up to his. “You’re very good, by the way. That one has lots of indole in it. It comes from—” She sank her teeth into her full bottom lip. “Well...you know.”
He didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Because the only place his mind wanted to go right now started with an s and ended with an x. And that couldn’t happen with this particular woman. Not now. Not ever.
Chloe cleared her throat, her eyes dark, liquid, so brown they were almost black. “There’s two more. But we could probably leave those because I’m sure I know which way I’m going to go.”
“Good. Let’s do that.” He reached for his wine and took a gulp. Ruthlessly pulled his libido back under control.
“So,” he prompted, “what is your analysis?”
* * *
Chloe wasn’t sure how her brain was supposed to function after that look Nico had just given her. As if he wanted to consume her whole. As if she was what he wanted to get intimate with. Because that hadn’t been her imagination talking, she was sure of it.
Her head spun as she made a show of gathering up her materials and stowing them on the tray. Knowing after all this time the attraction between them wasn’t one-sided like she’d thought it had been, that it was clear and present, was a bit mind-boggling. Also head-scratching was the fact that for a moment there, she’d felt compelled to play with that fire he’d declared off bounds. Which was crazy. For so many reasons.
She closed trembling fingers around the stem of her wineglass, lifted it to her mouth and took a sip. Gathered her brain back into some sort of working order because she wasn’t done yet.
“You wear my mother’s Voluttuoso,” she began, setting her gaze on his, “which is a gorgeous fragrance, one of my favorites. And it does reflect the innate...sensuality about you. But I would have gone with something different.”
“I like that fragrance,” he countered. “I think it suits me. Why not it?”
“Because you’re more complex than that,” she said quietly. “Vetiver, the warm Indian grass that predominates in Voluttuoso, is sexy, but you have a strength, a toughness about you that comes from your past. With Voluttuoso, it’s only showing one facet of you. If it were me, I would veer toward something darker and more complex.”
“Such as?”
“Something with a base note of the tobacco you were drawn to, for instance. I’d have predicted that. It has depth, like you. Some cedar,” she continued thoughtfully, “to reinforce the tobacco and to bring in that scent memory you have of your early years at the cottage. Some other warm notes to give it added complexity,” she continued, formulas shifting in her head like puzzle pieces. “Amber or nutmeg, perhaps. And jasmine, definitely jasmine, for that sensual edge.”
A smile curved her mouth. “Bold, rich and haunting.”
He lifted a brow. “Haunting?”
She gave a self-conscious shrug. “A turn of phrase. Evocative words sell perfumes.”
“And so do you,” he murmured. “I was buying everything you were selling, Chloe. Hook, line and sinker. You had me on the edge of my seat.” He pointed his wineglass at her. “You didn’t tell me about the creative process, you demonstrated it. Do that tomorrow and you’ll be gold.”
Or she could blow it completely and let everyone down.
CHAPTER SIX
ARMED WITH A strong cup of coffee and as much confidence as she could muster, Chloe played host to the hip, young journalist Carrie Mayer from the nation’s most respected daily newspaper at 10:00 a.m. the next morning in her office. The reporter spent the first few minutes raving about the decor, which only reminded Chloe of what a big personality her mother had been and cranked up her nerves yet another notch.
How could she possibly be that?
But she refused to retreat back into her head, because this was too important. Luckily, she and Carrie clicked and were soon whizzing through the questions. Chloe wasn’t perfect in her answers, knew she’d missed some of her key messages along the way she’d probably get her hand slapped for, but she kept things on track, even when Carrie asked about her mother’s death and what she had meant to her.
It was, however, when she went through the scent test with Carrie and offered her personal recommendation that the journalist’s eyes lit up. “Brilliant,” she murmured, madly scribbling notes. “Can I quote all of that, or are there trade secrets in there I can’t use?”
Chloe told her to go ahead and use it. Gave the reporter a bottle of her mother’s Cygne Blanc, which would suit her perfectly.
Nico, Chloe admitted as she showed Carrie out, was very smart. She might just tell him that. But first, she had a whirlwind shopping trip with Mireille to accomplish in the lunch hour before her and Nico’s flight to Palm Beach, because she had absolutely nothing to wear that was in any way suitable for the black-tie charity fund-raiser that evening that attracted the world’s elite.
Luckily, Mireille was miraculous with clothes and knew just where to shop. In the space of an hour, they’d found the perfect gown for the Champagne and Diamonds fund-raiser. They’d also acquired a couple of outfits for the warmer Palm Beach weather while they were at it, given Chloe and Nico would spend the weekend at the Di Fiore brothers’ luxurious South Beach estate.
Nico had made golf plans with clients tomorrow, which gave Chloe a chance to enjoy a day in the sun. Which was, she acknowledged, another source of nerves. Keeping her attraction to Nico under wraps from a distance was one thing—doing it while they shared the same roof was another.
It was not helpful, then, when she met Nico at the small private airport in New Jersey they would fly out of, to find him dressed in black jeans and a long-sleeved crew-necked sweater in dove gray that matched his eyes. Draped against an unused check-in desk while he tapped away on his phone, he was so stunning every woman in the tiny lounge was making him the preboarding entertainment.
He gave a pointed look at his watch. “We’re up next.”
“I had to shop. My slave driver of a boss has me toiling all hours.”
A curve of his amazing mouth. “How did the interview go?”
“Well, I think. You were right,” she conceded with a tip of her head, “the reporter loved the essence test. She said it was brilliant content for the piece.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not sure I got every key message across. I was too nervous with the difficult questions. But I did okay.”
His smile deepened into one of those rare lazy ones he offered so infrequently, it made her breath catch in her chest. “Then I’m sure it will be great. Now you can relax and enjoy the weekend.”
“Yes.” She swallowed past the fluttering feeling inside her. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For helping me. You were right. I was so far inside my head, I couldn’t seem to get out.”
His gray eyes warmed. “I promised you I would be there for you, Chloe, and I will. You are not in this alone.”
And why did she feel so reassured by that? She pondered the answer as an official gave them a nod and they were escorted across the tarmac to the sleek ten-person Evolution jet, where the pilot was ready to go. Why was her guard beginning
to come down with Nico?
Because she was starting to wonder if she’d been wrong about him, in more than one way? Because everyone she spoke to at Evolution loved working for him—appreciated his leadership?
Because he had been there for her—exactly as he’d promised? Or had it been that moment in her office where she’d become shockingly aware that the chemistry between her and Nico wasn’t one-sided? Was that messing with her head?
She had no idea what to do with that particular piece of information. Knew it wasn’t wise to pursue it—that Nico had been right about that—but she couldn’t seem to get it out of her head.
She was so exhausted, she slept most of the short flight to Miami. Which was helpful, because by the time they arrived and stepped onto the waiting helicopter that would take them to the Di Fiores’ South Beach estate, she’d gotten her second wind.
The ultra-modern villa the Di Fiore brothers had built on the ocean was all sleek, square lines, with a spectacular view from its streamlined, wide-open spaces. She felt herself exhaling, the tension seeping out of her bones, as she breathed in the humid, fragrant, warm air.
Boasting double-height ceilings that led to an oversize infinity-edge pool, a custom Italian kitchen and a hand-carved mahogany wine cellar that made her head spin with its extravagant selection, it was Chloe’s idea of heaven. Lazzero, who spent the most time at the house, enjoying the party scene for business purposes, had hired a lovely housekeeper, who showed Chloe to a gorgeous, airy bedroom on the second floor, done in dark woods and stark white, with colorful accents thrown in.
Chloe fell in love with the stunning pink-and-orange bougainvillea that seemed to climb into her ethereal bedroom and wished dearly she could take a dip in the ocean before dinner, but since they were due for sunset cocktails at the Buchanans’ nearby estate, it would have to wait.
Energized by the heady aroma of tropical flowers and the salty, fresh sea air, Chloe slipped on the gorgeous coffee-colored lace dress she’d bought with Mireille at lunch. Floor length and glamorous, with pretty cap sleeves and a deep plunging back, it was a daring style she never would have chosen on her own.
Catching her hair up in a loose knot, she spritzed on her favorite perfume and declared herself done.
* * *
Nico was leaning against the railing, staring at a view of forever, when Chloe joined him on the terrace that overlooked the ocean. A waft of her unmistakable intoxicating perfume hit him just before she did. Then it was his heart going kaboom as he turned around and took in the sight of her dressed in a lacy sophisticated number that echoed the creamy color of the silky expanse of skin it revealed.
If he hadn’t been fully in lust by the time he’d covered off the delectable curves, he was when he took in her sexy disheveled hairstyle, which left her silky dark curls half up and half down. There was only one thing a man wanted to do when a woman wore her hair like that, and that was to dismantle it completely.
If she was his. Which she wasn’t.
He swallowed hard. Santo might be right. He might have a problem. He’d been so far under Chloe’s spell during that perfume-testing routine, he’d fled the room moments after it had mercifully ended. Sharing a villa with her wasn’t necessarily a great choice either, but with his place ten minutes away from the Buchanans’, it would have been silly not to take advantage of it.
What had Santo said? Admitting you had a problem was the first step toward solving it?
Chloe flashed him an uncertain look from beneath those long, amazing lashes of hers. “Am I not dressed appropriately? Mireille thought this would be perfect for tonight. But maybe it’s too much?”
“You look gorgeous,” he said quietly. “We should go so we aren’t late.”
She tipped her head back, luminous brown eyes resting on his. “Are you okay? You seem off.”
“I’m good.” He placed a hand at the small of her back to direct her toward the stairs, his palm nearly spanning her delicate spine. The satiny softness of her skin beneath his fingers unfurled a curl of heat inside him, one he ruthlessly leashed. He might have a problem, but he knew how to deal with it.
They made the quick, ten-minute drive through Palm Beach’s quiet, exclusive streets, behind whose twelve-foot hedges had once resided some of America’s oldest families—the Kennedys, Du Ponts, Posts and Fords had all had homes there. The Buchanans’ ornate Palm Beach mansion, however, was the king of them all. An eclectic mix of many of the great European architectures—Venetian, Spanish, Portuguese and Moorish—it sat directly on the ocean, more a palace than a mansion, rising majestically among fifteen acres of manicured, glorious gardens.
The statement property mirrored the big personality of its billionaire owners, Josh and Evelyn Buchanan. Josh, a big, bombastic Brit who’d been a close friend of Martino Russo’s, had made his money in electronics and now owned an English football team. He’d fallen in love with his American wife, Evelyn, three decades ago and chosen to stay, building Palacio en el Mar, the “Palace on the Sea,” for her.
Josh and Evelyn greeted them warmly, introducing them around the poolside soiree where the crème de la crème of the world’s elite were gathered to hear the legendary pop star Rodrigo Carrera in a private concert.
It was a magnificent setting—the sun a ball of fire as it sank into the Atlantic, the lazy jazz band that preceded Carrera excellent, the affluent crowd, decked out in their diamonds and black-tie apparel, supremely elegant.
A glass of champagne in his hand, Nico focused on the valuable networking opportunities, rather than the beautiful woman at his side, ensured he and Chloe made that public, political statement of unanimity so necessary for Evolution’s stability right now, which was recorded for posterity’s sake by the society photographers in attendance.
* * *
Chloe tried hard to exercise the same enviable networking skills Nico possessed throughout the cocktail hour and dinner. She found it wasn’t so awful as she’d imagined, easier than it had once been for her to complete the endless rounds of socializing with the budding confidence she’d developed and Vivre to talk about.
But it didn’t come naturally to her—the ability to make casual small talk, to forge connections out of a throwaway comment someone made. She found herself more susceptible than usual, as a result, to the attentions of the Buchanans’ handsome son, Oliver, whose attention over dinner had drawn her out of herself.
Tall and blond, with the most piercing blue eyes she’d ever seen, he was gorgeous. Successful. Nice. Exactly the kind of man a woman with a healthy sense of self-preservation should gravitate toward. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be her. Never had been.
She accepted his offer of another glass of champagne as dinner broke up and the guests mingled on the terrace, waiting for Carrera to begin. Watched as Nico laughed at something the beautiful redhead he’d been sitting next to at dinner had said.
Tall and statuesque, with the perfect bone structure of a runway model, she was stunning. Everything Chloe wasn’t. He wasn’t looking at her as if she had a garbage sack on as he had Chloe earlier. He was looking at her as if she was utterly his type. It hurt in a way she couldn’t even begin to articulate. Didn’t want to articulate.
Her skin stung, her heart felt sore in her chest. Why had it always been Nico? Why couldn’t she just move on? Would it have been different, she wondered, if he’d broken her heart like he surely would have done those years ago? Would she have had closure when it came to him? Because every man since had been a poor substitute—Nico the benchmark by which she had judged them all.
If they could make her feel her emotions right to the pit of her stomach...if they could make her heart race as he did.
Nico looked up from his conversation with the redhead. Slid his gaze over her. Over the proprietary hand Oliver had placed at her waist. For a single, heart-stopping moment, a flash of heat blazed in his gray gaze. It scorched through her. Singed her right to her toes.
He wanted her, but he didn
’t want to want her. The very visible slip in his daunting self-control rocked her back on her heels. Stole her breath. Then the redhead said something to Nico and he turned away.
Chloe stood there, heart beating a jagged edge. Oliver bent his head to hers. “Let’s dance,” he murmured. “Carrera is coming on now.”
She forced a smile and followed him to the dance floor. She had promised herself she was going to relax and enjoy herself this weekend. Pining after Nico, thinking thoughts that were inherently unwise when it came to him, was not accomplishing that. If she were smart, she’d do exactly what Nico was doing—pretend this thing between them didn’t exist.
By the time midnight rolled around, however, and Carrera was done with his intimate, fabulous concert, his voice as rich and amazing as it had been in his heyday, Chloe was officially done. She was sure she didn’t have one more word of small talk left in her.
“Ready to go?” she asked Nico hopefully.
He nodded. “Let’s find Josh and Evelyn and say good-night.”
They wound their way through the thick crowd toward their hosts. A feminine voice, with a Southern drawl, cut through the din.
“Nico.”
Chloe turned to see a beautiful blonde approaching them. Elegant and undeniably striking with her sparkling blue eyes and chic, sleek bob that angled fashionably to her ear, she moved with a grace and fluidity that captured the eye.
Chloe looked up at Nico, wondering who she was. Found his face frozen solid, not one whisper of emotion visible.
A former lover? She quickly discarded the idea as the woman drew upon them. She had to be in her midfifties. As gorgeous up close as she had been from afar, she must have been outrageously beautiful when she was younger. She still was.
The woman stopped in front of them, her gaze trained on Nico. Nico said nothing, an oddity with his impeccable manners. The woman ignored Chloe completely, waving a fluttering, nervous hand at Nico. “Evelyn just told me you were here. I had no idea. We—I arrived late.”
Nico’s expression hardened. “I hope you caught some of the concert. It was excellent.” He nodded toward Josh and Evelyn, who were seeing guests off. “If you’ll excuse us, we were on our way out.”
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