His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal

by Jennifer Hayward

  It was also, he conceded, fascinating insight into the ultracool Chiara and what lay beneath those impenetrable layers of hers. He’d watched so many men crash and burn in their attempts to scale those defences over the past year he’d been coming here, he could have fashioned a graveyard out of their pitiful efforts. But now, it all made sense. She had been burned and burned badly by a man with power and influence and she wasn’t ever going there again.

  None of which, he admitted, flipping open the report on the Italian fashion market his team had prepared, was helping him nail his strategy for winning Gianni Casale over at La Coppa Estiva. The fifty-page report he needed to inhale might. As for a woman to take to Milan to satisfy Gianni’s territorial nature? He was coming up blank.

  He’d gone through his entire contact list last night in an effort to find a woman who would be appropriate for the business arrangement he had in mind, but none of them was right for the job. All of his ex-girlfriends would interpret the invitation in entirely the wrong light. Ask someone new and she would do the same. And since he had no interest of any kind in a relationship—summer shag or otherwise—that was out too.

  Chiara broke his train of thought as she arrived with his espresso. Bottom lip caught between her teeth, a frown pleating her brow, she seemed to be searching for something to say. Then, clearly changing her mind, she reached jerkily for one of the cups on her tray. The steaming dark brew sloshed precariously close to the sides, his expensive suit a potential target. Lazzero reached up to take it from her before she dumped it all over him, his fingers brushing against hers as he did.

  A sizzling electrical pulse traveled from her fingers through his, unfurling a curl of heat beneath his skin. Their gazes collided. Held. He watched her pupils flare in reaction—her beautiful eyes darkening to a deep, lagoon green.

  It was nothing new. They’d been dancing around this particular attraction for weeks, months. He, because he was a creature of habit, and destroying his morning routine when it all went south hadn’t appealed. She, apparently because he was one of the last men on earth she wanted to date.

  Teeth sinking deeper into that lush, delectable lower lip, her long, dark lashes came down to veil her expression. “Enjoy your coffee,” she murmured, taking a step back and continuing on her way.

  Lazzero sat back in his chair, absorbing the pulse of attraction that zigzagged through him. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt it—felt anything beyond the adrenaline that came with closing a big deal and even that was losing its effect on him. That it would be the untouchable enigma that was Chiara who inspired it was an irony that didn’t escape him.

  He watched her deliver an espresso to an old Italian guy a couple of tables away. At least sixty with a shock of white hair and weathered olive skin, the Italian flirted outrageously with her in his native language, making her smile and wiping the pinched, distracted look from her face.

  She was more than pretty when she smiled, he acknowledged. The type of woman who needed no makeup at all to look beautiful with her flawless skin and amazing green eyes. Not to mention her very Italian curves presently holding poor Claudio riveted. With the right clothes and the raw edges smoothed out, she might even be stunning.

  And she spoke Italian.

  She was perfect, it dawned on him. Smart, gorgeous and clearly not interested in him or his money. She did, however, need to help her father. He needed a beautiful woman on his arm to take to Italy who would allow him to focus on the job at hand. One who would have no expectations about the relationship when it was over.

  For the price of a couple of pieces of expensive jewelry, what he’d undoubtedly have to fork out for any woman he invited to go with him, he could solve both their problems.

  He lifted the espresso to his mouth with a satisfied twist of his lips and took a sip. Nearly spit it out. Chiara looked over at him from where she stood chatting with Claudio. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sugar.” He grimaced and pushed the cup away. “Since when did I ever take sugar?”

  “Oh, God.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “It’s Claudio that takes sugar.” She bustled over to retrieve his cup. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m so distracted today. I’ll fix it.”

  * * *

  Lazzero waved her into the chair opposite him when she returned. “Sit.”

  Chiara gave him a wary look. She’d started to apologize a few minutes ago, then stopped because she’d meant every word she’d said and Lazzero Di Fiore was the worst offender of them all when it came to the broken hearts he’d left strewn across Manhattan. Avoiding her attraction to him was the right strategy.

  She crossed one ankle over the other, her fingers tightening around her tray. “I should get back to work.”

  “Five minutes,” Lazzero countered. “I have something I want to discuss with you.”

  Something he wanted to discuss with her? A glance at the bar revealed Kat had the couple of customers well in hand. Utterly against her better judgment, she set her tray down and slid into the chair opposite Lazzero.

  The silver-gray suit and crisp, tailored white shirt set off his olive skin and toned muscular physique to perfection. He looked so gorgeous every woman in the café was gawking at him. Resolutely, she lifted her gaze to his, refusing to be one of them.

  He took a sip of his espresso. Set the cup down, his gaze on her. “Your father is having trouble with the bakery?”

  She frowned. “You heard that part too?”

  “Sì. I had a phone call to make. I thought I’d let the lineup die down.” He cocked his head to the side. “You once said he makes the best cannoli in the Bronx. Why is business so dire?”

  “The rent,” she said flatly. “The neighborhood is booming. His landlord has gotten greedy. That, along with some unexpected expenses he’s had, are killing him.”

  “What about a small business loan from the government?”

  “We’ve explored that. They don’t want to lend money to someone my father’s age. It’s too much of a risk.”

  A flash of something she couldn’t read moved through his gaze. “In that case,” he murmured, “I have a business proposition for you.”

  A business proposition?

  Lazzero sat back in his chair and rested his cup on his thigh. “I am attending La Coppa Estiva in Milan next week.” He lifted a brow. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Gianni Casale, the CEO of Fiammata, an Italian sportswear company I’m working on a deal with, will be there as will my ex, Carolina, who is married to Gianni. Gianni is very territorial when it comes to his wife. It’s making it difficult to convince him he should do this deal with me, because the personal is getting mixed up with the business.”

  “Are you involved with his wife?” The question tumbled out of Chiara’s mouth before she could stop it.

  “No.” He flashed her a dark look. “I am not Phil. It was over with Carolina when I ended it. It will, however, smooth things out considerably if I take a companion with me to Italy to convince Gianni I am of no threat to him.”

  Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. “You’re suggesting I go to Italy with you and play your girlfriend?”

  “Yes. I would, of course, compensate you accordingly.”

  “How?”

  “With the money to help your father.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Why would you do that? Surely a man like you has dozens of women you could take to Italy.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to take any of them. It will give them the wrong idea. What I need is someone who will be discreet, charming with my business associates and treat this as the business arrangement it would be. I think it could be an advantageous arrangement for us both.”

  An advantageous arrangement. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Her ex, Antonio, had proposed a convenient arrangement. Except in Anto
nio’s case, she had been good enough to share his bed, but not blue-blooded enough to grace his arm in public.

  Her stomach curled. Never would she voluntarily walk into that world again. Suffer that kind of humiliation. Be told she didn’t belong. Not for all the money in the world.

  She shook her head. “I’m not the right choice for this. Clearly I’m not after what I said earlier.”

  “That makes you the perfect choice,” Lazzero countered. “This thing with Samara Jones has made my life a circus. I need someone I can trust who has no ulterior motives. Someone I don’t have to worry about babysitting while I’m negotiating a multimillion-dollar deal. I just want to know she’s going to keep up her end of the bargain.”

  “No.” She waved a hand at him. “It’s ridiculous. We don’t even know each other. Not really.”

  “You’ve known me for over a year. We talk every day.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, skepticism lacing her tone. “I ask you how business is, or ‘What’s the weather like out there, Lazzero?’ Or, ‘How about that presidential debate?’ We spend five minutes chitchatting, then I make your espresso. End of conversation.”

  His sensual mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “So we have dinner together. I’m quite sure we can master the pertinent facts over a bottle of wine.”

  Her stomach muscles coiled. He was disconcerting enough in his tailored, three-piece suit. She could only imagine what it would be like if he took the jacket off, loosened his tie and focused all that intensity on the woman involved over a bottle of wine. She knew exactly how that scenario went and it was not a mistake she was repeating.

  “It would be impossible,” she dismissed. “I have my shifts here. I can’t afford to lose them.”

  “Trade them off.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t belong in that world, Lazzero. I have no desire to put myself in that world. I would stick out like a sore thumb. Not to mention the fact that I would never be believable as your current love interest.”

  “I disagree,” he murmured, setting his espresso on the table and leaning forward, arms folded in front of him, eyes on hers. “You are beautiful, smart and adept at putting people at ease. With the right wardrobe and a little added...gloss, you would easily be the most stunning woman in the room.”

  Gloss? A slow curl of heat unraveled inside of her, coiling around an ancient wound that had never healed. “A diamond in the rough so to speak,” she suggested, her voice pure frost.

  His brow furrowed. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you meant it.”

  “You know what I mean, Chiara. I was giving you a compliment. La Coppa Estiva is a different world.”

  She flicked a wrist at him. “Exactly why I have no interest in this proposal of yours. In these high-stakes games you play. I thought I’d made that clear earlier.”

  His gaze narrowed. “What I heard was you on your soapbox making wild generalizations about men of a certain tax bracket.”

  “Hardly generalizations,” she refuted. “You need someone to take to Italy with you because you’ve left a trail of refuse behind you, Lazzero. Because Gianni Casale doesn’t trust you with his wife. I won’t be part of aiding and abetting that kind of behavior.”

  “A trail of refuse?” His gaze chilled to a cool, hard ebony. “I think you’re reading too many tabloids.”

  “I think not. You’re exactly the sort of man I want nothing to do with.”

  “I’m not asking you to get involved with me,” he rebutted coolly. “I’m suggesting you get over this personal bias you have against a man with a bank balance and solve your financial problems while you’re at it. I have no doubt we can pull this off if you put your mind to it.”

  “No.” She slid to the edge of the chair. “Ask someone else. I’m sure one of the other baristas would jump at the chance.”

  “I don’t want them,” he said evenly, “I want you.” He threw an exorbitant figure of money at her that made her eyes widen. “It would go a long way toward helping your father.”

  Chiara’s head buzzed. It would pay her father’s rent for the rest of the year. Would be enough to get him back on his feet after the unexpected expenses he’d incurred having to replace some machinery at the bakery. But surely what Lazzero was proposing was insane? She could never pull this off and even if she could, it would put her smack in the middle of a world she wanted nothing to do with.

  She got to her feet before she abandoned her common sense completely. “I need to get back to work.”

  Lazzero pulled a card out of his wallet, scribbled something on the back and handed it to her. “My cell number if you change your mind.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHIARA’S HEAD WAS still spinning as she finished up her shift at the café and walked home on a gorgeous summer evening in Manhattan. She was too distracted, however, to take in the vibrant New York she loved, too worried about her father’s financial situation to focus.

  If he couldn’t pay off the new equipment he’d purchased, he was going to lose the bakery—the only thing that seemed to get him up in the morning since her mother died. She couldn’t conceive of that prospect happening. Which left Lazzero’s shocking business proposition to consider.

  She couldn’t possibly do it. Would be crazy to even consider it. But how could she not?

  Her head no clearer by the time she’d picked up groceries at the corner store for a quiet night in, she carried them up the three flights of stairs of the old brick walk-up she and Kat shared in Spanish Harlem, and let herself in.

  They’d done their best to make the tiny, two-bedroom apartment warm and cozy despite its distinct lack of appeal, covering the dingy walls in a cherry-colored paint, adding dark refinished furniture from the antiques store around the corner, and topping it all off with colorful throws and pillows.

  It wasn’t much, but it was home.

  Kat, who was busy getting ready for a date, joined her in the shoebox of a kitchen as Chiara stowed the groceries away. Possessing a much more robust social life than she, her roommate had plans to see a popular play with a new boyfriend she was crazy about. At the moment, however, lounging against the counter in a tomato-red silk dress and impossibly slender black heels, her roommate was hot on the trail of a juicy story.

  “So,” she said. “What really happened with Lazzero Di Fiore today? And no blowing me off like you did earlier.”

  Chiara—who thought Kat should’ve been a lawyer rather than the doctor she was training to be, she was so relentless in the pursuit of the facts—stowed the carton of milk in the fridge and stood up. “You can’t say anything to anyone.”

  Kat lifted her hands. “Who am I going to tell?”

  Chiara filled her in on Lazzero’s business proposition. Kat’s eyes went as big as saucers. “He’s always had the hots for you. Maybe he’s making his move.”

  Chiara cut that idea off at the pass. “It is strictly a business arrangement. He made that clear.”

  “And you said no? Are you crazy?” Her friend waved a red tipped hand at her. “He is offering to solve all your financial problems, Chiara, for a week in Italy. La Coppa Estiva is the celebrity event of the season. Most women would give their right arm to be in your position. Not to mention the fact that Lazzero Di Fiore is the hottest man on the face of the planet. What’s not to like?”

  Chiara pressed her lips together. Kat didn’t know about her history with Antonio. Why Milan was the last place she’d want to be. It wasn’t something you casually dropped into conversation with your new roommate, despite how close she and Kat had been getting.

  She pursed her lips. “I have my shifts at the café. I need that job.”

  “Everyone’s looking for extra hours right now. Someone will cover for you.” Kat stuck a hand on her silk-clad hip. “When’s the last time you had a holiday? Had some fun? Your life is boring,
Chiara. Booorrring. You’re a senior citizen at age twenty-six.”

  A hot warmth tinged her cheeks. Her life was boring. It revolved around work and more work. When she wasn’t on at the café, she was helping out at the bakery on the weekends. There was no room for relaxation.

  The downstairs buzzer went off. Kat disappeared in a cloud of perfume. Chiara cranked up the air-conditioning against the deadly heat, which wouldn’t seem to go below a certain lukewarm temperature no matter how high she turned it up, and made herself dinner.

  She ate while she played with a design of a dress she’d seen a girl wearing at the café today, but hadn’t quite had the urban chic she favored. Changing the hemline to an angular cut and adding a touch of beading to the bodice, she sketched it out, getting close to what she’d envisioned, but not quite. The heat oppressive, the blaring sound of the television from the apartment below destroying her concentration, she threw the sketchbook and pencil aside.

  What was the point? she thought, heart sinking. She was never going to have the time or money to pursue her career in design. Those university classes she’d taken at Parsons had been a waste of time and money. All she was doing was setting herself up for more disappointment in harboring these dreams of hers, because they were never going to happen.

  Cradling her tea between her hands, she fought a bitter wave of loneliness that settled over her, a deep, low throb that never seemed to fade. This was the time she’d treasured the most—those cups of tea after dinner with her mother when the bakery was closed.

  A seamstress by trade, her mother had been brilliant with a needle. They’d talked while they’d sewed—about anything and everything. About Chiara’s schoolwork, about that nasty boy in her class who was giving her trouble, about the latest design she’d sketched at the back of her notebook that day. Until life as she’d known it had ended forever on a Friday evening when she was fifteen when her mother had sat her down to talk—not about boys or clothes—but about the breast cancer she’d been diagnosed with. By the next fall, she’d been gone. There had been no more cups of tea, no more confidences, only a big, scary world to navigate as her father had descended into his grief and anger.