His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal

by Jennifer Hayward

  The heavy, pulsing weight encompassing all of her now, she rolled to her feet and walked to the window. Hugging her arms tight around herself, she stared out at the colorful graffiti on the apartment buildings across the street. Usually, she managed to keep the hollow emptiness at bay, convince herself that she liked it better this way, because to engage was to feel, and to feel hurt too much. But tonight, imagining the fun, glamorous evening Kat was having, she felt scraped raw inside.

  For a brief moment in time, she’d had a taste of that life. The fun and frivolity of it. She’d met Antonio at a party full of glamorous types in Chelsea last summer when a fellow barista who traveled in those circles had invited her along. The newly minted vice president of his family’s prestigious global investment firm, Antonio Fabrizio had been gorgeous and worldly, intent on having her from the first moment he’d seen her.

  She’d been seduced by the effortless glamour of his world, by the beguiling promises he’d made. By the command and authority he seemed to exert over everything around him. By how grounded he’d made her feel for the first time since her mother had died. Little had she known, she’d only been a diversion. That the woman Antonio was slated to marry was waiting for him at home in Milan. That she’d only been his American plaything, a “last fling” before he married.

  Antonio had tried to placate her when she’d found out, assuring her his was a marriage of convenience, a fortuitous match for the Fabrizios. That she was the one he really wanted. In fact, he’d insisted, nothing would change. He would set her up in her own apartment and she would become his mistress.

  Chiara had thrown the offer in his face, along with his penthouse key, shocked he would even think she would be interested in that kind of an arrangement. But Antonio, in his supreme arrogance, had been furious with her for walking out on him. Had pursued her relentlessly in the six months since, sending her flowers, jewelry, tickets to the opera, all of which she’d returned with a message to leave her alone, until finally he had.

  Her mouth set as she stared out at the darkening night, a bitter anger sweeping through her. She had changed since him. He had made her change. She had become tougher, wiser to the world. She was not to blame for what had happened, Antonio was. Why should she be so worried about seeing him again?

  If this was, as Lazzero had reasoned, a business proposition, why not turn it around to her own advantage? Use the world that had once used her? Surely she could survive a few days in Milan playing Lazzero’s love interest if it meant saving her father’s bakery? And if she were to run into Antonio at La Coppa Estiva, which was a real possibility, so what? It was crazy to let him have this power over her still.

  She fell asleep on the sofa, the TV still on, roused by Kat at 2 a.m., who sent her stumbling to bed. When she woke for her early morning shift at the café, her decision was made.

  * * *

  Di Fiore’s was blissfully free of its contingent of fortune hunters when Lazzero met Santo for a beer on Saturday night to talk La Coppa Estiva and their strategy for Gianni Casale.

  He’d been pleasantly surprised when Chiara had called him earlier that afternoon to accept his offer. Was curious to find out why she had. Thinking he could nail those details down along with his game plan for Gianni, he’d arranged to meet her here for a drink after his beer with Santo.

  Ensconcing themselves at the bar so they could keep an eye on the door, he and Santo fleshed out a multilayered plan of attack, with contingencies for whatever objections the wily Italian might present. Satisfied they had it nailed, Lazzero leaned back in his stool and took a sip of his beer. Eyed his brother’s dark suit.

  “Work or pleasure tonight?”

  “Damion Howard and his agent are dropping by to pick up their tickets for next week. Thought I’d romance them a bit while I’m at it.”

  “What?” Lazzero derided. “No beautiful blonde lined up for your pleasure?”

  “Too busy.” Santo sighed. “This event is a monster. I need to keep my eye on the ball.”

  Lazzero studied the lines of fatigue etching his brother’s face. “You should let Dez handle the athletes. It would free up your time.”

  His brother cocked a brow. “Says the ultimate control freak?”

  Lazzero shrugged. He was a self-professed workaholic. Knew the demons that drove him. It was part of the territory when your father self-destructed, leaving his business and your life in pieces. No amount of success would ever convince him it was enough.

  Santo gave him an idle look. “Did Nico tell you about his conversation with Carolina?”

  Lazzero nodded. Carolina Casale, an interior designer by trade, was coordinating the closing night party for La Coppa Estiva, a job perfectly suited to her extensive project management skills. Nico, who’d negotiated a reprieve from the wedding planning to attend the party with a client, had called her to request an additional couple of tickets for some VIPs, only to find himself consoling a weepy Carolina instead, who had spent the whole conversation telling him how unhappy she was. She’d finished by asking how Lazzero was.

  His fingers tightened around his glass. He could not go through another of those scenes. It was not his fault Carolina had married a man old enough to be her father.

  “I’m working on a solution to that,” he said grimly. “Tonight, in fact. Speaking of solutions, you aren’t giving me too much field time are you? I can feel my knee creaking as we speak.”

  Santo’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid the answer is yes. We need a solid midfielder. But it’s perfect, actually. Gianni plays midfield.”

  Lazzero was about to amplify his protest when his brother’s gaze narrowed on the door. “Now she could persuade me to abandon my plans for the evening.”

  Lazzero turned around. Found himself equally absorbed by the female standing in the doorway. Her slender body encased in a sheer, flowing blouse that ended at midthigh, her dark jeans tucked into knee-high boots, Chiara had left her hair loose tonight, the silky waves falling to just below her shoulder blades in a dark, shiny cloud.

  It wasn’t the most provocative outfit he’d ever seen, but with Chiara’s curves, she looked amazing. The wave of lust that kicked him hard in the chest irritated the hell out of him. She had labeled him a bloody Lothario, for God’s sake. Had told him he was exactly the kind of man she’d never get involved with. He’d do well to remember this was a business arrangement they were embarking on together.

  Chiara’s scan of the room halted when she found him sitting at the bar. Santo’s gaze moved from Chiara to him. “She’s the one you’re meeting?”

  “My date for Italy,” Lazzero confirmed, sliding off the stool.

  “Who is she?” His brother frowned. “She looks familiar.”

  “Her name is Chiara. And she’s far too nice a girl for you.”

  “Which means she’s definitely too nice for you,” Santo tossed after his retreating figure.

  Lazzero couldn’t disagree. Which was why he was going to keep this strictly business. Pulling to a halt in front of her, he bent to press a kiss to both of her cheeks. An intoxicating scent of orange blossom mixed with a musky, sensual undertone assailed his senses. It suited her perfectly.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she murmured, stepping back. “The barista who was supposed to relieve me was sick. I had to wait until the sub came in.”

  “It’s fine. I was having a beer with my brother.” Lazzero whisked her past Santo just as his brother’s clients walked in. Chiara cocked her head to the side. “You’re not going to introduce us?”

  “Not now, no.”

  “Because I’m a barista?” A spark of fire flared in her green eyes.

  “Because my brother likes to ask too many questions,” he came back evenly. “Not to mention the fact that we don’t have our story straight yet.”

  “Oh.” The heat in her eyes dissipated. “That’s true.”


  “Just for the record,” he murmured, pressing a palm to the small of her back to guide her through the crowd, “Santo and I started Supersonic from nothing. We had nothing. There is no judgment here about what you do.”

  Her long dark lashes swept down, dusting her cheeks like miniature black fans. “Is it true what Samara Jones said about you and your brother masterminding your business from here?”

  His mouth twisted. “It’s become a bit of an urban myth, but yes, we brainstormed the idea for Supersonic at a table near the back when we were students at Columbia. We kept the table for posterity’s sake when we bought the place a few years later.” He arched a brow at her. “Would you like to sit there? It’s nothing special,” he warned.

  “Yes.” She surprised him by answering in the affirmative. “I’ll need to know these things about you to make this believable.”

  “Perhaps,” he suggested, his palm nearly spanning her delicate spine as he directed her around a group of people, “you’ll discover other things that surprise you. Why did you say yes, by the way?”

  “Because my father needs the money. I couldn’t afford to say no.”

  Direct. To the point. Just like the woman who felt so soft and feminine beneath his hand, but undoubtedly had a spine of steel. He was certain she was up to the challenge he was about to hand her.

  Seating her at the old, scarred table located in a quiet alcove off the main traffic of the bar, he pushed her chair in and sat opposite her. His long legs brushed hers as he arranged them to get comfortable. Chiara shifted away as if burned. He smothered a smile at her prickly demeanor. That they would have to solve if they were going to make this believable.

  She traced a finger over the deep indentation carved into the thick mahogany wood, a rough impersonation of the Supersonic logo. “Who did this?”

  “I did.” A wry smile curved his mouth. “I nearly got us kicked out of here for good that night. But we were so high on the idea we had, we didn’t care.”

  She sat back in her chair, a curious look on her face. “How did you make it happen, then, if you started with nothing?”

  “Santo and I put ourselves through university on sports scholarships. We knew a lot of people in the industry, knew what athletes wanted in a product. Supersonic became a ‘by athletes, for athletes’ line.” He lifted a shoulder. “A solid business plan brought our godfather on board for an initial investment, some athletes we went to school with made up the rest.”

  A smile played at her mouth. “And then you parlayed it into one of the world’s most successful athletic-wear companies. Impressive.”

  “With some detours along the way,” he amended. “It’s a bitterly competitive industry. But we had a vision. It worked.”

  “Will Santo be in Milan?”

  He nodded. “He’s the chairman of the event. He’ll have his hands full massaging all of our relationships. When he isn’t busy doing that with his posse of women,” he qualified drily.

  “Clearly runs in the family,” Chiara murmured.

  Lazzero set a considering gaze on her. “I think you would be surprised by the actual number of relationships I engage in versus what the tabloids print. I do need some time to run a Fortune 500 company, after all.”

  “So actually,” Chiara suggested, “you are a choir boy.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  * * *

  Chiara expelled a breath as a pretty waitress arrived to take their order. In dark jeans and a navy T-shirt, Lazzero was elementally attractive in a way few men could ever hope to emulate. When he smiled, however, he was devastating. It lit up the rugged, aggressive lines of his face, highlighting his beautiful bone structure and the sensual line of his mouth. Made him beautiful in a jaw-dropping kind of way. And that was before you got to his intense black stare that seemed to dissect you into your various assorted parts.

  Which was clearly having its effect on their waitress. Dressed in a gray Di Fiore’s T-shirt and tight black pants, she flashed Lazzero a high-wattage smile and babbled out the nightly specials. Without asking Chiara’s preference, Lazzero rattled off a request for a bottle of Italian red, spring water and an appetizer for them to share.

  She eyed him as the waitress disappeared. “Are you always this...domineering?”

  “Sì,” he murmured, eyes on hers. “Most women like it when I take control. It makes them feel feminine and cared for. They don’t have to think—they just sit back and...enjoy.”

  A wave of heat stained her cheeks, her pulse doing a wicked little jump. “I am not most women. And I like to think.”

  “I’m beginning to get that impression,” he said drily. “The ‘not like most women’ part.”

  “What happens,” she countered provocatively, “when you turn this hopelessly addicted contingent of yours back out into the wild? Isn’t that exactly the problem you’re facing with Carolina Casale?”

  He shrugged. “Carolina knew the rules.”

  “Which are?”

  “It lasts as long as she keeps it interesting.”

  Her jaw dropped. His arrogance was astounding. Carolina, however, had likely believed she was different—her cardinal mistake. As had been hers.

  “She married Gianni on the rebound from you,” she guessed.

  “Perhaps.”

  She felt a stab of sympathy for Carolina Casale. She knew how raw those dashed hopes felt. Antonio had married within months of their breakup. Because that was what transactionally motivated men like Antonio and Lazzero did. They used people for their own purposes without thought for the consequences. It didn’t matter who got hurt in the process.

  The waitress returned and poured their wine. Chiara put the conversation firmly back on a business footing after she’d left. “Shall we talk details, then?”

  “Yes.” Lazzero sat back in his chair, glass in hand. “La Coppa Estiva is a ten-day-long event. It begins next Wednesday with the opening party, continues with the tournament, then wraps up on the following Saturday with the final game and closing party. We will need to leave New York on Tuesday night to fly overnight to Milan.”

  Her stomach lurched. She was actually doing this.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “There’s a girl at work who’s looking for extra shifts. I can trade them off.”

  “Good.” He inclined his head. “Have you ever been to Milan?”

  She shook her head. “We have family there, but I’ve never been.”

  “The game,” he elaborated, “is held at the stadium in San Siro, on the outskirts of the city. We’ll be staying at my friend Filippo Giordano’s luxury hotel in Milan.”

  Her stomach curled at the thought of sharing a hotel suite with Lazzero. But of course, they were supposedly together and they would be expected to share a room. Which got her wondering. “How do you expect us to act together? I mean—”

  “How do I normally act with my girlfriends?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t expect you to be all over me. But if there is an appropriate moment where some kind of affection is in order, we go with the flow.”

  Which could involve a kiss. Her gaze landed on his full, sensual mouth, her stomach doing a funny roll as she imagined what it would be like to kiss him. It would be far from forgettable, she concluded with a shiver. That mouth was simply far too...erotic.

  Which was exactly how she should not be thinking.

  “You were right,” she admitted, firmly redirecting her thoughts. “I don’t have the appropriate clothes for this type of an event. I would make them, but I don’t have time.”

  Lazzero waved a hand at her. “That comes with the deal. We have a stylist we use for our commercial shoots. Micaela’s offered to outfit you on Monday.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t need a stylist.”

  He shrugged. “I c
an send my PA with you with my credit card. But you would lose the benefit of Micaela’s experience with an event like this. Which could be invaluable.”

  She hated the idea of his PA accompanying her even more than she hated the idea of the stylist. And, she grumpily conceded, a stylist’s help would be invaluable given her doubts about her ability to pull this off.

  “Fine,” she capitulated, “the stylist is fine.”

  “Bene. Which brings us to the public story of us we will use.”

  She eyed him. “What were you thinking?”

  “I thought we would go with the truth. That we met at the café.”

  “And you couldn’t resist my espressos, nor me?” she filled in sardonically.

  His mouth curved. “Now you’re getting into the spirit. Except,” he drawled, his ebony gaze resting on hers, “I would have gone with the endlessly beautiful green eyes, the razor-sharp brain and the elusive challenge of finding out who the real Chiara Ferrante is underneath all those layers.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “There isn’t anything to find out.”

  “No?” His perusal was the lazy study of a big cat. “I could have sworn there was.”

  “Then you’d be wrong,” she came back evenly. “How long has this supposed relationship of ours been going on, then?”

  “Let’s say a couple of blissful months. So blissful, in fact, that I just put an engagement ring on your finger.”

  She gaped at him. “You never said anything about being engaged.”

  He hiked a broad shoulder. “If I put a ring on your finger, it will be clear to Carolina there is no hope for a reconciliation between us.”

  “Does she think there is?”

  “Her marriage is on the rocks. She’s unhappy. Gianni is worried he can’t hold her.”