He eyed her. “That is a massive generalization. So he hurt you...so he burned you badly. He is only one man, Chiara. What are you going to do? Spend the rest of your life avoiding a certain kind of man because he might hurt you?”
Her mouth set at a stubborn angle. “I’m not willing to take the risk.”
“Did you love him?”
“I thought I did.” She gave him a pointed look. “I could ask you the same thing. Where does your fear of commitment come from? Because clearly, you have one.”
A lift of his broad shoulder. “I simply don’t care to.”
“Why not?”
“Because relationships are complicated dramas I have no interest in participating in.” He took a sip of his drink. Rested his glass on his lean, corded thigh. “What about family?” he asked, tipping his glass at her. “I know nothing about yours other than the fact that your father, Carlo, runs Ferrante’s. What about your mother? Brothers? Sisters?”
A shadow whispered across her heart. “My mother died of breast cancer when I was fifteen. I’m an only child.”
His gaze darkened. “I’m sorry. You were close to her?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “She ran the bakery with my father. She was amazing—wonderful, wise. A pseudo parent to half the kids in the neighborhood. My father always said most of the clientele came in just to talk to her.”
“You miss her,” he said.
Heat stung the back of her eyes. “Every day.” It was a deep, dark hollow in her soul that would never be filled.
Lazzero curled his fingers around hers. Strong and protective, they imparted a warmth that seemed to radiate right through her. “My father died when I was nineteen,” he murmured. “I know how it feels.”
Oh. She bit her lip. “How?”
“He was an alcoholic. He drank himself to death.”
She absorbed his matter-of-fact countenance. “And your mother? Is she still alive?”
He nodded. “She’s remarried and lives in California.”
“Do you see her much?”
He shook his head. “She isn’t a part of our lives.”
“Why not?”
“It isn’t relevant to this discussion.”
She sat back in the sofa as a distinct chill filled the air. Not a part of their lives? What did that mean? From the closed-off look on Lazzero’s face, it didn’t seem as if she was going to find out.
She slid her hand out of his. Took a sip of her drink. “What other things should I know about you?” she asked, deciding the mood needed lightening. “Recreational pursuits? Likes, dislikes?”
His mouth quirked. “Are you looking for the dating show answer?”
“If you like,” she agreed.
He took a sip of his wine. Cradled the glass in his palm. “I train in a gym every morning at six with a fighter from the old neighborhood. That’s about the extent of my recreational activities other than the odd pickup basketball game with my brothers. I appreciate,” he continued, eyes glimmering with humor, “honesty and integrity in a person as well as fine Tuscan wines. I dislike Samara Jones.”
Her mouth curved as she considered her response. “You’ve likely gathered from my speech at the café integrity is a big one for me too,” she said, picking up on the theme. “I, like you, have little downtime. When I’m not working at the café, I’m helping out at the bakery, which makes my life utterly mundane. Although I do,” she admitted with a self-deprecating smile, “have a secret obsession with ballroom dancing reality shows. It’s the escapism.”
Lazzero arched a brow. “Do you? Dance?”
“No.” She made a face. “I’m horrible. It’s entirely aspirational. You?”
“My mother was a dancer, so yes. She made us take classes. She thought it was an invaluable social skill.”
She found the idea of the three powerful Di Fiore brothers taking dance classes highly entertaining. It occurred to her then that she had no idea what a date with Lazzero would look like. Did he take a woman dancing? Perhaps he whisked them off to Paris for lavish dinner dates? Or were the females in his life simply plus-one accompaniments to his endless social calendar?
Was he romantic or entirely transactional? She sank her teeth into her lip. That had nothing to do with a business arrangement, but God, was she curious. If she and Lazzero had ever acted on the attraction between them, how would it have played out?
She decided it was a reasonable question to ask, given their situation. “So what would a typical date night look like for you? So I have some sense of what we would look like.”
He rubbed a palm over the stubble on his jaw, a contemplative look on his face. “We might,” he began thoughtfully, “start off with dinner at my favorite little Italian place in the East Village. Nothing fancy, just great food and a good atmosphere. Things would definitely be getting interesting over dinner because I consider stimulating conversation and excellent food the best primer.”
For what? she wondered, her stomach coiling.
“So then,” he continued, apparently electing to illuminate her, “if my date decided she’d found it as stimulating as I, we’d likely head back to my place on Fifth. You could assume she’d end up well satisfied...somewhere in my penthouse.”
Heat flared down low, a wave of color staining her cheeks. She wasn’t sure if it was the “somewhere” that got her or the “well satisfied” part.
“I see,” she said evenly. “Thank you for that very visual impression.”
“And you?” he prompted smoothly. “What are your dating preferences? Assuming, of course, they involve the working-class, non-power-hungry variety of man?”
“I’m too busy to date.”
He gave her a speculative look. “When was the last time you had a date?”
She eyed him. “You don’t need to know that. It has nothing to do with our deal.”
“You’re right,” he deadpanned. “I just want to know.”
“No,” she said firmly. “It’s not relevant to this discussion.”
An amused smile tilted his lips. “You could be out of practice, you realize?”
“Out of practice for what?”
“Kissing,” he said huskily, his smoky gaze dropping to her mouth. “Maybe we should try one now and get it out of the way. See if we’re any good at it.”
Something swooped and then dropped in her stomach. She was seriously afraid she was out of practice. Severely out of practice. But that didn’t mean kissing Lazzero was a good idea. In fact, she was sure it was a very bad idea.
“I don’t think so,” she managed, past a sandpaper dry throat.
“Why not?” His ebony eyes gleamed with challenge. “Or are you afraid of the very real attraction between us?”
Her pulse racing a mile a minute at the thought of that sensual, erotic mouth taking hers, she could hardly deny it. She could, however, shut it down. Right now.
She lifted her chin, eyes on his. “This is a business arrangement between us, Lazzero. When we kiss, it will be toward that purpose and that purpose only. Are we clear on that?”
“Crystal,” he murmured. “I like a woman who can keep her eye on the ball.”
CHAPTER FOUR
CHIARA’S MIND WAS on anything but business after that heated encounter with Lazzero. By putting the attraction between them squarely out in the open, he had created a sexual awareness of each other she couldn’t seem to shake. Which absolutely needed to happen because that attraction had no place in this business arrangement of theirs. Particularly when Lazzero had clearly been toying with her with his own ends in mind—making them believable for Gianni Casale.
She retreated to a book after dinner, forcing herself to focus on it rather than her ill-advised chemistry with the man sitting across from her. Night fell like a cloak outside the window. With Lazzero still absorbed in his
seemingly endless mountain of work, her eyelids began to drift shut. Giving in to the compulsion, she accepted his invitation to use the luxurious bedroom at the back of the plane and caught a few hours of sleep.
When she woke, a golden, early morning light blanketed the white-capped Italian Alps in a magnificent, otherworldly glow. She freshened up in the bathroom, then joined Lazzero in the main cabin. He’d changed and looked crisp and ready to go in a light blue shirt and jeans, his dark stubble traded for a clean-shaven jaw.
Her heart jumped in her chest at how utterly gorgeous he was. Did the man ever look disheveled?
“We’re about to land,” he said, looking up from the report he was reading. “Do you want coffee and breakfast before we do?”
She wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, still groggy from sleep. But she thought the sustenance might do her good. Accepting the offer, she inhaled a cup of strong, black coffee and nibbled on a croissant. Soon, they were landing in Milan and being whisked from the airport to the luxury hotel Lazzero’s Milanese friend, hotel magnate Filippo Giordano, owned near the La Scala opera house.
The Orientale occupied four elegant fifteenth-century buildings that had been transformed from a spectacularly beautiful old convent into a luxurious, urban oasis. Chiara was picking her jaw up off the ground when the hotel manager swooped in to greet them.
“We were fully booked when Filippo made the request,” he informed them smoothly. “La Coppa Estiva is always maniaco. Luckily, the presidential suite became available. Filippo thought it was perfect, given you are newly engaged.”
Chiara’s stomach dropped. This is well and truly on. Oh, my God.
The stately suite they’d been allocated occupied the entire third floor of the hotel, living up to its presidential suite status with its high ceilings and incredible views of the city, including one from the stepped-down infinity pool on the elegantly landscaped terrace.
Sunlight flooded its expansive interiors as the butler gave them a personal tour. The suite’s lush, tasteful color scheme in cream and taupe was complemented by its black oak woodwork, the perfect combination of Milanese style with a touch of the Orient.
Chiara’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head when the butler showed them the showpiece of a bathroom, its muted lighting, Brazilian marble floors and stand-alone hot tub occupying a space as large as her entire apartment. But it was the gorgeous, palatial bedroom with its French doors and incredible vistas that made her heart drop into her stomach. One elegant, king-size, four-poster bed. How was that going to work?
Lazzero eyed her. “I’d asked for a suite, thinking we’d get one with multiple rooms, but clearly this was all that was available. I’ll sleep on the sofa in the bedroom.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’re far too tall for that. I will.”
“I’m not a big sleeper.” He shut the argument down with a shake of his head.
They got settled into the suite, Chiara waving off the butler who offered to hang up their things because she preferred to do it herself. After a sumptuous lunch on the terrace, Lazzero went off to work in the office, with a directive she should take a nap before the party because it was going to be a late night.
She didn’t have the energy to protest yet another of his arrogant commands. Too weary from only a few hours of sleep, she undressed in the serene, beautiful bedroom and put on jersey sweats before she crawled beneath the soft-as-silk sheets of the four-poster bed. The next thing she knew, it was 6 p.m., the alarm she’d set to ensure she’d have enough time to get ready sounding in her ear.
Padding out to the living room, she discovered Lazzero was outside swimming laps in the infinity pool. Deciding she would enjoy the pool with its jaw-dropping view tomorrow, minus what she was sure would be an equally spectacular half-naked Lazzero, she had a late tea, then took a long, hot bath in the sunken tub.
Lazzero came in to shower as she sat applying a light coat of makeup in the dressing room. Keeping her brain firmly focused on the mascara wand in her hand rather than on the naked man in the shower, she stroked it over her lashes, transforming them from their ordinary dark abundance to a silky, lush length that swept her cheeks. A light coat of pink gloss finished the subtle look off.
Makeup and hair complete, she slipped on the silver sequined dress she and Micaela had chosen for the party. Long-sleeved and made of a gauzy, figure-hugging material, it clung to every inch of her body, the sexy open back revealing a triangle of bare, creamy flesh.
She stared dubiously at her reflection in the mirror. It was on trend, perfect for the opening party, but it was shorter than anything she normally wore. Micaela, however, had insisted she had an amazing figure and needed to show it off. She just wasn’t sure she needed to show so much of it off.
Pushing her doubts aside, she slipped on her gold heels, a favorite purchase from her shopping trip because they were just too gorgeous to fault, and a sparkly pair of big hoop earrings, her one concession to her bohemian style. And declared herself done.
She stepped out onto the terrace to wait for Lazzero. The sun was setting on Milan, the magnificent Duomo di Milano, the stunning cathedral that sat in the heart of the city, bathed in a rosy pink light, its Gothic spires crawling high into the sky. But her mind wasn’t on the spectacular scenery, it was on the night ahead.
Her stomach knotted with nerves, her fingers closing tight around the metal railing. This wasn’t her world. What if she said or did something that would embarrass Lazzero? What if she stumbled on one of the answers they’d prepared to the inevitable questions about them?
Her mouth firmed. She’d been taking care of herself since she was fifteen. She’d learned how to survive in any situation life had thrown at her in tough, gritty Manhattan which would eat you alive if you let it. Every day at the Daily Grind was an exercise in diplomacy and small talk. Surely she could survive a few hours socializing with the world’s elite?
And perhaps, she conceded, butterflies circling her stomach, she was winding herself up for nothing over Antonio. Perhaps he wouldn’t even be there tonight. Perhaps he was out of town on business. He ran a portfolio of global investments—he very likely could be.
Better to focus on the things she could control. Another of her father’s favorite tenets.
* * *
Fifty laps of the infinity pool with its incomparable view of Milan should have rid Lazzero of his excess adrenaline. Or so he thought until he walked out onto the balcony and found Chiara sparkling like the brightest jewel in the night.
Dark hair shining in a silken cap that framed her beautiful face, the silver dress highlighting her hourglass figure, her insanely good legs encased in mile-high stilettos—she made his heart stutter in his chest. And that was before he got to her gorgeous eyes, lagoon-green in the fading light, a beauty mark just above one dark-winged brow lending her a distinctly exotic look.
The tension he read there snapped his brain back into working order. “Nervous?” he asked, moving to her side.
“A bit.”
“Don’t be,” he murmured. “You look breathtakingly beautiful. I’m even forgiving Dimitri for the hair.”
She tipped her head back to look up at him, her silky hair sliding against her shoulder. A charge vibrated the air between them, sizzling the blood in his veins. “You don’t have to feed me lines,” she murmured. “We aren’t on yet.”
His mouth curved at her prickly demeanor. “That wasn’t a line. You’ll soon know me well enough to know I don’t deliver them, Chiara. I’m all for the truth in its soul-baring, hard-to-take true colors. Even when it hurts. So how about we make a deal? Nothing but honesty between us this week? It will make this a hell of a lot easier.”
An emotion he couldn’t read flickered in her eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the railing. “Tell me why this deal with Gianni is so important for you, then? Why go to such lengths
to secure it?”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’s crucial to my company’s growth plans.”
She frowned. “Why so crucial? Fiammata is a fading brand, Supersonic the rising star.”
“Fiammata has a shoe technology we’re interested in.”
“So you want to license it to use in your own designs?”
His mouth curved. “Sharp brain,” he drawled. “It’s one of the things I appreciate about you.” Her legs being the other predominant one at the moment.
She frowned. “What’s the holdup, then?”
And wasn’t that the multimillion-dollar question? A thorn unearthed itself in his side, burrowing deep. “Fiammata is a family company. Gianni may be having a hard time letting such an important piece of it go.”
“As would you,” she pointed out, “if it was yours.”
“Yes,” he agreed, a wry smile twisting his mouth, “I would.” He reached across her to point to the Duomo, glittering in the fading light. “There is a myth that Gian Galeazzo Visconti, the aristocrat who ordered the construction of the cathedral, was visited by the devil in his dreams. He ordered Visconti to create a church full of diabolical images or he would steal his soul. Thus the monstrous heads you see on the cathedral’s facade.”
“Not really much of a choice was it?” Chiara said as she turned her head to look at the magnificent cathedral.
“Not unless you intend to embrace your dark side, no.” His gaze slid over the graceful curve of her neck. Noted she’d missed a hook at the back of her dress. Perhaps more nervous than she admitted.
He stepped behind her. “You aren’t quite done up,” he murmured, setting his fingers to the tiny hook. It took a moment to work out the intricate, almost invisible closure, his fingers brushing against the velvet-soft skin that covered her spine.
She went utterly still beneath his hands, the voltage that stretched between them so potent he could almost taste it. Her floral perfume drifting into his nostrils, her soft, sensual body brushing against his, the urge to act on the elemental attraction between them was almost impossible to resist. To set his hands to those delectable hips, to put his mouth to the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear until she melted back into him and offered him her mouth.
His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal Page 5