His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal

by Jennifer Hayward

  But, he admitted, past his accelerating pulse, that would be starting something he couldn’t finish because the only thing on the agenda tonight was nailing Gianni Casale down, once and for all.

  He reluctantly pulled back. Chiara exhaled an audible breath. Turned to look up at him with darkened eyes, her pupils dilated a deep black among a sea of green. “He’ll be there tonight? Gianni?” she asked huskily.

  “Sì. Everyone in Milan will be there.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, we should go or we’ll be late.”

  * * *

  The sleek Lamborghini Lazzero had borrowed from Filippo made quick work of the drive to the venue. Soon, they were pulling up in front of Il Cattedrale, the historic church where the opening party for La Coppa Estiva was being held.

  Turned into a café/nightclub over a decade ago, its stately facade was lit for the festivities, illuminating the cathedral’s elegant red brickwork and massive arched front door. Chiara’s stomach turned to stone as she took in the scores of paparazzi jostling for position on either side of the stationed-off red carpet, camera flashes snapping like mad as they photographed the arrival of the world’s glitterati.

  There was the world’s most famous Portuguese footballer making his way down the red carpet with his supermodel girlfriend, followed by the eldest princess of a tiny European municipality Chiara recognized from one of the gossip magazines her fellow barista Lucy kept under the counter. The princess’s balding, older husband beside her was, Chiara recalled, a huge fan of football.

  “Santo will be excited about that,” Lazzero murmured as he helped her from the car. “Free publicity right there.”

  Her damp palm in his, her other clutching the tiny purse that matched her dress, Chiara didn’t respond. What had Micaela said about the etiquette for the red carpet? Her mind felt as blank as a chalkboard wiped clean.

  Lazzero passed the car keys to the valet and bent his head to hers. “Relax,” he said softly, his lips brushing her ear. “I will be by your side the entire time.”

  A current zigzagged through her, one she felt all the way to the pit of her stomach. It didn’t get any better as Lazzero straightened and pressed a hand to the small of her back. In a sophisticated black tux that molded his long, muscular frame to perfection, he was undeniably elegant. Hot. Utterly in command of his surroundings.

  She took a deep breath and nodded. The handler gave them the signal to walk. Lazzero propelled her forward, stopping in front of the logo-emblazoned step-and-repeat banner so the photographers could get a shot of them. The heat from his splayed palm radiated through her bare skin, focusing every available brain cell on those few inches of flesh.

  It did the trick in distracting her. Before she could blink, it was over and they were making their way inside the cathedral. Which was unbelievable.

  Much of the original architecture of the church had been left intact, stone walls and square pillars made of cream-colored Italian marble rising up to greet the original sweeping balconies of the cathedral. The massive chandelier was incredible, a full story tall, the large canvases on the walls impressive. But the most arresting sight of all had to be the original altar which had been converted into a bar under the dome of the church. Lit tonight in Supersonic red, it was spectacular.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Chiara breathed. “It’s like we’ve all come to pray to the gods of entertainment.”

  Lazzero’s mouth twisted. “Exactly what Santo was envisioning. He’ll be thrilled.”

  The crowds were so thick they were difficult to negotiate as they made their way toward the bar, the upbeat music drowned out by the buzz of the hundreds in attendance. Lazzero wrapped a hand around her wrist, guiding her through it as they sought out his brothers who held court at the bar.

  Santo, whom she remembered from Di Fiore’s, looked supremely sophisticated in a dark suit with a lavender shirt, every bit the blond Adonis the press painted him as. Nico had Lazzero’s dark looks, so handsome in a clean-edged, perfect kind of way, he was intimidatingly so.

  Both were undeniably charming. “Trust Lazzero to show up with the most beautiful woman in the room when he claims he has been out of circulation,” Nico drawled, kissing both of Chiara’s cheeks. “Although you picked the wrong brother,” Santo interjected, stepping forward and lifting her hand to his mouth. “Why go for the middle brother when you can have the most physically viable of them all? Think of the genetics.”

  He said it so straight-faced, Chiara burst out laughing. “Yes,” she said, “but Lazzero tells me you have a posse. I’m afraid that wouldn’t do for me.”

  Santo pouted. “I will give it up when the time comes.”

  “That will be when you are old and gray.” Nico handed her a glass of champagne and Lazzero a tumbler of some dark-colored liquor. Lounging back against the bar, the eldest Di Fiore nodded toward a table beside the dance floor. “Gianni arrived a few minutes ago.”

  Chiara’s gaze moved to Gianni Casale, whose powerful presence stood out amongst the crowd at the table. In his midfifties, he had thick, coarse black hair tinged with gray, expressive dark eyes and a lined face full of character. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a silver-gray tie, he was, she conceded, undeniably handsome still.

  Her attention shifted to the woman beside him. She didn’t have to wonder if it was Carolina Casale or not because the brunette’s eyes were trained on her and the hand Lazzero had rested on her waist. Remarkably beautiful with vivid blue eyes that matched her designer silk dress, dark hair and alabaster skin, the cool elegance she projected was borderline aloof.

  She looked, Chiara concluded, as if she’d rather be anywhere than where she was. Hungry was the only word she could think of to describe how Carolina looked at Lazzero. She wondered if the other woman had any idea how obvious her feelings were.

  Lazzero, on the other hand, looked utterly impassive as he turned around and got the lay of the land from his brothers. When they were suitably caught up, he tightened his fingers at her waist. “We should circulate,” he murmured. “You okay with the champagne?”

  She pulled in a deep breath. “Yes.”

  * * *

  Lazzero spent the next couple of hours attempting to cover off the most important business contacts in the room as he played it cool with Gianni, waiting for the Casales to come to them. He should have been focused solely on business, his game plan with Gianni firmly positioned in his head, but his attention kept straying to the woman at his side.

  He was having trouble keeping his eyes off Chiara’s legs in that dress, as were half the men in the room. Despite the tension he could sense in her, a tension he couldn’t wholly understand given the confidence he was used to from her, she remained poised at his side, charming his business associates with that natural wit and intelligence he had always appreciated about her. It was, he found, a wholly alluring combination.

  He was about to acquire another glass of champagne for her from a waiter’s tray when Carolina and Gianni approached, Carolina’s hand on her husband’s arm firmly guiding him toward them.

  His ex-lover looked stunning, as beautiful as ever with those icy cool, perfect features, but tonight she left him cold. She had always been too self-contained, too calculating, too bent on getting her own way. Gianni, who’d spent three years putting up with those character flaws, eyed him warily as they approached, his dark eyes betraying none of the undercurrents stretching between them.

  “Lazzero.” Dropping her hand from her husband’s arm, Carolina stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to both of Lazzero’s cheeks. She lingered a bit too long, and as she did Gianni’s eyes flashed with a rare show of emotion.

  “Carolina.” Lazzero set her firmly away from him so that he could shake Gianni’s hand. Releasing it, he drew Chiara forward. “I would like you both to meet my fiancée, Chiara Ferrante.”

  The color draine
d from Carolina’s face. “I’d heard the gossip,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to Chiara’s left hand, where the asscher-cut diamond blazed bright. “I thought it must be wrong.” She forced a tight smile to her lips as she returned her perusal to Lazzero. “You swore you’d never marry.”

  “Things change when you meet the right person,” Lazzero said blithely.

  “Apparently so.”

  Gianni, ever the gentleman, stepped forward to compensate for his wife’s lack of discretion. “Felicitazoni,” he said, pressing a kiss to Chiara’s cheeks. “Lazzero is a lucky man, clearly.”

  “Grazie mille,” Chiara replied. “It’s all very new. We’re still...absorbing it.”

  “When is the big day?” Carolina lifted a brow. “I haven’t seen an announcement.”

  “We’re still working that out,” said Chiara. “For now, we’re just enjoying being engaged.”

  “I’m sure you are.” A wounded look flashed through Carolina’s vibrant blue eyes. “You must be very happy.”

  Lazzero felt a bite of guilt sink into him. He shouldn’t have let it go on so long. It was a mistake he would never repeat.

  * * *

  Chiara escaped to the ladies’ room after that awkward encounter with the Casales. She felt sorry for Carolina who was so clearly still in love with Lazzero, who hadn’t blinked the entire conversation. Because she knew that hurt—that rejection—what it felt like to be discarded for something better.

  It took her forever to wind her way through the crowd to the powder room. An oasis in the midst of the celebration, it was done in cream and black marble with muted lighting and white lilies covering every available surface. Heading for one of the leather seats in front of the mirror, Chiara ran smack into an older woman on her way out.

  An apology rose to her lips. It died in her mouth as she stared at the lined, still handsome face of Esta Fabrizio, Antonio’s mother. She froze, unsure of what to do. The older woman swept her gaze over her in a cursory look, not a hint of recognition flaring in her dark eyes. Flashing Chiara an apologetic look, she murmured, “Scusi,” then moved around her to the door.

  “Is it just you and Maurizio here tonight?” Esta’s companion asked.

  “Sì,” Esta replied. “My son is out of town, so it is us representing the family tonight.”

  Chiara sank down on the leather seat, relief flooding through her as they left. Antonio isn’t here. She could put that fear to rest. But quick on its heels came humiliation as she stared at her pale face in the mirror. Esta had looked at her as if she was nothing. But why would she remember her?

  She’d treated Chiara as if she were a bug to be crushed under her shoe the day she’d shown up unexpectedly at Antonio’s penthouse to surprise him for his birthday, only to find Chiara leaving for work. Esta had taken one look at Chiara, absorbed her working-class, Bronx accent and correctly assessed the situation. She’d informed Chiara that Antonio had a fiancée in Milan. That she was simply his American “plaything.” The Fabrizio matriarch had added, with a brutal lack of finesse, that a Fabrizio would never marry someone like her. So best if she ended it now.

  A bitter taste filled her mouth as she reached for her purse and fumbled inside for her powder and lipstick. Applying a coat of pink gloss and powdering her nose with shaking hands, she willed herself composure. She would not let that woman get to her again. The important thing was that Antonio was not here. She could relax.

  Now all she had to do was pull herself together.

  The party was in full swing when she exited the powder room. The lights had been lowered, the massive chandelier cast a purple hue across the room, the hundreds of smaller disco balls surrounding it glittered like luminescent planets in the sky. High in the ceiling, amidst that stunning celestial display, hung sexily dressed acrobats in beautiful red dresses, hypnotizing to the eye.

  Music pulsed through the room, champagne flowed freely as couples packed the dance floor. She headed toward the bar where Lazzero and Santo had ensconced themselves. Almost groaned out loud when Carolina Casale flagged her down, two glasses of champagne in her hand. That was all she needed right now.

  Carolina handed her a glass of champagne. “I apologize for my behavior earlier. I was caught off guard. I thought I should congratulate you properly. Lazzero and I go a long way back.”

  “He mentioned.” Chiara considered Carolina warily as she took the glass. “Grazie. How do you know each other?”

  “My firm did the interior decorating for Supersonic’s offices as well as Lazzero’s penthouse when he bought it.” A low purr vibrated Carolina’s voice. “Lazzero couldn’t be bothered with that kind of thing.”

  Heat seared her skin. She could only imagine how that relationship had started. Carolina walking around Lazzero’s penthouse with paint samples in her hand only to find herself in his bed. Well satisfied, no doubt.

  “How did you and Lazzero meet?” Carolina prompted, a speculative glitter in her eyes. “Everyone is very curious about how you did the impossible by catching him.”

  “We met in a café.”

  The brunette arched a dark brow. “A café?”

  “Where I work.” Chiara lifted her chin. “We’ve known each other for over a year now.”

  An astonished look crossed the other woman’s face. “You’re a waitress?”

  “A barista,” Chiara corrected, her encounter with Esta Fabrizio adding a bite to her tone. “Love doesn’t discriminate, I guess.”

  Carolina’s face fell at the surgical strike. “Love?” Her mouth twisted. “I would offer you a piece of advice about Lazzero. He is in lust with you, Chiara, not in love with you. He doesn’t know how to love. So take my advice and make sure that prenup of yours is ironclad.”

  “Duly noted,” Chiara rasped, having had more than enough. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my fiancé.”

  * * *

  Santo eyed Chiara as she stood toe-to-toe with Carolina. “Should we intercede?”

  “Give it a minute,” Lazzero murmured, eyes on the exchange. “Chiara can handle herself.”

  “That she can.” Santo shifted his study back to him. “I remember now where I’ve seen her before. Chiara. She’s the brunette you were chatting up at the Score premiere.”

  “I wasn’t chatting her up,” Lazzero corrected. “I was saying hello. Her friend won tickets to the launch. I see her every day—it would have been rude not to say hi.”

  His brother gave him a disbelieving look. “And you’re trying to tell me she is all business? That all she does is make your espresso every morning? I don’t believe it. Not with that body.”

  A flash of fire singed his belly. “Watch your words, Santo.”

  His brother blinked. “You like her.”

  “Of course I like her. I brought her with me.”

  “No, I mean, you like her. You’ve never once warned me off a woman like that.”

  “You’re overthinking it.”

  “I think not.” Santo gave him a considering look. “She is far from your usual type. I think your taste has improved.”

  It might have, Lazzero conceded, if Chiara were his. Which she was not.

  Santo drained his glass as Chiara stalked through the crowd toward them, an infuriated look on her face. “I see a damsel in distress. Off to do my duty. Good luck with that.”

  Santo waltzed off into the crowd. Chiara slid onto the bar stool beside him, her green eyes flashing as she downed a gulp of champagne.

  Lazzero eyed her. “What did she say?”

  “She is—” Chiara waved a hand at him. “She was rude. She told me to make sure my prenup is airtight because it isn’t going to last.”

  “It isn’t going to last,” he said. “This is fake, remember? Why are you so upset?”

  She gave him a black look. “She made it clear a barista is beneath you
.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” Her mouth set in a mutinous line. “Carolina owns her own interior decorating firm. I am merely a barista you hired to play your fiancée...someone who couldn’t, in a million years, afford to say no to your offer. Someone you would never consider marrying.” Her eyes darkened. “This is exactly what I was talking about earlier...the games rich people play where people get hurt. Carolina might be a bitch, Lazzero, but she is wounded.”

  A flare of antagonism lanced through him. “I think you have it the wrong way around. I’m doing this so that no one gets hurt. If I made a mistake with Carolina, which I might have, it was in letting the relationship drag on for too long. Since I acknowledge I made that mistake, I am rectifying it now by not hurting her further by giving her hope for something that can never be.”

  She gave him a caustic look. “Exactly what do you think is going to happen if you do commit to a woman? The bogeyman is going to come get you?”

  The fuse inside him caught fire. “Speaks the woman who doesn’t date?”

  “At least I acknowledge my faults.”

  “I just did,” he growled. “And as far as you and Carolina are concerned, you are right, you are not in the same class as her. You outclass her in every way, Chiara. Carolina is an entitled piece of work who uses everything and everyone in her life to her own advantage. You are hardworking and fiercely independent with an honesty and integrity I admire. So can we please put the subject of your worth to rest?”

  Her indignation came to a sliding halt. “So why did you date her, then?”

  A hint of the devil arrowed through him, fueled by his intense irritation. “She took off her clothes during our consultation appointment at my penthouse. What was I going to do?”

  Her eyes widened. “You aren’t joking, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”