He traced his fingers down her spine, savoring the texture and shape of her. She purred like a cat and arched into him. The sensual slide of his mouth against the delicate skin of her throat stirred her pulse to a drumbeat. Melted her insides. A shiver coursing through her, she turned her head to find the kiss he was offering. Best dream ever.
Slow, lazy, decadent, it was perfection. She moved closer still, wanting more. His hand closed possessively over her bottom, a low sound of male pleasure reverberating against her mouth.
Too real.
Oh, my God.
She broke the kiss. Sank her palms into his rock-hard chest, panic arrowing through her as she stared into Lazzero’s sleepy, slumberous gaze. Registered the palm he held against her back, the other that cupped her buttock, plastering her against him, exactly as she’d been in her dream.
Except it hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. Good God.
She pushed frantically against his chest. Scrambled off him. Lazzero eyed her lazily, his ebony eyes blinking awake. “What’s the hurry?” he murmured, his husky, sleep-infused voice rumbling down her spine. “That was one hell of a way to wake a man up, caro.”
She sat back on her heels. Ran a shaky hand through her hair. “You took advantage of the situation.”
“I think you have that the wrong way around,” he drawled. “I have been on this side of the bed all night, a fact I made damn sure of. Which means it was you who found your way over here.” He lifted a brow. “Maybe it was your subconscious talking after that kiss last night?”
Her cheeks fired. “I had no idea who I was kissing.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and lounged back against the pillows. “Funny that, because you sighed my name. Twice. I’m fairly sure that’s what woke me up.”
She searched his face for some sign he was joking. “I did not.”
His smug expression gave her little hope. She dropped her gaze away from his, utterly disconcerted, but that was an even bigger problem because he was jaw dropping—perfectly hewn, bronzed muscle, marred only by the scar that crisscrossed his knee. Better than she could ever have imagined, his low-slung boxers did little to hide his potent masculinity. Which was more than a little stirred up at the moment. By her.
“I am,” he murmured, pulling her gaze back up to his, “wide-awake now, on the other hand, if you are looking for my full participation.”
Her stomach swooped. Searching desperately for sanity, she shimmied across the massive bed and slid off it. Felt the heat of Lazzero’s gaze follow her, burning over the exposed length of her legs. “I need to shower,” she announced, heading for the bathroom as fast as her legs would carry her.
“Coward,” he tossed after her.
She kept going. He could call her what he liked. If she didn’t get her head on her shoulders, figure out how to wrangle her attraction to Lazzero under control, she was going to mess this up, because this was not her world and she was hopelessly out of her depth. And since messing this up was not an option, she needed to restore her common sense. Yesterday.
* * *
Joining the other girlfriends, wives and friends of the players in the VIP seating area at San Siro stadium for the practice proved to offer plenty of opportunity for Chiara to recover her composure. It was packed with women in designer outfits and expensive perfume, sophisticated perfection she couldn’t hope to emulate.
Dressed in a pair of white capri jeans and a fuchsia-colored blouse she had knotted at the waist, a cute pair of white sneakers on her feet, she looked the part, but how could she possibly participate in the conversations going on around her? What did she know about Cannes for the film festival or an annual Easter weekend on a Russian oligarch’s yacht?
She found herself confined to the outer fringe of the group, the cold shoulder Carolina had given her instigating that phenomenon, no doubt. She wasn’t sure why she cared. This wasn’t her world, she didn’t want it to be her world. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That it didn’t remind her of the mean girls in school who’d ridiculed her for her hopelessly out-of-date, out-of-fashion clothes.
Putting on the aloof face she’d perfected in school, she positioned herself at the end of the bleacher, pretending not to care. The lovely, bubbly wife of the Western European team captain, Valentino Calabria, sat down beside her, dragging one of the other wives with her as she braved the cold front. “Don’t pay any attention to them,” Pia Calabria murmured. “It takes years to break into their clique.”
Pia kept up a continual stream of conversation as the Americas team took to the field for its practice, for which Chiara was inordinately grateful. It was hard, brutal play as the team geared up for its opening match against Western Europe, sweat and curses flying.
Pia sat back as the play halted for a water break, fanning her face with her purse. “The eye candy,” she pronounced with a dramatic sigh, “is simply too much for me to handle today.”
“Which you are not supposed to be noticing with Valentino, the magnifico, right in front of you,” Pia’s friend reprimanded drily.
Pia slid her a sideways look. “And you are not doing the same? Looking is not a crime.”
Chiara’s gaze moved to Lazzero. It was impossible not to ogle. Intense and compelling in black shorts and a sweaty, bright green Americas T-shirt, he looked amazing.
“Him,” Pia agreed, following her gaze to Lazzero, who stood in the middle of the field, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt as he yelled at his teammates to get ready for the kick in. “Exactly. Now, there is a man. Those abs... You could bounce a football off of them. And those thighs...” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Insano. No wonder Carolina is going ballistic.”
Chiara kept her eyes glued to the field. Thought about that ridiculously amazing kiss she’d shared with Lazzero that morning. It had felt undeniably right. As if she and Lazzero had something, exactly as he’d said. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t desperately curious to know what it would have been like if she’d let it play out to its seductive conclusion, because she knew it would have been incredible.
You’re a senior citizen at twenty-six. Kat’s jibe flitted tauntingly through her head. Her life was pathetic. She had no life. But to take a walk on the wild side with Lazzero, who’d surely annihilate her before it was all over? It seemed patently unwise.
She pushed her attention back to the field, rather than allow it to continue down the ridiculous road it was traveling. Watched as Lazzero’s squad executed an impressive series of passes to put the ball in the net.
“Hell.” Pia covered her eyes. “They look good. Too good. Valentino is going to be unbearable if they lose.”
The practice ended shortly thereafter. Chiara dutifully engaged a cool Carolina in a stilted conversation as she’d promised Lazzero she would so that he could catch up with Gianni before the sponsor lunch. When Carolina blew her off a few minutes later, she found herself at loose ends as Pia drifted off to find her husband.
Giving her father a quick call at the bakery before he began work, she assured herself he was okay, then got up to stretch her legs and go look for Lazzero when some of the Americas team players started to drift back onto the field. Heading toward the tunnel where the players were coming out, she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Lazzero and Carolina engaged in conversation in the shadowed passage. Carolina, stunning in a bright yellow dress, was leaning against the wall, Lazzero standing in front of her, his head bent close to hers, his hand on the wall beside her.
Intimate, familiar, the conversation looked intense. Sharp claws dragged through her. What were they talking about? Was Carolina trying to convince Lazzero she would leave Gianni for him? She had no doubt the other woman would do so in a flash, more than a bit in love with him still.
The jealousy that rocketed through her was illogical, she knew it. She and Lazzero were pu
tting on a charade. It wasn’t real. But the visceral emotion sweeping through her was.
She swung away, her insides coiling. Walked into a brick wall. She looked up to find Lucca Sousa, the celebrated Brazilian captain of the Americas’ squad steadying her, his hands at her waist. Glancing down the tunnel, Lucca absorbed the scene she’d just witnessed, a frown creasing his brow.
“Nothing to see there,” he murmured, pressing a hand to her back and guiding her away from the tunnel. “Ancient history, that is.”
It hadn’t looked so ancient. It had looked very present.
“At loose ends?” Lucca queried, giving the group of football wives a glance.
Chiara shot him a distracted look. “I am not part of their clique.”
“Nor do you want to be,” he said firmly. “Take it from me. Come—kick a ball around with me before lunch.”
He was taking pity on her, she registered, a low burn of humiliation moving through her. Helping her save face. It unearthed a wound she’d buried layers deep, because she knew what it was like to be the side amusement for a man who had more than his fair share of willing participants.
But tall, dark and gorgeous Lucca, as smooth as Lazzero was hard around the edges, refused to take no for an answer. Procuring a ball from the sidelines, he ignored his own personal posse lining up to talk to him and shepherded Chiara onto the field. “Do you play?”
She shook her head. “Only a bit in school.”
“That will do.” Giving her an instruction to move back a few feet, they dribbled the ball back and forth. A couple of the other players and their wives joined in and they played a minigame at one end of the field, a crowd gathering to watch the good-natured fun. Lucca and she proved decent partners, mainly because he was brilliant and as patient as the end of the day.
Chiara, who hadn’t been a bad player in school, still found the precision required to get the ball in the net exceedingly frustrating, particularly after all this time. Lucca stopped the play, moved behind her and guided her through the motion of an accurate, straight kick. It took her a few tries, but finally she seemed to master it.
They played the game to five, Chiara’s confidence growing as they went. When their team won the game, she jumped in the air in victory. Lucca trotted over and gave her a big hug, lifting her off her feet. “Don’t look now,” he murmured, glancing at the sidelines, “but your fiancé is watching and he looks, how do I say it in English...chateado. Pissed.”
Cheeks flushed, exhilarated from the exercise, she stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the cheek, knowing she was stoking the fire, but unable to help herself. “Thank you. That was so much fun.”
“You’re good at this,” Lucca drawled, his eyes sparkling. “Go get him.”
Her stomach turned inside out as she walked off the field toward Lazzero, who was standing on the sidelines, dressed in dark jeans and a shirt, arms crossed over his chest.
“Should we go in to lunch?” she suggested coolly when she reached his side. “It looks like it’s ready.”
“In a minute.” He shoved his hands into his jean pockets, his gaze resting on hers. Combustible. Distinctly combustible. “Having fun?” he asked.
“Actually, yes, I was. Lucca is lovely.”
“He’s the biggest playboy on that side of the Atlantic, Chiara.”
“I thought that was you,” she returned sweetly.
“He had his hands all over you,” he murmured. “We are supposed to be newly engaged—madly in love. You might try giving that impression.”
Her chin came up, heat coursing through her. “Maybe you shouldn’t be canoodling with your ex, then. Everyone saw you, Lazzero. You’re lucky Gianni didn’t.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Carolina was upset. I was doing damage control.”
“So was I. If people were watching Lucca and I, then they weren’t watching you. And honestly,” she purred, “I don’t think there is a woman on the planet who would object to having Lucca Sousa’s hands on her, so really, it was no hardship. You can thank me later.”
His gaze darkened. “Trying to push my buttons, Chiara?”
She lifted a brow. “Now, why would I do that? This isn’t real, after all.”
* * *
Lazzero attempted to douse his incendiary mood with a cold beer at lunch as he sat through the interminably long, posturing event with all its requisite speeches and small talk. The urge to connect his fist with Lucca Sousa’s undeniably handsome jaw was potently appealing. Which was not a rational response, but then again, Chiara seemed to inspire that particular frame of mind in him.
His black mood might also, he conceded, be attributed to Gianni. He’d finally pinned the Italian CEO down before lunch, but their conversation had not been the one he’d been looking for.
He finessed an escape as dessert ran into ever-lasting coffee, promising to meet Chiara at the exit once he’d collected his things. Packing his things up, he ran into Santo on his way out of the locker room.
His brother’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he rested a palm against the frame of the door. “Everything under control with your fiery little barista? You look a bit hot under the collar.”
“Not now, Santo.” Lazzero moved into the hallway for some privacy. “I talked to Gianni.”
Santo lifted a brow. “How did it go?”
“Not great,” he admitted. “He seems to have some reservations about how the two brands will work together. If our design philosophies will match. But he wasn’t saying no. He wants to meet on Tuesday.”
“Well that’s something.” Santo shrugged. “Show him the design ideas we’ve developed. They’re impressive.”
Lazzero shook his head. “Those designs are all wrong. I’m not happy with them.”
A wary look claimed his brother’s face. “This is not the time for your obsessive perfectionism, Laz. The designs are fine. Use them. We might not get another crack at him.”
“We definitely won’t if we use those drawings,” Lazzero said flatly. “Gianni will hate them. I know him. We need him on board, Santo.”
Heat flared in his brother’s eyes. “I am clear on that. I, however, wasn’t the one who decided to go off half-cocked on the annual investor call and tell the world we’re going to be the number two sportswear brand when number three was a stretch.”
A red haze enveloped his brain. “That damn analyst led me on, Santo. You know she did. She loves to push me.”
“And you shouldn’t have bitten. But that’s irrelevant now. Now we have to deliver. We go back empty-handed and the financial community will crucify us.” His brother fixed his gaze on his. “We both know how fast a rising star can crash, Laz. How it’s all about perception. What happens if we start to look as if we’ve overshot our orbit.”
Broken, irreparable dreams and all the inherent destruction that comes with it.
His father had been one of the greatest deal-makers on Wall Street—a risk-taking rainmaker who had made a fortune for his clients. Until he’d taken the biggest risk of all, founded a company of his own on a belief those riches could be his, and lost everything.
He knew the dangers in making promises you couldn’t keep. In trying to grow a company too far, too fast. Had grown up with its repercussions falling down around him, just as Santo and Nico had. But he also knew his instincts weren’t wrong on Volare.
“You need to trust me. We have always trusted each other. I can do this, Santo. I can make us number two. You just need to give me the room to maneuver.”
His brother studied him for a long moment, his dark gaze conflicted. “I do trust you,” he said finally. “That’s my problem, Laz. I’m not sure if this obsessive drive of yours is going to make us or break us.”
“It’s going to make us,” Lazzero said. “Trust me.”
CHAPTER SIX
LAZZERO EMERGED F
ROM the luxurious office space at the Orientale at close to midnight, having spent the evening consulting with his design team in New York, attempting to come up with some sketches for Gianni that worked. An effort which had not yet yielded fruit, but had achieved his dual purpose of staying away from Chiara and his inexplicable inability to control himself when it came to her.
Tracing a silent path through the living room to the bedroom, he found the rumpled bed unoccupied and light pooling into the room from the terrace. Crossing to the French doors, he found Chiara curled up on the sofa, staring out at an unparalleled view of Milan. The moon cast an ethereal glow over the beautiful, aristocratic city, but it was Chiara’s face that held his attention—the stark vulnerability written across those lush, expressive features, the quiet stillness about her that said she was in another place entirely.
Dressed in the silky, feminine shorts and tank top she seemed to favor, her hair rumpled from sleep, she looked about eighteen. Except there was nothing youthful about the body underneath that wistful packaging. The fine material of her top hugged every last centimeter of her perfect breasts, her hips a voluptuous, irresistible curve beneath the shorts that left her long, golden legs bare.
His blood turned to fire, his good intentions incinerating on a wave of lust that threatened to annihilate his common sense. So he had a thing for her. Maybe he had a gigantic thing for her. He could control it.
Maybe if he kept telling himself that, he’d actually believe it.
She turned to look at him, as if sensing his presence. The emotion he read in her brilliant green eyes rocked him back on his heels. It was impossible to decipher—too mixed and too complex, but he could sense a yearning behind it and it turned a key inside of him. Melted that common sense away into so much dust.
“Did you get your designs figured out?” Her voice was husky from lack of use.
He shook his head. “The team’s still working on it.” He picked up the hardback book she had sitting beside her, a pencil tucked into the binding, and sat down. “You couldn’t sleep?”
His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal Page 8