“And what happens when she is gone?” Lazzero lifted a dark brow. “Do you think Alfredo is going to applaud himself for the decision he made when his heart has been smashed to smithereens?”
Exactly as his father’s had been? Her insides curled at the parallels. “Maybe,” she offered huskily, “he will feel lucky to have experienced that kind of love once in his life and he will have that to hang on to when she’s gone. Maybe, as much pain as my father is in, he wouldn’t trade what he and my mother had for the world.”
Lazzero rested an inscrutable gaze on her.
“What?”
“You,” he murmured. “I never would have guessed you are a closet romantic with that prickly exterior of yours.”
She shrugged. “I’m merely trying to make a point. You are the one who said to me that tarring all men of a certain bank balance with the same brush is a mistake. Maybe,” she suggested, “lumping all relationships into the same category is an equal error in judgment.”
He pushed away from the wall and caged her in with a palm beside her head all in one lazy movement. “So,” he drawled, his eyes on hers, “is that what is on offer to Mr. Right? Chiara Ferrante’s heart if a man is willing to go all in?”
Her breath stalled in her chest. He was so gorgeous, so dark and brooding up close, it was impossible to think. “Stop playing with me,” she murmured. “You are inherently skilled in the art of deflection, Lazzero.”
“Who says I’m playing? Maybe I’m accepting your challenge. Maybe I just want to know the answer.”
“Maybe,” she breathed. Because she wasn’t sure if she was ready to open herself up again to the full gamut of that emotion she so feared. To the possibility she might be rejected again—that she wouldn’t be good enough. But maybe that was the risk you had to take. To know, that if you jumped, you were strong enough to handle whatever came on the other side.
“What I think,” Lazzero murmured, his dark gaze glittering as it rested on hers, “is that you and I have a good thing, Chiara. Honest, up-front, with all of our cards on the table. And that is why it works.”
Right, she told herself. That was exactly what this was. And she could handle it. Absolutely she could.
“Although,” he said softly, lowering his head to hers so their breaths melded in a warm, seductive caress, “I didn’t come out here to debate Verdi with you.”
Every kiss, every caress, every heart-stopping moment of pleasure from the night before swept through her in a heady rush. “Oh,” she breathed, her heart thumping in her chest. “Why did you?”
“Because I wanted to do this.” He closed his mouth over hers in a lazy, persuasive possession that stormed her senses. She let her eyes flutter shut. Stopped thinking entirely as her fingers curled around the lapel of his jacket, a gasp of warm air leaving her lips as her mouth parted beneath his sensual assault.
The sound of the intermission bell ended the seductive spiral. “We should go back in,” Lazzero murmured, nuzzling her mouth.
“Yes,” she agreed unsteadily, taking a step back. “Although I’m not so sure I want to see Violetta shatter Alfredo’s heart.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE THOUGHT OF a dinner party at Villa Alighieri, Gianni Casale’s stunning estate in Lake Como, was a much less intimidating prospect for Chiara than many of the events she and Lazzero had attended thus far. She had created the sketches for Volare the Italian CEO had fallen in love with, she had accepted Bianca’s offer for coffee which could take her life in a whole new direction and she was knee-deep in a spectacular affair with Lazzero that showed no signs of cooling.
If she was being unwise, foolhardy, in thinking she could handle all of this, telling herself she wasn’t in as deep as she was, she brushed those thoughts aside, because being with Lazzero was the most breathtakingly exciting experience of her life, she felt ridiculously alive and it was the headiest of drugs.
Striving for an elegance and composure to match the evening, she chose a midlength, black wrap dress. Simple in design, it was the gorgeous material that made the dress, the light jersey clinging to her body in all the right places, the deeply cut V that revealed the barest hint of the swell of her breasts its only overtly sexy note.
Chiara had loved it because of the huge, red hibiscus that fanned out from her waist, transforming the dress from ordinary to extraordinary. A splash of vibrant color on a perfectly cut canvas.
Adding a dark cherry gloss to her lips and delicate high heels that matched the exotic bloom, she left the golden tan she’d acquired to do the rest of the work, her final touch a series of layered silver bracelets.
Lazzero spent the entire drive up to Lake Como on a conference call, in full mogul mode. It wasn’t until they’d parked at the marina and taken possession of the boat that would transport them to Villa Alighieri, that she claimed his attention, his gaze roving over her in a starkly appreciative appraisal that brought a flush to her cheeks.
“You look like an exotic flower come to life,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against her cheek. She took in his tapered, light gray pants and lavender shirt as he stepped back. They did everything for his dark good looks and little for her pounding heart that felt as if it might push right through her chest.
On any other man, the pastel color might have come off as less than masculine. On Lazzero, it was a look that would send most women slithering to the ground.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said breezily, the understatement of the year. But clearly, she needed to do something to diminish the way his eyes on her made her feel. As if this was more than a charade. As if she wanted to fling caution to the wind. Which was so not what she should be doing.
His dark gaze trailed lazily over her face. Read the emotions coursing through her as he always seemed to do. “I am,” he drawled, “worried about the hair, however.”
She produced a scarf from her evening bag. “I was warned.” Draping it around her head, she secured the ends beneath her chin in Jackie O fashion before Lazzero handed her into the boat and brought the powerful speedboat rumbling to life. Soon, they were off, headed toward Villa Alighieri, which was perched at the end of a wooded promontory on the far end of the lake, accessible only by boat because the privacy-conscious Gianni liked it that way.
The sun threw up slender fingers of fire into a spectacular vermillion sky, the air was crisp and cool on her skin, the spray of the seawater as they sped across the lake salty, invigorating, life affirming in a way she couldn’t describe. Or maybe, she thought, butterflies swooping through her stomach, that was just the way Lazzero made her feel—as if she’d woken up from a life of not really living.
When a particularly strong gust of wind caught her off guard, she swayed in her high heels. Lazzero caught her wrist in his fingers, tugged her to him and tucked her in front of him at the steering wheel. His mouth at her ear, he pointed out the sights, the husky edge to his voice raking across her nerve receptors, backed up by the hard press of his amazing thighs against hers. By the time he cut the throttle and they pulled up to the wide set of stone steps that led up to Villa Alighieri, Chiara was so caught up in him she couldn’t see straight.
Lazzero threw the rope to one of the valets who stood waiting, then lifted her out of the boat and onto the steps, his hands remaining on her waist to steady her as her legs adjusted to solid ground. Drawn by the smoky heat in his eyes, she stared up at him, the muscles in her throat convulsing.
“Dammit, Chiara.” He raked a gaze over her face. “You pick a hell of a time to go there, you know that?”
You don’t pick these things, she thought unsteadily, sliding her hand into his as he led her up the path toward the cream stuccoed villa, which rose up out of the spectacular, terraced gardens.
“This is unbelievable,” she murmured. “Heaven.”
“Gianni named it after his favorite poet—Dante Alighieri—who w
rote The Divine Comedy.”
Her lips curved. “My father loves The Divine Comedy.” He’d been trying to get her to read it for forever. She thought it appealed to the philosopher in him.
He was quiet as they took the winding path through the gardens up to the loggia. But she knew how critical tonight was for him. Read it in the tense set of his face. Which meant she needed to be focused on the task at hand.
“Who’s going to be here tonight?”
He threw her an absentminded look. “A few of the Italian players and their wives. A fairly intimate group from what I could gather.”
Which it turned out to be. Mingling under the elegant loggia which offered a breathtaking view of the lake and the islands beyond from its perch on the highest point of the promontory, were perhaps a dozen guests.
Carolina and Gianni materialized to greet them. Lazzero slid a proprietary hand around her waist, but Carolina, it seemed, had elected to sheath her claws tonight. Which made it easier for Chiara to let down her guard as she met the Italian players and their wives and girlfriends, as well as Gianni’s daughter from his first marriage, Amalia, a beautiful, sophisticated blonde.
The friendly rivalry between Lazzero and the Italian players inspired good-natured jokes and predictions about who would win the tournament, headed for an Americas, Western Europe collision in the final the following day. By the time they’d finished the cocktails, Chiara was relaxed and enjoying herself, finding Amalia, in particular, excellent company.
It was as they were about to sit down to dinner at the elegantly set table for twelve that Amalia’s beautiful face lit up. “Eccoti!” she exclaimed, walking toward the house. There you are. “I thought maybe you were grounded by the bad weather.”
Amalia’s husband, Chiara assumed, who’d been in London on a business trip. She turned to greet him, a smile on her face. Felt her heart stop in her chest at the sight of the tall, dark-haired male brushing a kiss against Amalia’s cheek, the jacket of his sand-colored suit tossed across his shoulder.
It could not be. Not here. Not tonight.
Amalia came back, her husband’s hand caught in hers. “Antonio,” she said happily, “please to meet you Lazzero Di Fiore, a member of the Americas team and a business associate of my father’s, and his fiancée, Chiara Ferrante.”
“Please meet.” Antonio corrected her English, but his eyes never left Chiara. “Mi dispiace. I’m sorry I’m late. We were grounded for an hour.”
“You’re not late,” Amalia said, wilting slightly at the correction. “We were just about to sit down to dinner.”
“Bene.” Antonio held out a hand to Lazzero. “A pleasure,” he drawled in perfectly accented English. “Congratulations on your engagement.”
Chiara swayed on her feet. Lazzero tightened his arm around her waist, glancing down at her, but her eyes were glued to the man in front of her. His raven-dark hair, the lantern jaw she’d once loved, the piercing blue eyes that exuded an unmistakable power, an authority that was echoed in every line of his perfectly pressed, handcrafted suit. But it was his eyes that claimed her attention. They were the coldest she’d ever encountered.
How, she wondered, had she never noticed that?
Lazzero extended his hand to Antonio. Greeted the man who had once been her lover. Who had smashed her heart into so many pieces she’d wondered if she would ever be able to put herself back together again.
Panic pushed a hundred different flight routes through her head. What was she supposed to do? Admit she knew him? Deny it completely? The latter seemed preferable with his wife standing at his side. Antonio, however, didn’t miss a beat. Focusing that cold, blue gaze on her, he bent to press a kiss to both of her cheeks. “Lazzero is clearly a lucky man,” he murmured. “When is the big day?”
It was as if he’d asked her the exact date and time a meteor was going to hit the earth and blow them all to smithereens. Lazzero gave her a quizzical look. She swallowed hard and gathered her wits. “Next summer,” she murmured. “So many people rush their engagements. We wanted to enjoy it.”
“Indeed,” agreed Antonio smoothly. “Marriage is a lifelong commitment. A serious endeavor. Amalia and I did the same.”
Oh, my God. A flare of fury lanced through her. He had not just said that. A lifelong commitment. A serious endeavor. He had been willing to break those vows before he’d even embarked on his marriage. He had planned on taking a mistress, without deigning to fill her in on the plan. And why? Amalia was beautiful, charming, funny, with the impeccable breeding Antonio required.
Gianni joined them, giving Antonio’s arm a congenial squeeze. “A good introduction for you,” he said to Lazzero. “The Fabrizio family is the largest stakeholder in Fiammata outside of the family. That’s how Antonio and Amalia met. You should pick his brain over dinner. He can give you some excellent perspective on the company.”
Lazzero nodded and said he would do exactly that. Chiara attempted to absorb the panic seeping through her like smoke infiltrating a burning building. Of course it made complete sense that Antonio owned a stake in Fiammata, she acknowledged numbly. He ran one of Europe’s largest investment houses, with a slew of marquee clients across the globe.
Lazzero bent his head to hers as they waited to be seated at the elegant table under the loggia, his lips brushing her cheek in a featherlight caress. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She forced a smile past her pounding heart. “I think that cocktail might have gone to my head.”
“You should watch the wine, then. It was a hot day.”
She absorbed the concern in his ebony gaze. The warmth. It was like looking into a mirror of the man. She always knew exactly where she stood with Lazzero—good or bad—just as he’d promised from the beginning.
She did not turn down the excellent Pinot Grigio that was served with the appetizer, desperately needing the steadying edge it gave her nerves. Seated between Amalia and Lazzero, with Antonio directly opposite her and Gianni beside him, she attempted to regain her composure as the men talked business and Amalia chattered on. But it was almost impossible to concentrate.
Antonio kept staring at her, making only a cursory attempt at conversation. Which made her agitated and furious all at the same time. She took a deep sip of her wine. Steeled herself as she pulled her gaze away from his. She was going to do exactly what she’d told herself she would do in this situation. She was going to move past it like the piece of history it was. She was not going to let Antonio get to her and she was not going to let her disarray affect this evening for Lazzero.
Somehow, she made it through the leisurely seven-course meal that seemed to stretch for an eternity on a hot, sultry night in the Lakes, the wine flowing as freely as the delicious food, which Chiara could only manage a few bites of. By the time the dolce was served, and Gianni claimed Lazzero for a private conversation over a digestivo of grappa, she was ready to crawl out of her skin.
She chatted fashion with Amalia, who was quite the fashionista with the budget she had at her disposal. When Carolina claimed Amalia to speak with someone else, Chiara secured directions to the powder room at the bottom of the loggia stairs and retreated to repair her powder and gloss. A tension headache pounding like the stamp of a sewing machine in her head, she took her time, aware Gianni and Lazzero might be a while and unable to face the thought of yet more social chitchat.
When she could delay no longer, she headed back upstairs. Almost jumped out of her skin when Antonio cut her off at the bottom of the stairs.
“We need to talk,” he said grimly.
A thread of unease tightened around her chest, then unraveled so fast her heart began to whirl. “No we don’t. We were done the day I walked out of your penthouse. There’s nothing to talk about.”
He set his piercing blue gaze on her. “I disagree. We can either talk about it here or up there,” he said, nodding toward the loggia
and the sound of laughter and conversation.
She stared at him, sure he was bluffing. But just unsure enough she couldn’t risk it. Nodding her head, she followed him to a viewing spot near the water that sat under the shade of an enormous plane tree, cut in the shape of a chandelier.
He leaned back against the tree. “You look different. You’ve cut your hair.”
Chiara tipped her chin up. “It was time for a change.”
He eyed her, as if assessing the temperature in the air. “You don’t love him, Chiara. You don’t go from being madly in love with me to madly in love with another man in the space of a few months.”
“It’s been six months,” she said quietly. “And I was never in love with you, Antonio.” She knew that now when she compared her feelings for him to the ones she had for Lazzero. “I was infatuated with you. Bowled over by your good looks and charm. By the attention and care you lavished on me. I thought I meant something to you. When in reality, I never did.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw. Shook his head. “I was in love with you, Chiara. I told you my marriage to Amalia was a political one. Why can’t you get that through your head? Why do you keep pushing me away when we could have something?”
She shook her head, everything crystal clear now. “She is beautiful. Lovely, charming, funny. How can she not be enough for you?”
“Because she isn’t you.” He fixed his gaze on hers. “You are alive. You are fire and passion in bed. You do it for me like no other woman ever has, Chiara.”
The blood drained from her face at the blunt confirmation of everything she’d known, but hadn’t wanted to believe. “So I was good enough to warm your bed, but I wasn’t good enough to stand at your side?”
“It wouldn’t have worked,” he said quietly. “You know that. I needed the match with Amalia. It works. But I hadn’t given up on you. I thought you’d be over it by now. I was going to come see you next month in New York when I’m there.”
His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal Page 13