“Save yourself the trouble.” Her chin lifted as she slammed the door shut on that piece of her life with devastating finality. “I am in love with Lazzero, Antonio. I am marrying him. We are over.”
“You don’t mean that,” he countered, his dark gaze flashing. “You’re hurt. A ring on your finger isn’t going to increase your value, Chiara. Not to a man like Di Fiore. You’ll still be a possession to him. What’s the difference if you’re his or mine?”
It stung, as if he’d taken a hand to her face. “He is ten times the man you are,” she said flatly, refusing to show him how much it hurt. “You can’t even make the comparison. And you’re wrong, I do care about him.”
Which was scarily, undeniably true.
Frustration etched a stormy path across Antonio’s handsome face. “What do you want me to do, Chiara? Walk away from Amalia? You know I can’t do that.”
Her heart tipped over and tumbled to her stomach. He actually believed she still wanted him after everything he’d done?
“I want you to leave me alone,” she said harshly. “I want you to forget we ever existed.”
“Chiara—”
She turned on her heel and walked away.
* * *
Lazzero emerged from his after-dinner chat with Gianni infuriated by the Italian’s perpetual game of hard to get. Now that he and the Fiammata CEO were aligned when it came to the design sensibility of a potential Supersonic Volare line, Gianni had turned his focus to price and how much he expected to be compensated for Volare. Which was astronomical—far more than Lazzero had offered—and also utterly ridiculous for a single piece of intellectual property.
Firmly immersed in the black mood that had overtaken him, he sought out Chiara. When she wasn’t in the group enjoying after-dinner drinks, he looked for her downstairs, concerned she wasn’t well. He was about to give up, thinking they’d missed one another, when he found her in one of the viewing areas that overlooked the lake. With Antonio Fabrizio, who hadn’t taken his eyes off her all dinner, a liberty he had been content to allow because Chiara was beautiful and he couldn’t fault Fabrizio for thinking so.
Tempering his rather insanely possessive streak when it came to Chiara, he started toward the two of them, only to have Chiara turn on her heel and walk toward him, her face set in a look of determination.
“Whoa.” He settled his hands on her waist as she nearly walked through him. She blinked and looked up. “Sorry,” she muttered, an emotion he couldn’t read flaring in her green eyes. “I didn’t see you there.”
He tipped her chin up with his fingers. “You okay? You look pale.”
She nodded. Waved a hand toward Fabrizio, who was making his way up the stairs. “Antonio was just showing me his boat. The Amalia. It’s quite something.”
He studied the play of emotion in her eyes. “You sure?”
“Yes. I am tired though. Do you think we can leave soon?”
Her request mirrored his own desire to end the evening before he self-combusted. Setting a hand to her back, he guided her upstairs where they made a round of goodbyes and said thank you to the Casales.
It was dark on the boat trip back across the lake. This time, he spent the journey focusing on getting them safely back to shore rather than putting his hands on Chiara, doing the same on the stretch of highway back to Milan. She was quiet the whole way, perhaps suffering from the headache Amalia had given her aspirin for. Which worked for him, because he needed to get his antagonism with Gianni out of his system.
Curving a hand around her bare thigh, he focused on the road. Thought about how easy the silences were between them. How easy it was to be with her.
She was smart as he’d known, talented as he’d come to find out and compelling in a way he couldn’t describe—the most fascinating mix of innocence, toughness and a fierce strength he loved. With more secrets hidden beneath those protective layers, he suspected, glancing over at her shadowed face in the dim light of the car. He shouldn’t want to uncover them as much as he did, but the desire was undeniable.
When they arrived back to the Orientale forty-five minutes later, he threw his jacket over a chair and followed Chiara into the dressing room where she stood removing her jewelry. Their sexy moment on the boat infiltrating his head, he came to a halt behind her. Set his hands to her voluptuous hips, his mouth to her throat. “Head better?”
She nodded. Tipped her head back to give him better access, an instinctive response he liked. He pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder. Registered the delicate shiver that went through her.
He should really go work. Crunch some numbers to try and make Gianni’s preposterous demands make sense, but he’d been so hot for her from the moment they’d stepped off that boat tonight, he needed to have her. And maybe once he had, he could pry what was wrong out of her in bed. Fix it.
He pulled her back against him so she could feel his arousal pressed against her. Her heady gasp made him smile. With a sigh, she melted back into him, the bond between them undeniable. Incomparable.
He scraped his teeth across the pulse pounding at the base of her throat. Slid a hand inside the wrap front of her dress and curved it possessively around her breast. Her little moans as he stroked the silky button to an erect peak had him hard as titanium. Setting his hands on her thighs, he slid them up underneath the sleek material of her dress until he found the soft skin of her upper thighs.
“God,” he murmured, his mouth against her throat. “You make me so hot for you, Chiara. Like no other woman has... I can’t think when I’m around you.”
She went stiff as a board. “What did you just say?”
He paused. Racked his brain, numbed with lust. “I said you make me hot for you. Like no other woman does. It’s true. You do.”
She pulled out of his arms and swung to face him so fast it made his head spin. Set a smoldering green gaze on his. “I am more than just an object, Lazzero.”
He eyed her warrior pose, arms crossed over her chest, cheeks flushed with arousal. “Of course you are. You know I appreciate everything about you.”
Her mouth set in an uncertain line. He swore and shoved his hands in his pockets which only increased his agony. His mother had perfected the hot and cold routine. He’d watched his father spin like a hamster on a wheel trying to keep up. He was not doing this tonight. No matter how much he wanted her.
He dug his fingers into the knot of his tie, stripped it off and tossed it on the armoire. “I need to work,” he bit out. “Get some sleep. We can talk in the morning.”
He saw the hurt flash through those beautiful eyes. Steeled himself against it as he turned on his heel and left. Which was the sane thing to do, because lust was one thing. Getting emotionally involved with her another thing entirely. Particularly when he had already gone way too far down that path.
* * *
Chiara paced the terrace, her thoughts funneling through her head fast and hard, like a tornado on rapid approach. Lazzero had requested honesty at the start of all of this. She should tell him. But why? her brain countered. Antonio wasn’t anyone’s business but her own. She’d made it clear it was over a long time ago. It was Antonio’s problem if he couldn’t accept it. It was history. What use would it be to dredge it up?
She kept pacing under the luminous hanging hook of a moon, a tight knot forming in her chest. She and Lazzero had something—a fledgling bond they were building she was afraid to break. She’d felt it on that boat tonight. She was falling for him and she thought he might feel something for her too. Unless she was reading him all wrong, she conceded, which she could be because she’d done it before.
Would he understand if she told him the truth about Antonio? Or would he judge her for being as naive as she’d undoubtedly been when it came to him?
There didn’t seem to be a right answer. Lost in a circular storm of con
fusion, she finally went inside, removed her makeup and stood under a long, hot shower in the steam room, hoping it would ease the tension in her body and provide clarity to the questions racing through her head. But she only felt worse as she dried herself off and put on her pajamas.
She had completely overreacted to what Lazzero had said. Had allowed her history with Antonio to rule her when Lazzero had proven every which way but Sunday how highly he thought of her. And here she was, ruining it all.
She curled up in the big, king-size bed in the shadow of the beautiful silver moon. But her heart hurt too much to sleep.
* * *
Lazzero went over his financials in the study. But no matter which way he spun the numbers, they simply didn’t make sense. Which left him in an impossible position. Pay more for Volare than it was worth and put Supersonic’s growth in jeopardy, or walk away from the deal and admit to the analysts who ruled his future he had been too hasty in his predictions for that rapid growth he’d promised, an admission—as Santo had stated so bluntly—they would crucify him for.
Neither of which he considered options. Which left his only choice to call Gianni’s bluff and force him to make a deal. Which wasn’t at all a sure bet given the competitors the Italian CEO had hinted he had waiting in the wings—a British sportswear giant the one that worried him the most.
Painted into a corner of his own making, he pushed to his feet, poured himself a glass of whiskey and carried it to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. Gianni he would solve. He was banking on the fact that there wasn’t a company in America right now hotter than Supersonic. That the Fiammata CEO was so enamored of his dominant US market share, his offer would outshine the others.
Chiara, on the other hand, was a puzzle he couldn’t seem to decipher. The scene they’d just acted out was a perfect demonstration of everything he’d spent his life avoiding. Exactly what happened when you got invested in someone. It got messy. Complicated.
Except, he conceded, taking a sip of the whiskey, Chiara was different. She wasn’t a practiced manipulator like his mother had been, nor was she a drama queen like Carolina. She was honest and transparent—real in a way he’d never encountered. And something was wrong.
Sure, he might have needed to blow off some steam tonight, but she had never been an object to him. Ever. And she knew it. She had been just as into him on that boat tonight as he had been to her, her reaction to him in the dressing room way off.
He polished off the Scotch, battling his inner instincts as he did so. He should stay away. He knew it. But his inability to remain detached from Chiara was a habit he couldn’t seem to break.
The bedroom was plunged into darkness when he walked in, the glow of the moon its only light, spilling through the windows and splashing onto the silk-covered bed. Chiara was curled up in it on her side of the mattress, but he could tell she wasn’t sleeping from the rhythm of her breathing. Shucking all of his clothes except his boxers, he slid into bed.
Silence.
Sighing at the tension that stretched between them, he reached for her, curving an arm around her waist and pulling her into his warmth. “Mi dispiace,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against her shoulder. “I am in a filthy mood because of Gianni. He has me running in circles.”
Chiara twisted in his arms to face him. Propped herself up on her elbow. “No—” she said on a halting note, “—it was me. I let my baggage get the better of me. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to you.”
Dark hair angled across her face, skin bare of makeup, eyes glittering like twin emerald pools, she was impossible to resist. He ran a finger down her flushed cheek. “How about you tell me what happened earlier? Because I don’t think that was about us and what we have here.”
An emotion he couldn’t read flickered through those beautiful eyes before she dropped back onto the pillow and fixed her gaze on the ceiling. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try,” he invited.
She waved a hand at him. “It’s always been about the way I look. Ever since high school. While the girls were making fun of my clothes, the boys wanted me for what was underneath them, which only made the girls more vicious to me. I didn’t know how to handle it, so I retreated. Which was fine, because mostly, I was at home with my father. But also because I didn’t trust. I didn’t believe anyone would want me for who I was, so it was easier that way.
“Then,” she said, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger, “I finally met someone that I thought did. I opened myself up to him. Trusted him. Only to realize he had no intentions of letting me share his life. He only wanted me in his bed.” She pursed her lips. “What you said tonight reminded me of him. Of something he said.”
His heart turned over. He’d known that son of a bitch had done a number on her. He’d like to find him and take him apart piece by piece. But hadn’t he objectified her too with his offer to come to Italy? With his suggestion he gloss her up? To make her fit into his world? Except he’d always seen more in Chiara than just her undeniably beautiful packaging. Had always known there was more to her if he could just manage to peel back those layers of hers. And he’d been right.
He caught her hand in his. Uncurled her tight fingers to lace them through his own. “You know I care about you,” he said gruffly. Because he did and he wanted her to know that.
She nodded. Eyed him silently.
“What?”
“Gianni,” she murmured. “You’re letting him make you crazy, Lazzero. Why not develop the technology yourself if he’s going to be like this?”
The far too perceptive question stirred the frustration lurking just beneath the surface. “Because I don’t have the time,” he said evenly, tempering his volatile edge. “Acquiring Volare means we can put the shoe into production immediately. Meet our steep growth trajectory.”
“And if Gianni won’t sell it to you? What do you do then?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I’ll cross that bridge when and if we come to it.”
“Maybe,” she suggested quietly, “if Gianni doesn’t work out, it’s time to get back to your roots. To make it about the passion again.”
He arched a brow. “Who says the passion’s missing?”
“I do.” She shook her head. “I saw your face at Di Fiore’s that night, Lazzero, when you talked about starting Supersonic. How you came alive when we were doing those sketches... You say you don’t dream anymore, but you and Santo had a dream to make the best products out there for athletes. Because you are athletes. Because it’s in your blood. That is what you should be doing. Not running circles around Gianni Casale.”
“It’s not that simple,” he said curtly. “Dreams grow up. I run a multibillion-dollar business, Chiara. I’ve made promises to my shareholders I need to keep. This isn’t about sitting down in the lab with my engineers playing house. It’s about making my numbers.”
Her chin lifted. “I’m not talking about playing house. I’m talking about following your passion, just as you’ve been pushing me to do.” She waved a hand at him. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said this week. About what I want out of life. Sometimes dreams are too expensive to keep. And sometimes they’re all you have.”
And now she was threatening to blow up his brain. “I don’t need a lecture right now,” he said softly, past the shimmering red in his head. “I need some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Fine.” She lay there staring at the ceiling.
He let out a pained sound. “What?”
“I just think if you dish it out, you should be able to take it.”
His blood sizzled in his veins. “Oh, I can take it,” he purred, eyes on her pajamas, which tonight, had big red kisses plastered across them. “But I’m trying to keep my hands off you at the moment. At your request.”
Her white incisors bit into her lip, her eyes big as they rested on his. �
�I thought you wouldn’t be in the mood now.”
The vulnerable, hesitant look on her face hit him square in the solar plexus. “Baby,” he murmured, “if there’s a planet in this solar system where I wouldn’t want you in that outfit, you’re going to have to find it for me.”
A river of color spread across her face, a smoky heat darkening her gaze. “Lazzero—” she breathed, her eyes on his.
He pushed a hand into the bed and brought himself down over her. Bracing himself on his palms and knees, he lowered his mouth to her ear. “Say it,” he murmured, “and I will.”
And so she did, whispering her request for him to make love to her in a husky voice that unearthed a whole new set of foreign emotions inside of him. Ones he had no idea how to verbalize. And then, because actions had always spoken louder than words and he wanted to show her what she did to him, on every level, he deified her instead.
Caging her sexy, amazing body with his, he moved his mouth over every centimeter of her satiny skin until her pajamas impeded his progress and he stripped those off too. Exploring every dip and curve, he trailed his mouth over the taut, trembling skin of her abdomen, found the delectable crease between hip and thigh.
Chiara sucked in a breath, fisted her hands in the bedspread. He could tell she loved it when he did this to her. It made her wild for him. But she was also at her most vulnerable—stripped open and exposed to him. And that was exactly the way he wanted her right now. He wanted to obliterate the distance she’d put between them earlier and put them back exactly where they belonged.
He spread her thighs with firm hands. Slid a palm beneath her bottom and lifted her up to him. Her delicate, musky scent made his head spin. He blew a heated breath over her most intimate flesh. Felt her thighs quiver. Heard the rush of air that left her lips. It set his blood on fire.
He explored her first with his mouth and then with his fingers, caressing every pleasure point with a reverent touch. Her tiny whimpers of pleasure, the clutch of her fingers in his hair, threatened to incinerate him.
His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal Page 14