“Look at me.” His throaty voice dragged her out of the vortex, her eyes stormy and hazy as they focused on his. “When you are like this, stripped bare, Chiara, when you allow yourself to be vulnerable, you are insanely beautiful.”
Her eyes darkened. Drifted shut. He spread her wider with his hands. Feasted on her, devoured her until she was shaking beneath him. He had meant to dismantle her. Instead he dismantled himself as he mercilessly ended it with the hard pull of his mouth on the most sensitive part of her. It tore a cry from her throat, her broken release reverberating through him.
His skin on fire, his heart pounding in his chest, he crawled up her sated, limp body, clasped her arms above her head and, his hands locked with hers, took her in a slow, sweet possession that lasted forever.
Something locked into place as he watched her shatter alongside him. A piece of him he’d never accessed before. A piece of himself he hadn’t known existed. He thought it might be the point of no return.
She fell asleep in his arms, her dark lashes fanning her cheeks. He held her, his breath ruffling the silky hair that slid across her cheek. But sleep eluded him, what she’d said about Gianni turning through his head. Maybe because he thought there might be a grain of truth in what she’d said. That he had lost his passion somewhere along the way and it had become all about the business. That all he knew was how to keep on pushing, because what would he find if he stopped?
CHAPTER TEN
WITH A HEART-STOPPING Americas team win—the first ever for the squad—in the history books at La Coppa Estiva that afternoon, Chiara dressed for the closing party amidst a buoyant air of celebration. To be held at one of the swishest hotels in the city, it was pegged to be the bash of the year.
Smoothing her palms over her hips, she surveyed her appearance in the black oak mirror in the dressing room at the Orientale. She’d spent far too long choosing her dress, vacillating between the two choices Micaela had given her until she’d finally settled on a round-necked, sleeveless cream sheath that showed off the olive tone of her skin and made the most of her figure.
She thought Lazzero would appreciate the sexy slit that came to midthigh. Which was going to be the last time she allowed herself to think like that, because tomorrow it was back to reality. Back to their respective lives. And maybe, if everything worked out with Bianca, exciting new possibilities for her. Hoping for more with Lazzero, when she knew his capabilities, would be a fool’s errand. Asking for a broken heart.
Except, she conceded, her heart sinking, it might already be too late. That somewhere along the way, the charade had faded and reality had ensued and this relationship had morphed into something exciting and real and she didn’t want it to end.
If her head told her it was impossible to fall in love with someone so quickly, her heart told her otherwise.
As if she’d summoned him with her thoughts, Lazzero blew into the dressing area, a towel wrapped around his hips, a frown marring his brow. Clearly used to maximizing every minute of the day, he went straight for the wardrobe.
Her eyes moved over his shoulders and biceps bulging with thick muscle, down over abs that looked as if they’d been carved out of rock, to the mouthwatering, V-shaped indentation that disappeared beneath the towel. He was the hottest man she’d ever encountered. Being with him had been the most breathtakingly exciting experience of her life. But he was so much more than that, the glimpses he’d given her into the man that he was making her want more of him, not less.
He shot her a distracted glance. “Do you have any idea where Edmondo put the shirt to my tux?”
“In the far closet,” she said huskily. “Closest to the door.”
He stalked over to the closet. Snared the shirt off the hanger. “Perfetto. Now if I can just find my bow tie, we’re in business.”
She pointed to a drawer. He bent and rustled through it, straightening with the black tie in his hand, a victorious look on his face. “Amazing. How did I ever do this without you?”
She couldn’t actually answer that because he’d been serious all day. Too serious, avoiding any kind of personal interaction after that amazing night they’d shared. Except when she’d literally forced him onto the bed to ice his knee after he’d limped away from today’s brutally physical match. His eyes had turned to flame then, a suggestion she could ease his pain in another way entirely rolling off his tongue. To which she’d replied they had no time.
And now he was back to serious. As if maybe he’d rethought everything, decided she’d been exactly the kind of high-maintenance female he avoided like the plague last night and it was best to dump her before they got back to New York.
She couldn’t read him at all. It was making her a little crazy.
Lazzero shifted his distracted survey to her. “You okay?”
She nodded.
“Bene.” A smile creased his cheeks. “You look incredible. I’ll be ready in five.”
* * *
The crowds were thick outside the Bvlgari Hotel, located in a renovated, eighteenth-century Milanese palazzo just around the corner from the Orientale. There was that same intimidating red carpet to walk, that same unnerving need to be on, but tonight Chiara was too distracted to pay it much heed, relying on the hand Lazzero had resting on the curve of her back to guide her through the throngs of guests and hangers-on.
The party was in full swing in the meticulously landscaped gardens where trees and hedges created a series of open-air rooms. Lit in La Coppa Estiva blue, the buoyant crowd was buzzing under the influence of one of Italy’s most famous DJs, a celebratory atmosphere in the air. Soon, she and Lazzero were caught up in it, acquiring glasses of the champagne that was flowing like water while they made the rounds.
The only minor ripple in the celebration was the appearance of Antonio as he worked the party with his international contacts, minus Amalia who had come down with a cold. Chiara blew off his attempt to talk to her when Lazzero was waylaid by Carolina and one of the other organizers, and determinedly ignored him from that point on.
Pia, accompanied by a surly Valentino, who’d been a part of the losing team, soon came up to whisk her off to the dance floor.
“I need you,” Pia said. “He’s making me crazy.”
Chiara smiled. Looked up at Lazzero. “Okay?”
“Yes,” he drawled, subjecting her to one of those looks that could strip the paint from a car. “But don’t go far. I need to be able to look at you in that dress.”
A flush stained her skin as he bent to brush a kiss against her cheek. “Go.”
She frowned as he straightened, visibly favoring his left leg. “You should stay off that knee.”
“And how,” he murmured, dropping his mouth to her ear, “will I get you to play nursemaid if I do?”
“You don’t need a nursemaid,” she said saucily. “You need to be able to walk tomorrow.”
* * *
Lazzero watched as Chiara turned on her heel and followed Pia into the crowd. He couldn’t take his eyes off her in that dress. The sleek design molded her fabulous figure like a glove and the slit that left an expanse of silky skin bare every time she moved was an invitation to sin.
His head fully immersed in the woman who had just walked away from him, it took him a moment to realize Santo had materialized at his side, sharp in black Armani.
“Sorry?” he said on a distracted note. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Well if it isn’t the man of the hour...’” Santo clapped him on the back. “That was a genius of a final play, fratello. Aren’t you glad you played?”
Lazzero muttered something in the affirmative. Santo eyed him, a glitter in his eyes. “Dannazione.”
“What?”
“The dark knight has fallen.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Her.” Santo nodded at Chiara’s r
etreating figure. “Your barista. You are ten feet under. Fully brewed. In case you hadn’t noticed.”
He had. He just had no idea what the hell to do about it. He’d been thinking about it all night. He should let Chiara walk away. Call it a scorching-hot affair done right. Nobody gets hurt. Everybody wins. His specialty. Because Chiara didn’t play by the same rules as him. And maybe that was the real reason he’d stayed away from her as long as he had.
And then he’d invited her to come to Italy with him. Had kissed her, made love to her and crossed every line in the book. Which left him exactly where?
“I need a drink,” he said flatly.
“A celebratory drink,” Santo agreed.
Ensconcing themselves at the bar, they exchanged their fruity glasses of champagne for an excellent measure of off-list smoky bourbon as they recapped the game in glorified detail.
It hit him like a knife edge how much he’d missed the adrenaline that had once been his lifeblood. The buzz that came from being on the firing line in a pivotal match.
Competition was in his blood—it was what he thrived on. The purpose that had once fueled his days, because if he’d been on the court nothing else had mattered.
Building Supersonic had fulfilled that competitive edge. The need to conquer. But somewhere along the way the rush had faded. Carrying the weight of a team, of a school, on his back might rival the necessity to keep ten thousand people in a job, but his soul wasn’t in it the way it had once been. Chiara had been right about that.
He watched her on the dance floor with Pia. Wondered what it was about her he couldn’t resist. She was beautiful, yes. But he’d dated scores of beautiful women. Chiara was real in a way he’d never encountered before. She challenged him, made him think. He was better when he was with her. Happy even, a descriptor he would never have used with himself.
If the truth be known, he went into that damn café every morning because he wanted to see her. Because he didn’t feel half-alive when he was around her. And the thought of them going back to the status quo with Chiara serving him an espresso in the morning with one of those cool, controlled expressions on her face made him a little nuts. But what, exactly, did he have to offer her?
She deserved someone who would be there for her. An Alfredo. Someone who would offer her that true love she was looking for. Someone who would be that solid force she needed to shine. Who would prove to her she would always be enough.
Which was not him. He had never been that guy. So why the hell did he want to be so badly?
When he couldn’t help himself any longer, he left his brother to the devices of a beautiful redhead and sought Chiara out on the dance floor.
* * *
Chiara tipped her head back to look up at Lazzero as they danced, her pulse racing at the banked heat in his gaze. He’d been staring at her the whole time she’d been on the dance floor with Pia, his desire for her undeniable. But maybe, she acknowledged, a hand fisting her chest, that was all it was.
He slid a hand to her hip in a possessive hold. Tugged her closer. “Do you know what I was thinking the opening night when I was holding you like this?”
“What?”
“That I wanted to ditch the party and have you until the sun came up.” His gaze darkened. “I am crazy about you, Chiara. You know that I am.”
Her heart missed a beat. She’d been so scared she’d been imagining it. Building it up in her head like she’d done before. Getting it all wrong. “You don’t want to end this when we get back to New York?”
He shook his head. “I think we should see each other back in New York. See where this goes. If,” he qualified quietly, “you want that too.”
She sank her teeth into her lip. “What do you mean, ‘see where this goes’?”
“I mean exactly that. We explore what we have. See where it takes us.” He shook his head. “I’m not good at this, Chiara. I could mess it up. But I don’t want to lose you. That, I know.”
Her knees went weak. He wasn’t making any promises. She could end up with her heart broken all over again. Was likely setting herself up for it. But everything she’d learned about Lazzero made her think he was worth it. That if she was patient, she might be able to breach those tightly held defenses of his. That maybe she could be the one.
A whisper of fear fluttered through her belly at the thought of making herself that vulnerable again. Because Lazzero, she knew, could annihilate her far worse than Antonio had ever done. But the chance to have him, to be with him, to hold on to that solid force he’d become for her, was far too tempting to resist.
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him by way of response. A long, slow shimmer of a connection, it was perfection. But soon it grew hungrier, needier, the flames between them igniting.
Lazzero enclosed the nape of her neck with his hand and took the kiss deeper, delving into her mouth in a hot, languid joining that stole her breath. She settled her palms on his chest. Grabbed a handful of his shirt. Every hot breath, every stroke, every lick, sensual, earthy, built the flames higher.
Tracing a path across her jaw and down to the hollow of her throat, Lazzero pressed an openmouthed kiss to her pulse. It was racing like a jackhammer. He flicked his tongue across the frantic beat, shifted his hands lower to shape her against his hard male contours. A gasp slipped from her lips.
He pulled back. Surveyed her kiss-swollen mouth. “I think this time we are leaving,” he murmured. “The song’s over, caro. Go get your things.”
* * *
Lazzero propped himself up against the bar while Chiara collected her wrap, a supreme feeling of satisfaction settling over him. He was strategizing on all the different ways he would take her apart until she begged for him, when Antonio Fabrizio slid into place beside him at the bar and ordered a Scotch. Turning to face the Italian, he reluctantly switched back into networking mode.
“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured lazily.
“Sì.” Fabrizio reclined his lanky frame against the bar, his gaze on Chiara’s retreating figure. “Beautiful, isn’t she? The most beautiful woman in the room, no doubt.”
Lazzero stood up straighter. “I think so,” he agreed evenly. “But then again, she’s my fiancée, so I would.”
“Still,” the Italian drawled, “a man would be hard-pressed to resist.”
And now he’d had it. Lazzero’s blood sizzled, the amount of bourbon warming his blood doing little to leash his temper. He’d been okay with the man admiring Chiara last night, but really, enough was enough. Given, however, Gianni had let it slip that the Fabrizio investment house was one of Fiammata’s largest stakeholders, he needed to keep it civil.
“Luckily,” he said icily, “I don’t have to.” He waved a hand at the other man. “I have a suggestion, Fabrizio. You have a beautiful wife. Perhaps you should go home and lavish some attention on her.”
The Italian lifted a shoulder. “Amalia is a political match. Unexciting in bed. Chiara, on the other hand, is not.”
Lazzero froze. “Scusi?”
Fabrizio set a cold, blue gaze on him. “You didn’t know? She was mine before she was yours, Di Fiore. Or didn’t she tell you that?”
He was lying, was his first thought. But he had no reason to lie. Which meant he was the one in the dark here.
“When?” he grated.
Fabrizio shrugged. “It ended before Christmas. I was engaged to Amalia. Chiara didn’t like playing, what do you Americans call it...second fiddle to my fiancée, so she broke it off. Gave me an ultimatum—it was Amalia or her.” The Italian tipped his glass at Lazzero. “As far as her being in love with you? Highly unlikely given she made a habit of telling me she was in love with me every morning before I left for work.”
Lazzero’s head snapped back. Fabrizio was telling him he’d had an affair with Chiara months ago? A man she’d calmly pretended she’d never met last night w
hen they’d been introduced. An engaged man.
Except she hadn’t been calm, he recalled. She’d been off from the moment Antonio Fabrizio had shown up at that party. Had blown off his concern for her as a case of fatigue. His brain putting two and two together, he rocked back on his heels. Fabrizio was the man who’d broken her heart?
A dangerous red settled over his vision. He had just poured out his feelings to her. Had just told her he was crazy about her. And she had lied to his face. Did he even know her?
“I get it,” Fabrizio murmured. “She’s insano in bed. Almost worth putting a four-carat ring on her finger.”
It was the “almost worth it” that did it. Lazzero had Fabrizio by the collar of his bespoke suit before he knew what he was doing. Blind fury driving him, he balled his hand into a fist and sent it flying toward the Italian’s face. Anticipating the supreme satisfaction of watching it connect with that arrogant, square jaw, he found his hand manacled just short of its destination.
“What the hell are you doing?” Santo said, wrapping an arm around him and hauling him backward. “Have you lost your mind?”
Fabrizio straightened the lapel of his suit as a shocked crowd looked on. Picked up his Scotch and shifted away from the bar, his eyes on Lazzero. “By the way,” he drawled. “I nudged Gianni in the direction of the British deal. It has a more global scope.”
His parting volley hanging in the air, the Italian sauntered off into the crowd. Enraged, Lazzero pulled at Santo’s grip to follow him, but his brother held him back. Directed a furious look at Lazzero. “What the hell is wrong with you? He’s a key stakeholder in Fiammata, for God’s sake.”
Lazzero shrugged him off. Raked a hand through his hair. “He’s an arrogant bastard.”
“So you decided to hit him?”
A frisson of fury lanced through him. “No,” he bit out. “That was for something else.”
“Well, whatever it is, you need to get it together. Everything hinges on this deal, Laz. Or have you forgotten?”
His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal Page 15