His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal. Дженнифер Хейворд
with her mother when the bakery was closed.
A seamstress by trade, her mother had been brilliant with a needle. They’d talked while they’d sewed—about anything and everything. About Chiara’s schoolwork, about that nasty boy in her class who was giving her trouble, about the latest design she’d sketched at the back of her notebook that day. Until life as she’d known it had ended forever on a Friday evening when she was fifteen when her mother had sat her down to talk—not about boys or clothes—but about the breast cancer she’d been diagnosed with. By the next fall, she’d been gone. There had been no more cups of tea, no more confidences, only a big, scary world to navigate as her father had descended into his grief and anger.
The heavy, pulsing weight encompassing all of her now, she rolled to her feet and walked to the window. Hugging her arms tight around herself, she stared out at the colorful graffiti on the apartment buildings across the street. Usually, she managed to keep the hollow emptiness at bay, convince herself that she liked it better this way, because to engage was to feel, and to feel hurt too much. But tonight, imagining the fun, glamorous evening Kat was having, she felt scraped raw inside.
For a brief moment in time, she’d had a taste of that life. The fun and frivolity of it. She’d met Antonio at a party full of glamorous types in Chelsea last summer when a fellow barista who traveled in those circles had invited her along. The newly minted vice president of his family’s prestigious global investment firm, Antonio Fabrizio had been gorgeous and worldly, intent on having her from the first moment he’d seen her.
She’d been seduced by the effortless glamour of his world, by the beguiling promises he’d made. By the command and authority he seemed to exert over everything around him. By how grounded he’d made her feel for the first time since her mother had died. Little had she known, she’d only been a diversion. That the woman Antonio was slated to marry was waiting for him at home in Milan. That she’d only been his American plaything, a “last fling” before he married.
Antonio had tried to placate her when she’d found out, assuring her his was a marriage of convenience, a fortuitous match for the Fabrizios. That she was the one he really wanted. In fact, he’d insisted, nothing would change. He would set her up in her own apartment and she would become his mistress.
Chiara had thrown the offer in his face, along with his penthouse key, shocked he would even think she would be interested in that kind of an arrangement. But Antonio, in his supreme arrogance, had been furious with her for walking out on him. Had pursued her relentlessly in the six months since, sending her flowers, jewelry, tickets to the opera, all of which she’d returned with a message to leave her alone, until finally he had.
Her mouth set as she stared out at the darkening night, a bitter anger sweeping through her. She had changed since him. He had made her change. She had become tougher, wiser to the world. She was not to blame for what had happened, Antonio was. Why should she be so worried about seeing him again?
If this was, as Lazzero had reasoned, a business proposition, why not turn it around to her own advantage? Use the world that had once used her? Surely she could survive a few days in Milan playing Lazzero’s love interest if it meant saving her father’s bakery? And if she were to run into Antonio at La Coppa Estiva, which was a real possibility, so what? It was crazy to let him have this power over her still.
She fell asleep on the sofa, the TV still on, roused by Kat at 2 a.m., who sent her stumbling to bed. When she woke for her early morning shift at the café, her decision was made.
* * *
Di Fiore’s was blissfully free of its contingent of fortune hunters when Lazzero met Santo for a beer on Saturday night to talk La Coppa Estiva and their strategy for Gianni Casale.
He’d been pleasantly surprised when Chiara had called him earlier that afternoon to accept his offer. Was curious to find out why she had. Thinking he could nail those details down along with his game plan for Gianni, he’d arranged to meet her here for a drink after his beer with Santo.
Ensconcing themselves at the bar so they could keep an eye on the door, he and Santo fleshed out a multilayered plan of attack, with contingencies for whatever objections the wily Italian might present. Satisfied they had it nailed, Lazzero leaned back in his stool and took a sip of his beer. Eyed his brother’s dark suit.
“Work or pleasure tonight?”
“Damion Howard and his agent are dropping by to pick up their tickets for next week. Thought I’d romance them a bit while I’m at it.”
“What?” Lazzero derided. “No beautiful blonde lined up for your pleasure?”
“Too busy.” Santo sighed. “This event is a monster. I need to keep my eye on the ball.”
Lazzero studied the lines of fatigue etching his brother’s face. “You should let Dez handle the athletes. It would free up your time.”
His brother cocked a brow. “Says the ultimate control freak?”
Lazzero shrugged. He was a self-professed workaholic. Knew the demons that drove him. It was part of the territory when your father self-destructed, leaving his business and your life in pieces. No amount of success would ever convince him it was enough.
Santo gave him an idle look. “Did Nico tell you about his conversation with Carolina?”
Lazzero nodded. Carolina Casale, an interior designer by trade, was coordinating the closing night party for La Coppa Estiva, a job perfectly suited to her extensive project management skills. Nico, who’d negotiated a reprieve from the wedding planning to attend the party with a client, had called her to request an additional couple of tickets for some VIPs, only to find himself consoling a weepy Carolina instead, who had spent the whole conversation telling him how unhappy she was. She’d finished by asking how Lazzero was.
His fingers tightened around his glass. He could not go through another of those scenes. It was not his fault Carolina had married a man old enough to be her father.
“I’m working on a solution to that,” he said grimly. “Tonight, in fact. Speaking of solutions, you aren’t giving me too much field time are you? I can feel my knee creaking as we speak.”
Santo’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid the answer is yes. We need a solid midfielder. But it’s perfect, actually. Gianni plays midfield.”
Lazzero was about to amplify his protest when his brother’s gaze narrowed on the door. “Now she could persuade me to abandon my plans for the evening.”
Lazzero turned around. Found himself equally absorbed by the female standing in the doorway. Her slender body encased in a sheer, flowing blouse that ended at midthigh, her dark jeans tucked into knee-high boots, Chiara had left her hair loose tonight, the silky waves falling to just below her shoulder blades in a dark, shiny cloud.
It wasn’t the most provocative outfit he’d ever seen, but with Chiara’s curves, she looked amazing. The wave of lust that kicked him hard in the chest irritated the hell out of him. She had labeled him a bloody Lothario, for God’s sake. Had told him he was exactly the kind of man she’d never get involved with. He’d do well to remember this was a business arrangement they were embarking on together.
Chiara’s scan of the room halted when she found him sitting at the bar. Santo’s gaze moved from Chiara to him. “She’s the one you’re meeting?”
“My date for Italy,” Lazzero confirmed, sliding off the stool.
“Who is she?” His brother frowned. “She looks familiar.”
“Her name is Chiara. And she’s far too nice a girl for you.”
“Which means she’s definitely too nice for you,” Santo tossed after his retreating figure.
Lazzero couldn’t disagree. Which was why he was going to keep this strictly business. Pulling to a halt in front of her, he bent to press a kiss to both of her cheeks. An intoxicating scent of orange blossom mixed with a