Italian Mavericks: A Deal With The Italian. Дженнифер Хейворд
sofa.
“Only one bed,” Rocco qualified, coming to a halt behind her. “Sorry, princessa. This apartment wasn’t meant for entertaining.”
Compartmentalize, she told herself. She needed to compartmentalize this problem and focus on the big one at the moment: getting ready for this dinner she so heartily didn’t want to attend. She glanced at the grandfather clock ticking loudly in the lounge, and her queasiness dissolved into panic. They had to leave in fifteen minutes.
She hightailed it into the bathroom. Luckily she was adept at putting on her face in just under seven minutes. Her hair, a bit wild from the travel, would have to be put up in a quick chignon. And her dress...
Which dress?
She kicked off her jeans and top and raced into the dressing room. The breath was knocked from her lungs when she ran headfirst into a brick wall, otherwise known as Rocco searching for a tie. His hands closed automatically around her waist to steady her. Winded, she put a palm to his chest and caught her breath. The feel of warm, muscled male beneath her fingertips upped her pulse a point or two. Damn.
She unpeeled herself from him and put some space between them. “So sorry,” she murmured with a self-conscious smile. “I’m working on eight minutes.”
He nodded and stood back to give her space. The heightened color in his high cheekbones was a rare enough sight that she stopped and stared for a moment. What’s wrong with him?
She followed his gaze like a detective searching for clues. Down over her chest it went, past her hips, down her legs. And it struck her then. She was wearing lingerie. Skimpy lingerie. It was so second nature for her to run around half-naked given her former profession—current profession, she corrected—that she hadn’t given it a second thought.
The color darkening his olive skin deepened. Her brain mind-numbingly processed the facts in front of her. That was lust on his face. Unmistakable. He had been lying to her.
Her mind reeled with the realization. He didn’t want to admit he wanted her because he didn’t want to want her. And wasn’t she an idiot for ignoring her instincts? She had known that night in Navigli the heat hadn’t been one-sided. And yet he’d cruelly let her think he found her lacking in the face of his Italian brunettes!
“You...” She bit her lip before she tore a strip off him, her rational brain kicking in. Having one up on the man who held all the cards could be a good thing.
“Could you help me with my dress?” she asked sweetly instead, turning her back to him as she rustled through her suitcase for one of Mario’s dresses that eluded wrinkles. “That would speed things up.”
* * *
Rocco stood utterly still as Olivia bent over in front of him and rustled through the case. The lingerie she had on were not the skimpiest he had ever seen, but on his blonde bombshell of a fiancée they looked indescribable. Her rounded, toned behind made his head feel as tight as his groin. Her legs went on forever, ending in slim perfect ankles he could so clearly imagine wrapped around himself he almost groaned.
She spun around, holding up a silver-blue dress victoriously. “Just need you to do the hook at the back.”
Or he could hang himself right now. That was a definite option. Better than seeing her perfect nipples outlined against the fine lace of her bra. Better than wondering how soft the skin was between those delectable thighs, showcased perfectly by the revealing cut of her panties...
“Rocco?” She waggled a brow at him. “Are you okay?”
“Perfetto.” He waved a hand at her. “Put the damn dress on so I can do it up. The driver’s waiting outside.”
Mercifully, she slipped the dress over her head. It didn’t get any easier, though, as she backed up against him and held her hair out of the way for him to do up the clasp. “That top tiny one please.”
He found the tiny hook, his big hands fumbling over the minute closure. She squeezed closer to him, the silk of her dress swishing against his thighs, sending his blood pressure into dangerous territory.
“You smell good.” She sighed. “What are you wearing?”
With her bottom perilously close to his raging erection, her lush body lining the length of his, there was only one thought in his head and it wasn’t the name of the cologne he was wearing.
The hook slid into the clasp. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks. “Finito.”
She turned around, a tiny smile playing about her lips. “Grazie. I may need help taking it off again later, though.”
He would be conveniently getting ice for a nightcap at that moment. He grabbed the tie he wanted to wear, did it up with swift precision while Olivia did her hair, then ushered her out into the warm night air and to the car.
Stefan Bianco met them at the back entrance of the fusion restaurant he was part owner of in Chelsea. His friend’s mouth curved into one of his signature lazy smiles when he saw them, the one that camouflaged one of the most ruthless, hard-edged businessmen Rocco had ever met.
He and Rocco embraced.
“Welcome to Tempesta Di Fuoco.”
“Impressive, my friend.” Rocco stood back and drew Olivia forward. “Olivia, meet Stefan. Not nearly as intimidating as he’s made out to be.”
Stefan carried the hand Olivia offered to his lips. “You are even more beautiful in person. I can see why Rocco lost his head.”
A hint of color washed his fiancée’s cheeks. “And you are even more...charismatic...than Rocco painted you.”
Amusement gleamed in Stefan’s eyes. “You will have to enlighten me on his description. I’m sure it would be entertaining.”
Rocco curved an arm around Olivia’s waist and pulled her into his side. “Nothing you haven’t heard before, fratello.”
They were seated at a quiet table in one of the alcoves of the exceedingly modern restaurant, done in chrome and steel and muted colors. Rocco and Olivia sat on one side of the table for four, while Stefan sat on the other, his hand lifting to summon the sommelier to bring them a very old, very fine bottle of cabernet.
“I trust that’s fine?” he asked Olivia. “I can’t tolerate champagne. Such a woman’s drink. And French,” he added caustically.
“I’m not a fan of champagne myself,” Olivia observed, bestowing that high-wattage smile of hers on his friend. “And I do love a good Cab, thank you.”
Stefan did a double take. There wasn’t a man on this earth who would be immune to Olivia Fitzgerald when she used that smile on him, and Rocco would bet his stock portfolio by the end of this meal she would have his incorrigible friend eating out of her hand.
Stefan sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “So how did you manage to work your way past my friend’s considerable defenses? He has enough to man an army.”
A smile curved Olivia’s lips. “He picked me up in a café after scaring my girlfriends away... It was more...lust than love at first sight.”
Humor darkened his friend’s eyes. “That sounds more like him. What isn’t like him is to fall flat on his face like this. He’s usually much more careful. I always said if he’d ever marry, he would choose a blue-blooded Italian to carry on the Mondelli line and live a very premeditated life.”
Olivia blinked at the backhanded compliment. Rocco put up his hand. “I’m still here, fratello, in case you’d forgotten.”
His friend shrugged. “You have to admit, this is knee-jerk behavior for you. If we were in my wine cellar, you’d spend half an hour choosing the vintage, then decide perhaps it needed more thinking on.”
Olivia put her water down with a deliberate movement,