by Pamela Yaye
Romeo swallowed hard. Feeling like a specimen under a microspore, his throat dried, and sweat drenched his suit jacket. If looks could kill, he’d be dead, and the coroner would be notifying his next of kin. For the first time in Romeo’s life he was tongue-tied, in such a state of shock he couldn’t speak. And not just because he’d accidentally struck a cyclist with his car; he was transfixed by the woman’s natural beauty. There weren’t a lot of people of color in Milan, and she was such a knockout that Romeo couldn’t stop staring at her. Her full, sensuous lips and her Lord-have-mercy curves were captivating, instantly seizing his attention.
Romeo was intrigued by her, wanted to know her story. Where was she from? And most importantly, was she single? The woman was off-the-charts hot, and if they’d met under different circumstances he definitely would have asked her out. But since Romeo didn’t want her to think he was an insensitive jerk, he quit lusting and wore an apologetic smile. “Miss, I feel horrible about what happened.”
Drawn to her, he stepped forward, eager to make amends for what he’d done. Romeo felt like an ass. Guilt-ridden, he opened his mouth to apologize again, but her strident voice filled the air.
“Are you blind?” she shouted. “You could have killed me with your stupid sports car!”
A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered around them, and Romeo wished everyone—except the dark-skinned beauty with the American accent—would disappear. Well-traveled, with vacation homes and real estate properties all across the United States, he guessed she was visiting from New York and wondered how long she’d be in Milan.
The woman gestured to the road, an incredulous expression on her flawless oval face. “I had the right of way, but you turned right into me. What’s wrong with you? You couldn’t wait ten seconds for me to cross the street?”
“Miss, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you—”
“Of course you didn’t see me,” she shot back. “You were too busy on your cell phone.”
“You’re right,” Romeo conceded. “I should have been paying more attention to the road.”
“Jerk,” she mumbled, shaking her head in disgust. “You should lose your license.”
Gasps and whispers ripped through the well-dressed Milanese crowd. A camera flashed in Romeo’s face, then another one, and he knew it was just a matter of time before everyone in the city knew about his morning traffic accident. Great, he thought, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black, suit pants. That’s all I need. More bad press.
Horns blared, and pedestrians complained as they maneuvered their way around the accident scene. An irate driver in a gleaming white Porsche stuck his head out the window and yelled in Italian about the traffic jam. Romeo’s car was blocking the intersection, but the street was so narrow that there was nowhere for him to move it. “The accident was my fault, and I take full responsibility for it,” he said, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’ll pay to replace your bike, your dress and all of the contents in your purse as well—”
“How benevolent of you, Mr. Morretti, but I don’t want anything from you.”
His mouth fell open, and seconds passed before he spoke. “You know who I am?”
“Of course I know who you are. I haven’t been living under a rock the last two years.”
“You live here? In Milan?” Romeo asked. “Where?”
A bearded man holding a leather satchel made his way through the crowd. “My name is Lucan Bianchi and I’m an emergency room doctor at Milan General Hospital,” he explained, addressing the cyclist. “Is it okay if I check you out while we wait for the paramedics to arrive?”
Nodding, the woman allowed the doctor to lead her over to a wooden bench under a cluster of lush green trees, and she took seat. To Romeo’s relief, most of the spectators put their cell phones away and moved on. He heard sirens in the distance, knew the police were on their way to the scene and considered calling Giuseppe back. This was bad. Worse than the stories about him in the tabloids. He’d screwed up and needed his public relations director to work his magic again.
Romeo shook his head. No. He’d handle it. He’d take responsibility for his actions and would deal with the consequences, whatever they may be. But a chilling thought came to mind, and a shudder ripped through his body. What if there was footage of his accident? If the police brought charges against him, would his reputation suffer? Would his billionaire clients take their investments elsewhere? His pulse drummed in his ears, deafening him. Romeo could see the headlines now: Woman Struck by Morretti Millionaire! Wealthy Businessman Charged with Careless Driving! Jail Time for Bad-Boy Tycoon!
“Zoe, where are you visiting from?”
The sound of the doctor’s voice interrupted Romeo’s thoughts. Eager to learn more about the cyclist, he listened closely to the conversation she was having with the physician. It was a challenge, but Romeo blocked out all the noises on the busy street and committed everything about her to memory. Her name was Zoe Smith; she’d lived in Milan for two years and was the PR director for the fashion house Casa Di Moda. He’d never heard of the company before, but made a mental note to Google it when he returned to his car.
Trying to appear casual, he moved closer to the bench and listened in. Romeo was used to meeting beautiful females and had no shortage of admirers, but this was the first—and only—time in his life a woman had left him flustered, desperate to be in her presence. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her and wished he could trade places with the doctor. The physician had the pleasure of touching her, and as Romeo stared at the dark-skinned beauty, all he could think about was kissing her. Undressing her. Making love to her at his villa. And he would. But first, Romeo had to save his neck.
Chapter 2
Zoe Smith stood on the corner of the traffic-congested road, watching the female paramedics fawn all over Romeo Morretti, and rolled her eyes. They were flirting with him, acting as if they were socializing at a cocktail party rather than at the scene of a traffic accident. Their behavior was annoying her. They were flipping their hair, batting their eyelashes, laughing outrageously every five seconds. Why were they showering him with attention? Why weren’t they assessing her—the victim? Wasn’t that their job? To help her?
Romeo caught her staring at him, and her heart stopped. Zoe wanted to look away, but his gaze held her in its seductive grip. Even though she was a mature, thirty-two-year-old woman, she couldn’t muster the strength to break free. The media—and every female in the city—loved the brazen playboy, and although she’d seen numerous pictures of him in the tabloids, Zoe still gave him the once-over. Dressed in a tailored suit, it was easy for her to see why socialites, actresses and pop stars threw themselves at him on a daily basis. He was eye candy. The kind of man women fantasized about, men idolized and children adored. Romeo was twenty feet away from her, but he still made her breathless. Light-headed. It was more than just his ridiculous sex appeal and his dark, soulful features; his calm, cool demeanor drew her in. He was trouble though, no doubt about it. Thoughts she had no business having about Romeo filled her mind, and she couldn’t escape them.
Giving her head a shake, Zoe tore her gaze away from his handsome face. She hadn’t traveled all the way to Milan to get played by a cocky bachelor with a reputation with the ladies. She’d read the stories in the tabloids, and now that she’d met Romeo Morretti for herself, Zoe knew the gossip was true. According to published reports, he was used to getting his way in the boardroom and the bedroom, but she wasn’t going to give him the time of day. She was actively searching for Mr. Right, not a bad-boy businessman who reeked of arrogance.
Zoe glanced at her wristwatch, saw that it was eight thirty and felt a rush of panic. The staff meeting started in thirty minutes, and since she didn’t want to miss Aurora’s announcement, she had to hurry. Her office was only ten minutes away, and once the police finished their investigation, she’d be on her
way. Her colleagues at Casa Di Moda were convinced they were receiving Christmas bonuses today, and the news was music to her ears.
For the first time that morning, Zoe smiled. Drowning in debt, she planned to use the money to pay off her bills and buy a plane ticket to New York so she could spend the holidays with her family. Milan was expensive, and it was impossible for her to save money when she had to network every night of the week. Not that Zoe was complaining. She attended red-carpet events, charity galas and award shows, and mingled with the most important people in the fashion industry. In two short years, she’d developed strong relationships with magazine editors, beauty bloggers and supermodels, and her boss was thrilled with the progress she’d made. Best of all, she loved the energy and environment at Casa Di Moda, and hoped to work at the up-and-coming fashion house for many years to come.
“Ms. Smith, would you like to add anything else to your statement?”
Surfacing from her thoughts, Zoe shook her head and faced the police officer with the heavy accent and wiry black hair. “What happens now?” she asked. “Are you going to charge Mr. Morretti with distracted driving?”
The officer closed his notebook and tucked it into his front pocket. “No.”
“Why not? He was yapping on his cell phone and driving recklessly when the accident occurred. If that isn’t the definition of distracted driving, I don’t know what is.”
“Witnesses said Mr. Morretti had the right of way when you slammed into his car.”
“Yeah, right. And I was an astronaut in a past life,” she quipped.
The officer frowned. “Why would the witnesses lie? Furthermore, I interviewed everyone in the café across the street and the staff said the same thing. You crossed illegally.”
Stumped, Zoe closed her mouth. Am I at fault? Did I cause the accident? She tried to remember what happened, to visualize the scene in her mind’s eye, but her brain was foggy. Last night, she’d stayed up late working on the December events calendar, and Zoe was so tired, she’d dozed off at the kitchen table while reading the morning newspaper.
Her gaze landed on her mountain bike, lying in pieces on the cobblestoned road, and her shoulders sagged. Milan was flat, with no hills or valleys, and biking around the city was not only fun and economical, it was a great way for her to learn her way around. It had been a gift from her colleague, Jiovanni Costa, and Zoe had fond memories of them cycling through the countryside, talking, laughing and cracking jokes. The associate designer was the brother she’d never had, and if not for his friendship she never would’ve survived her first month in Milan.
“Am I free to go?” Zoe asked, addressing the police officers.
“You should go to the hospital to get checked out,” the emergency room doctor advised, pushing his rimless eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s for the best.”
The police officer with the crooked teeth nodded his head. “I agree.”
Zoe was annoyed, but she didn’t argue with the three men crowded around her on the wooden bench. It wasn’t their fault Romeo Morretti had ruined her morning commute, and although she was tired of the doctor pressuring her to go to the hospital, she hid her frustration. “Thanks, but no thanks,” Zoe said, rising to her feet. Pain coursed through her right ankle, but she ignored the discomfort. “I’m good.”
Worry lines wrinkled the doctor’s forehead. “But you’re favoring your right side.”
He was right; she was. Dodging his gaze, Zoe stared down at her wedge sandals. Her shin was sore and her legs ached, but since it was nothing a warm bath and a glass of Chianti couldn’t cure, Zoe dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. “I’m fine. I don’t need to go the hospital. I need to go to work, and if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.”
The men shared a worried look, and Zoe wondered if the police had the authority to take her to the hospital against her will. Anxious to get to the office, she crouched down on the road, grabbed her broken handbag and stuffed her personal items back inside. Her cell phone and her tablet were both cracked, and her makeup case was caked in mud. Pausing to look at the family pictures that had fallen out of her journal, her vision blurred. As she’d collided with Romeo Morretti’s car, images of her parents and her younger sister had flashed before her eyes. If her cell phone weren’t broken, she’d call them right now just to hear their voices. It was hard being away from her close-knit Trinidadian family, but Zoe loved living and working in Milan and wanted to help make Casa Di Moda a household name.
Standing, Zoe glanced around for a taxi stand. Spotting one across the street in front of a bakery, she swung her purse over her shoulder and gingerly approached the intersection. If she hurried, she could make it to the staff meeting on time, and her boss would never know she’d been an hour late for work. Zoe still couldn’t wrap her mind around what had happened. Her bike was destroyed, but she was alive and well, and that was all that mattered.
“Hey! Wait! Where are you going?” the police officer said, raising his voice. “You can’t leave your bike on the road all day. Someone could get hurt.”
Zoe frowned. What did he expect her to do? Carry it on her back to work? His tone was sharp, implying that his patience was limited. To smooth things over, she apologized for the inconvenience and thanked the officers in Italian for their help.
Everyone on the sidewalk—including Romeo Morretti—gawked at her. No doubt, they were shocked she spoke Italian. Everyone was. Two years ago, while traveling through Europe, she’d fallen in love with Milan, and after a chance meeting with up-and-coming fashion designer Aurora Bordellio at a networking event, she’d landed the public relations director position at Casa Di Moda. Thrilled to be living and working in her favorite city in the world, she’d devoted herself to learning the language, culture and history. Taking night classes at the local university and attending community events were the wisest things she’d ever done. When locals heard her speaking Italian, they instantly warmed up to her and went out of their way to help her.
The light changed, and pedestrians flooded the street. Taking her time, despite all of the people rushing past her, Zoe slowly crossed the intersection. High-rise buildings crowded the skyline, but she could still make out the top of the golden-painted statue on the Duomo and admired its beauty. Described by locals as the Italian Manhattan, Milan was a fast-paced city packed with entrepreneurs, university students, attractive women in the latest designer fashions, and wide-eyed tourists toting cameras and backpacks.
Zoe was tired and her ankle ached, but the sounds and aromas around her were invigorating. Milan had it all—historical buildings and monuments, breathtaking architecture, outstanding restaurants, and a vibrant nightlife—and every day, Zoe found something new to love about the city. Her work visa expired in the new year, and although she missed her friends and family back home, she teared up at the thought of leaving Milan.
“Where are you going?”
Zoe glanced over her shoulder and saw Romeo Morretti standing directly behind her, and gulped. What does he want? Her eyes zeroed in on him, taking in every aspect of his six-foot-three frame. He had a full head of curly brown hair and skin that looked smooth to the touch, and his lips were so thick and juicy, thoughts of kissing him overwhelmed her mind. He smelled of shampoo and aftershave; the strong, masculine scent tickled her nose. His piercing gaze and his boyish smile were a lethal combination. Zoe feared if she didn’t move, her knees would buckle, and she’d fall headfirst into his arms. Desperate to put some distance between them, she increased her pace, speed walking toward the taxi stand even though her ankle was killing her.
“Zoe, please, wait. Don’t run off. I can drive you wherever you need to go.”
Her feet slowed. Not because of his generous, unexpected offer, but because of the way he said her name. With tenderness and warmth, as if they were lovers and he was pleading for forgiveness. Deleting the th
ought from her mind, Zoe knew it was important to keep her guard up and wisely took cover behind the green taxi stand. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach was twisted in knots, but she managed to sound calm. “No, thank you.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve seen you drive, and I don’t want to end up in the emergency ward.”
The light in his eyes dimmed, and Zoe felt guilty for insulting him. She remembered what the police officers had told her about the accident. According to witnesses, she was to blame, so she had no right to insult Romeo Morretti. Still, he made her nervous, uncomfortable. She wished he’d return to his fancy sports car and leave her alone.
“Where are you going?”
“Work,” she said, trying to conceal her frustration. Hot and thirsty, all Zoe could think about was drinking a tall, cold glass of ice water, and hoped Jiovanni had remembered to bring snacks to the staff meeting. “I’m late, and if I don’t hustle, my boss will kill me.”
“Work? In your condition?” His eyebrows slanted in a frown. “You should go home and rest. I’m sure your boss will understand.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pest?”
Romeo gave a hearty chuckle. “No, never.”
Damn, even his laugh is sexy, Zoe thought as she wiped her damp palms along the sides of her dress. It wasn’t every day she met a man of Romeo Morretti’s calibre—someone suave, charming and dapper—and being in his presence had an odd effect on her. Every time their eyes met she felt short of breath, as if she were going to have an asthma attack—but she didn’t have asthma. Licking her lips, she searched the street for a cab.
“Zoe, what’s the number for Casa Di Moda? I’ll call on your behalf.”
A shiver tickled her spine. Hearing her name come out of his broad, sensuous mouth warmed her all over. Seconds passed before she could speak, and when Zoe finally reunited with her voice, it sounded foreign to her ears. What’s the matter with me? Why am I acting skittish? For some strange reason, Romeo made her heart race. Zoe wanted him gone, far away from her, before she embarrassed herself.
