by Joan Kilby
His hands curled impotently at his side as he watched his sister walk away with the bastard. There was nothing he could do. Hopefully she would come to her senses before she got hurt.
He turned away from the sight of Fabio’s arm around his sister. Now to deal with Layla…
Her bawdy, infectious laugh drew him like a magnet. Layla was a Christmas bauble among wan, stick-thin models. She swayed toward the silver-haired gentleman she was talking to, revealing thigh all the way to her hip. Giorgio held back. He didn’t want to join the crowd milling round her, waiting on her attention. He needed to get her alone.
He hailed a passing waiter. “Bring a bottle of Cristal and two glasses to the terrace, per favore.”
The tuxedoed waiter nodded deferentially. “Si, Signor Borlenghi.”
“Grazie.” That accomplished, he strode toward Layla. Her companions, seeing him, fell silent and stepped aside.
Her blue-green eyes sparkled with surprise, but she greeted him with a smile. “Hey, I thought you didn’t attend parties.”
He had no time to waste on small talk. Pushing a finger into her curling red hair, he brushed it back and bent his head to speak into her ear. “You are wanted on the terrace.”
Her pupils grew larger, and her lips parted slightly. It would be so tempting to steal a kiss from that lush red mouth… No. He needed to focus.
“I’m busy.” Her up-tilted eyes teased him. “I’ll come out when I get a minute.”
He was used to people jumping when he said jump. For a moment he was mystified, then annoyed. How dare she put him off when he’d already given her more attention than she deserved? Didn’t she want to curry his good favor? Along with his pique was a grudging admiration and yes, amusement. Very few withstood a direct command from Giorgio Borlenghi or weren’t swayed by his wealth and power.
Without another word he strode through the crowd toward the open doorway onto the terrace. The broad, tiled space, dotted with potted palms and statues, was deserted. The glittering lights of the city spread out either side of the Tiber River. A cool breeze off the water swept his heated cheeks as he planted his hands on the stone balustrade.
Would she come to him? He had no idea. Her lack of respect over his position left him uncharacteristically unsure of himself and off balance. His wish for a tête-à-tête with her was about more than warning her off. His hand remembered feeling the silk of her skin, and he needed to touch her again to make sure his memory was correct…
He was becoming obsessed. Not a good thing for a man with as many obligations as he had. He needed to maintain his focus. Warn her away from Tina and then leave.
The waiter arrived and placed an ice bucket in a stand next to the railing and two flutes on a small wrought iron table. Giorgio handed him a folded one hundred Euro note. “I’m expecting a woman with red hair to join me shortly. Please see that no one else comes out here.”
He faced the ballroom, arms spread along the balustrade, and crossed his legs at the ankles. He hated to think what his expression looked like— frustrated, brooding. Hungry.
Hungry for a woman? But not just any woman. Layla. She’d teased him in the park. Time she got some of her own back.
The ever-shifting crowd parted. Layla was directly in his line of sight. Her slanted brows rose high above her tilted eyes, giving her an exotic look. She held his gaze for one long beat of his heart, one slow, curving smile from her. Then she glanced away to speak to the man with the silver hair.
Giorgio poured himself a glass of champagne and swallowed the fizzing liquid in a single gulp. The longer she kept him waiting, the more urgent his need to speak to her.
He would be a fool if he thought she would heed a polite warning not to keep her appointment with Tina. Such an edict would only make her more determined. He knew, because in her he recognized a kindred spirit.
But he would show her what she was up against…
…
Layla listened with only half an ear to Renaldo prattling on about hemlines.
You are wanted on the terrace.
She would never have expected such a command, or the man who’d issued it, to be so compelling. She couldn’t stand that kind of alphahole but whenever Giorgio was in the same room it was like fireworks going off in her panties. Why had he come tonight, after telling her he didn’t attend parties? She’d like to believe it was because of her. Except that his mood had been cool, if not downright stern.
You are wanted on the terrace.
What did he want? She’d stalled and given him some sass because annoyance hummed alongside her attraction. Did he think she owed him something for admitting her to his home the other day? It’s not like he’d wanted to introduce her to his sister. Anyway, no favor, even so small as a moment of his time, entitled him to treat her so curtly.
The crowd parted just then, and she caught a glimpse of his brooding gaze. His tall, broad-shouldered figure was totally swoon-worthy. He made her ache in places she hadn’t used in far too long. She’d pretended to be unimpressed but only because his hot growling whisper had sent shivers all over her body.
You are wanted.
He hadn’t tried to woo her with charming quips or macho bravado, just a simple phrase that imprinted on her brain.
When she thought she’d made him wait long enough, she excused herself to Renaldo. “I’m going to take a turn on the terrace.”
Her agent followed the direction of her glance with a sardonic smile. “Can’t say as I blame you. But be careful. Giorgio Borlenghi chews women up and spits them out when he’s done.”
“Don’t worry, I’m just saying hello. He’s my neighbor.”
Strolling out to the terrace, she had to admit that Giorgio looked dangerous. And exciting. And so hot she had to resist the urge to fan herself. Still she played it cool and barely gave him a glance before taking in the view of the winding river and the glittering cityscape. “What’s up?”
He poured a glass and handed it to her. “Champagne?”
“Thank you.” She clinked his flute then took a sip, meeting his dark gaze over the rim. Her pulse was racing but she managed to sound nonchalant, almost insolent. “Well, now that you got me out here, what are you going to do with me?”
A muscle worked in his jaw as if he was battling with himself. Then his hand cupped her cheek, and he very slowly drew her to him. His mouth hovered over hers for two long seconds and she held her breath, waiting for his kiss. Her heart pounded in her ears. The kiss didn’t come. Instead he brushed his lips just above her skin, not quite touching but close enough to set her nerve endings sizzling. A pulse deep in her core began to thrum. His warm breath bathed her neck as he moved higher, to speak into her ear.
His words were like cold water down her spine. “If my sister were to be so foolish as to give you a contract I would quash it in court faster than you can blink.”
It took Layla a second to adjust and for his message to sink in. She jerked her head back and pushed hard against his chest, angry with herself even more than him, for getting sucked in. He chuckled, which only added fuel to her fire.
“If Tina gives me a contract I’ll happily fight for the right to honor it.”
“You’d be wasting your time.” He crossed his arms. “You couldn’t begin to match my legal team. I could tie you up in knots until you’re a gray-haired old lady knitting knee socks instead of sexy lingerie.”
“Oh yeah?” She circled him. “If I’m so small and insignificant, why are you spending so much of your precious time trying to get rid of me?”
His scowl deepened. “Tina is using you to make a point with me. She wants more authority, and she’ll do anything to get it. She’s trying to annoy me by granting you an interview.”
“Thanks for reminding me about my appointment tomorrow.” Layla faked a yawn and patted her mouth. “I need to get going. I have to be up early.”
“Tina won’t go against me when it comes right down to it,” Giorgio warned. “Blood is thicker
than water.”
“You’re so sexy when you’re angry,” she said sweetly. “You get all rumpled.” She reached up to straighten his white bow tie. “That’s better.”
His nostrils flared. He brushed her fingers away but instead of letting go, he kept hold of them, lightly pressing his thumb into her palm. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“Because I believe Tina is sincere about how much she likes my designs. I suspect you don’t have as much control over your sister as you think you do, or as you would like.” His thumb was circling her palm, doing weird things to her stomach. She tugged her hand out of his. “And you damn sure don’t have any control over me.”
“You don’t understand.” He paced away, clearly frustrated. “I’m on the verge of cementing a major international business deal for Borlenghi Group. I don’t want any of our divisions changing policy or investing in anything new right now. It’s nothing personal.”
“And I’m going after what could be my big break regardless of whether it’s inconvenient for you. Nothing personal.” She set her flute of champagne on a wrought iron table, barely tasted. “And here I thought you might have invited me out here for the simple pleasure of having a drink together. I should have known better. You’re incapable of pleasure because all you do is work.”
Her words seemed to have hit home because his face darkened. Without another word, he walked off the terrace and disappeared into the crowded ballroom.
Layla sagged against the balcony railing. She was proud of standing up for herself. But oh, did she regret those moments when she’d damn near melted beneath the warmth of his lips and fingers. His attraction to her was fine, but for him to know she reacted to his touch was dangerous.
She didn’t fool herself that she would ever have a chance with Giorgio. Men like him stuck to their own kind of women—rich, sophisticated, and born to rule. As for Tina, although it was possible she was simply using her to get back at her brother, Layla didn’t think so.
“I’m not going home with my tail tucked between my legs,” she announced aloud to the warm Roman night. “I’m going to sell to the House of Borlenghi—whether Giorgio likes it, or not.”
Chapter Four
Juggling her purse, her portfolio, and a suitcase full of samples, Layla picked her way down the narrow cobbled lane in the old part of Rome, past tiny shops that housed shoemakers, violin makers, and antique books.
Her head ached from too much champagne last night, and her mind kept replaying the scene on the terrace. Giorgio had gone from a near kiss to threatening her with legal action. Yet she’d nearly fallen for his caresses like some infatuated dope. It would serve him right if Tina did give her a contract just to prove a point. Layla was prepared to do anything to make that happen.
To boost her confidence she’d worn a dress that was fun but sophisticated—a summery, full-skirted polished cotton in greens and pinks with a halter-top and deep V-neck. Her nude heels slipped on the cobbles, but when she wore them she felt ten feet tall instead of her normal five foot six inches.
Another twist of the ancient street and she paused to check the directions Tina had given her this morning over the phone. There was the trattoria with red checked tablecloths and raffia-covered bottles hanging in the window. Over there, a centuries-old stone drinking fountain spilling out a constant thin stream of water. That meant one more turn and—
She was in a small court facing a four-story building with wrought iron balconies and shutters over the tall narrow windows. On a brass plate in black letters written in elegant script, The House of Borlenghi.
She took a moment to breathe in the atmosphere and to imagine herself coming to work here every day. Breezing through the workshops, greeting people by name, a familiar and welcome member of Tina’s coterie of designers… It felt so real she could almost smell the café latte she carried to her workbench.
Could she really leave Seattle and live here in Rome?
In a heartbeat. Her beloved foster mother was dead, her only brother killed in Afghanistan. Her biological mother was gone too. Her father, she’d never met. As for friends, she’d lost touch with most of them after she’d had to drop out of college. Richard was married to someone else. She was ready for a fresh start.
She approached the heavy wooden door with a thick brass ring in the center and pressed the intercom buzzer. Please don’t let Tina forget she was coming.
A crackle of static and then Tina herself spoke. “Layla? I’ll be right there.”
A few moments later Tina ushered her in. Her long hair was pulled into a bountiful ponytail and she wore a crisp, white shirt over narrow, black slacks and tan ballet flats. “Maria, my head designer, isn’t here yet but come in. I want you to meet my sisters. We have a proposition for you.”
Interesting. She would bet anything it had to do with their brother. Layla followed in Tina’s swift footsteps over the marble floor of the high-ceilinged foyer, past a display of vintage couturier evening dresses and through a door behind reception.
Tina led Layla up three flights, down a narrow hall, and into a long room with high windows. In the middle of the room was a broad table strewn with pieces of emerald shantung silk, tissue paper patterns, long scissors, dressmaker’s chalk, and pins. Next to it stood a dressmaker’s dummy pinned with the beginnings of a silk suit.
A blonde woman with curly hair escaping from a messy knot, and a neat brunette in a chic suit stood at one end of the table engaged in a heated discussion in Italian, punctuated by dramatic hand gestures. Layla caught one word repeated over and over—Giorgio. As she and Tina approached, the other women fell silent and observed Layla with considerable interest.
“This is Francesca.” Tina nodded to the brunette. “And Angela,” she added, indicating the blonde. When they’d exchanged greetings, Tina said to her sisters, “I told Layla we have a proposition for her.”
“We would like your help with Giorgio,” Angela said.
“Me? I don’t know what I could do. I barely know him,” Layla said with a helpless shrug.
“He said he came to the cocktail party last night to talk to me,” Tina said. “But I know he also wanted to see you.”
“Only to warn me not to keep this appointment,” Layla protested. “Clearly, I didn’t listen. That won’t endear me to him when he finds out.”
Determined not to be side tracked from her main purpose, she hoisted her portfolio and suitcase onto the table. “Maybe Angela and Francesca would like to see my designs.”
“Oh, yes,” Francesca said. “Tina’s been telling us about them.”
Layla spread her drawings out across the table in neat rows. Then removed tissue-wrapped garments in silk and lace from her suitcase.
“Bellissima,” Angela said, fingering a gossamer-thin slip with a lacy bodice. She and Tina murmured in Italian over the wisps of pastel fabric while Francesca inspected the sketches.
“I can see why you want to add these to your collection,” Francesca said to Tina. “They’re amazing.”
Layla glowed with pride. If glamorous, sophisticated women like the Borlenghi sisters admired her work then she stood a real chance of achieving success in Italy.
“Why don’t you just sign her?” Angela said. “You can deal with Giorgio later.”
“He warned me not to accept a contract or he would squash it in court,” Layla said. “With his resources he could tie me up forever.”
“I have resources,” Tina said. “But I don’t want to fight with him. He’s our brother and we love him. We just want him to listen to us. We need him to sit down and talk with us. Angela and Francesca have issues too.”
“He refused to let me import a line of French cheeses for my gourmet provedore,” Angela said with a toss of her blond curls. “Italian only. He’s making me crazy.”
“Last week he vetoed a big contract I was going after because the furniture maker was based in Germany,” Francesca added.
“Can’t you just have him over for di
nner at one of your houses and thrash it out?” Layla asked.
“We’ve all asked him so many times that now he won’t even have coffee with us,” Angela said. “He avoids us.”
“Which brings us to our proposition,” Tina said to Layla. “We’d like you to lure him someplace quiet where we can sit him down and talk.”
“He doesn’t even like me,” Layla said. “He’s not going to go anywhere with me.”
“He’s attracted to you,” Tina said. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. When you waltzed into his house in that bikini…ooh la la!” She flapped a hand. “He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.”
Layla recalled his pulse beating in his temple when she’d guided his hand to her breast in the park. And the way he’d clutched her hand on the terrace, even as he warned her to stay away from his sister.
“You might be right but he doesn’t want to be attracted,” Layla said. “One minute he’s almost kissing me, the next minute he’s furious—”
“He wants to take you to bed but thinks he shouldn’t, so he finds reasons to push you away.” Tina exchanged a knowing glance with her sisters.
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Layla said. “What exactly is it you want me to do?”
“Go to his office and invite him to your villa for lunch,” Tina suggested.
“To my villa? He would think I’m offering him a nooner.” Layla held up both hands, palm out. “No way, no how.”
“You wouldn’t have to go through with it,” Angela said. “Unless you wanted to. Later, that is, after we’re done with him.”
“Oh, yeah, he’d really be in the mood for me after I shafted him.” Layla turned to Tina. “I thought you were going to go to him with a formal proposal from your head designer?”
“I will, but Angela and Francesca want to meet with him too, and put forward their own cases for change,” Tina said.
“He’ll walk out when he sees you,” Layla objected. “It’s not like I can hold him captive.”
