Barbara walked up behind Damian. “Sir, Charles said our ETA—”
Damian, to Gigi: “Charles is our pilot.”
Barbara smiled. “Yes, Charles said our ETA is approximately 11:45 a.m. local time. May I get you and Miss Stevens anything?”
“We’re fine. Thank you, Barbara.”
Damian was suddenly aware of how much he liked the sound of We’re on his lips.
Barbara retreated once more, and Gigi said, a note of annoyance in her voice, “Just where the hell does she go?”
Damian laughed. “Oh, she has a lovely space back there. Lots of room. A small kitchen. A bed. Your concern for her welfare is touching, though.”
“I’m not concerned for her welfare. I’m sure you take very good care of her.”
“Oh, please. There’s nothing like that going on.”
Gigi leaned forward. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you’ve never slept with her.”
Damian sat still for a long stretch of seconds. Then he leaned forward till his face was inches from Gigi’s. “I’ve never slept with her.”
The two of them sat frozen for a moment, eyes locked. Then Gigi leaned back and fumbled for the button on the side of her seat. Finding it, she brought her seat up and leaned back into it. Damian leaned back, as well. He said, “That was an interesting question you asked. I suppose I have an interesting question for you, too.”
Gigi waited.
“Why would it matter to you if I’d slept with Barbara? For that matter, why would you care at all about my love life? What with me being arrogant and all, a bit of a jerk. Why would you care one way or the other?”
Gigi’s mouth was set, her lips pressed thin. She turned and looked out the window. A thin pink line had appeared on the horizon. Dawn was breaking somewhere and heading her way.
“So how am I getting into Italy without a passport?”
Chapter 10
Milan
Their driver was named Eugenio, and his English was no better than Gigi’s Italian. He sped them along the autostrada toward Milan, and every so often, for no discernible reason, he would smile, look up into the rearview mirror, and say, “Is good, no?” This was, so far as Gigi could tell, the extent of his English language capabilities.
They were in an SUV of some European make, inky black and expensive. Flat fields of light green raced past outside. In the distance, mountains.
“So…I mean, I’m in the country, there’s no question about that,” Gigi said. “I just can’t figure out how in God’s name I got in here.”
“Italy is a beautiful country,” Damian said, pointing to the mountains north of Milan, visible in the hazy distance. “The Dolomites are really something.”
“You’re just not gonna answer me, are you?”
Damian smiled. “What is there to know? Italy’s a great country. A handsome people. Passionate about everything except rules.”
Gigi looked aghast. “So they just let anyone sashay on in here without a passport?”
“Oh, no, not just anyone,” he said, then grinned. “I told you: It’s the 21st century and I’m Damian Black.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“For Italians, laws are more like…like helpful suggestions. They have a wonderful tradition of raccomandato. It helps to have friends in places of importance. You’re now the beneficiary of this grand tradition. And since I get to be with you, that makes me the beneficiary, too.”
Gigi felt something inside her suddenly soften. And just as suddenly, she willed it to harden. Oh no you don’t, she thought. You don’t get to play me like that. I’m not one of those giggly airheads you seem to favor.
The light green fields soon gave way to industrial parks and the makings of Milan’s outskirts.
“I hesitate to ask this, because I’m not sure I really want to know, but…” Gigi hesitated, then continued: “What’s the plan?”
“That’s something I’ve noticed about you,” he said. “You’re definitely all about having a plan.”
No shit, she thought. What’s the alternative? Chaos? You can’t break out of a poor family and podunk town without a friggin’ plan.
“Is that bad?” she asked him. “To have a plan? To have at least some idea of where you’re going in life?”
Damian smiled and held up his hands, surrender-style. “No, no, no,” he said, “that’s great. Always good to have a plan. It’s just…” His voice trailed off.
“It’s just what,” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s just…I think life’s most memorable moments are the ones that are unplanned. The ones that come as surprises.”
Gigi felt herself softening again and it scared her even more this time. He’s playing me, she thought. He’s playing me. Don’t you fall for it.
“Is that one of your lines?” she asked. “I can hear you saying it to those Top 40 poptarts who drape themselves over you at parties.”
Damian appeared genuinely surprised. “Hey, I thought I was supposed to be the cynical, nihilistic one.”
Gigi shifted in her seat so she could face Damian directly. “I can’t quite figure you out,” she said. “You’re, like, the poster child for Bro Culture. Always at parties, drinkin’ it up, acting a fool with your buddies, always within arm’s reach of an eclair-craving model. But then…” Now it was Gigi’s turn to have her voice trail off.
“But then what?” Damian asked.
“But then…then you go and use words like cynical and nihilistic. It’s a bit jarring.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. You seem disappointed I’m not drunk right now, speaking in monosyllabic grunts.”
“See? Right there! ‘Monosyllabic grunts!’ Who looks like you and says such a thing!”
Oh my God, she thought. You’ve done stepped in it now. You just referenced his physique. Way to tip your hand, dumbass.
Damian leaned back against his corner of the seat and gave an easy smile. Gigi sensed she’d suddenly lost momentum, and that power had shifted to his side of the vehicle.
“Are you of the opinion that one can’t have washboard abs and a working vocabulary of more than eight words?”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said.
“Well, then, please do elucidate.” Damian then gave an exaggerated look of mock surprise. “Oh my, look at that! Another multi-syllable word from the bro with sculpted pecs!”
Gigi laughed, and her face flushed red. She felt herself softening, which felt, she realized, an awful lot like free falling from a great height.
“You’re being silly,” she said, then readjusted herself and gazed out her window. She was seeing Milan for the first time.
Eugenio turned onto Via Giovanni Boccaccio and weaved in and out of traffic. He glanced at them in the rearview mirror. “Is good, no?”
“Grazie, Eugenio. Molto bene.” Damian turned to Gigi, who was smiling. “Molto molto bene.”
Eugenio brought the SUV to stop on a narrow street lined with leafy, green trees. He got out and opened Gigi’s door. Gigi turned to Damian. “Here?”
“This be the place,” he said.
Gigi slowly emerged from the car and stood on the sidewalk, gazing about. Eugenio shut the door behind her.
Damian rounded the SUV, stuffed a wad of euros in Eugenio’s hand, clapped him on the back and sent him off with a “Grazie, amico mio.” Damian turned to Gigi, who was still taking in the neighborhood, a mix of old and new residences and apartment buildings.
“It’s so odd,” she said. “Some of the buildings look very modern, but some look positively ancient.”
“That’s Italy in a nutshell,” Damian said. He pressed his hand gently against her back and guided her towards the residence in front of them, built in the style of a country villa.
“This your building?” she asked.
“One of them. Let’s get you upstairs. I’m sure you’ll want a shower.”
Gigi stopped in her tracks, just shy of the door. “And what do yo
u propose I change into when I come out of the shower?”
“Trust me. You’ll be well taken care of. It’s Milan, the fashion capital of Europe. We can’t have you strollin’ around here looking like a vagrant, can we?”
Gigi, feeling herself slipping further, answered in mock-diva fashion: “Perish the thought.”
Chapter 11
Preparations
Damian could hear the shower running and imagined Gigi beneath its spray.
Easy there, horndog. You know that’s not what this is about.
But was it? Damian had tamped his feelings down for so long that he couldn’t be sure anymore. Had it been any other girl, Damian was certain he’d have already finessed his way into the shower with her, a willing accomplice in his denial of their hearts’ true longing.
But with Gigi…
The top floor of his residence boasted three stately bedrooms and an equal number of baths. The place was sensual without being opulent or ostentatious. Compared to his residences in Rome and Palermo, his Milan digs were positively subdued. Which is good, he thought. She already doesn’t trust me. I don’t need anything adding to her skepticism.
He walked from his bedroom to hers, and the sound of her shower grew louder. A stylish set of clothes were spread across her bed, waiting for her. There was even a matching purse. He’d sized her up early on and was pretty sure the clothes would fit. And even if this or that didn’t fit her perfectly, it would all fit well enough to get her to a shop for some proper measuring and tailoring.
The shower suddenly stopped.
Damian turned and quickly walked back to his room. For what, exactly, he didn’t know. He paced the floor. He slipped his hands between the curtains and looked out the window at the street below. And he imagined Gigi fresh from the shower, water beading on her skin.
I told you, dude, take it easy.
Easy. Ironic choice of words, he thought. There was nothing easy about Gigi Stevens and his relationship with her. It was as if they were doing a strange little dance around each other, neither one sure of the right move to make, both of them afraid the music would suddenly stop and the lights would come up, revealing an empty room.
But you’re Damian fucking Black, he told himself. You’re supposed to be better than this, you’re supposed to be above this. It’s just a girl. It’s just some tail. You’ve done this a thousand times. You just put yourself on autopilot and the damn thing practically runs itself.
But that was all bullshit and Damian knew it. Gigi was not just a girl.
Damian had squired many a starlet to many an exotic locale—Ibiza, Belize, Tahiti. He even took a Swedish pop singer to the Forest of Knives in Madagascar, an idea that looked better in his mind than it did in reality. Turns out that Swedish pop stars are considerably less adventurous than their music videos would have fans believe.
He had never brought anyone here, to his modest place in Milan. Had he wanted to impress Gigi, he would’ve flown her to his villa in Rome, a city where the sunlight shines like nowhere else on earth, and the vault of sky pulses cobalt blue. Or maybe to Salerno, in Sicily, where the proximity to mafia legends would enhance Damian’s aura of bad boy recklessness and danger. But he brought her here, to Milan, a city with a great culture but crummy air and architecture. Milan would never be Paris or Madrid. It wouldn’t even be London. Perhaps during this trip it would be a test. Is she really attracted to me? Or is she really attracted to my fortune?
“Damian?” Gigi was calling from her bedroom.
“Yes?”
“What’s all this?”
Damian walked to her bedroom and stood in the 12-foot doorway. Gigi was wrapped in a plush white robe, her hair turbaned in a matching towel. She motioned towards the clothes spread across the bed.
“In English, those are known as ‘clothes.’”
“Har-dee-har,” said Gigi.
“And I believe in Italian they’re known as ‘vestiti.’”
“Why, thank you, Rosetta Stone dot com, you’ve been most helpful. Now what, exactly are they doing on this bed?”
“They’re for you. Unless you want to put back on the dirty clothes you just took off.”
“Will they fit?”
Damian grinned and shrugged. “I dunno. Try ’em on.”
Gigi spotted something on the bed and her eyes narrowed. She extended an index finger and moved the jeans slightly, revealing a pair of pink silk panties. She hooked the panties on her finger and held them up to Damian, accusingly. “And these?”
Damian flashed The Smile, cocked an eyebrow, and said, “Don’t feel obligated. They’re optional.”
“Oh, you wish,” Gigi shot back, and Damian could swear he noticed the faint beginnings of a smile on her lips.
Suddenly, Gigi stood straight and asked, with seriousness, “Where did these clothes come from? A closet filled with clothes left behind by all the women you’ve brought here?”
Damian shook his head. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever brought here.”
“Yeah, right.”
Damian looked at her intently, then shrugged. “You are.” As he turned and walked back to his bedroom, he said over his shoulder, “Be ready in 30 minutes.”
Chapter 12
Lunch
“Is good, no?”
Eugenio had pulled onto a side street near the Piazza del Duomo and let Damian and Gigi out.
“Is good, Eugenio. Is very good.” Damian handed him another wad of euro notes and nodded. Eugenio put the SUV in gear and disappeared into the mid-afternoon Milan traffic.
Gigi was now genuinely curious about Eugenio. “He one of yours?”
Damian took Gigi’s hand and led her across the street in the direction of the Duomo. He did it so quickly and so naturally that Gigi didn’t notice it for a full ten seconds.
“You mean an employee of SXz? Eugenio? Uh, no. But he helps me out when I’m in the city. And I help him out.”
“It sounds a bit sketchy if you ask m—”
Gigi came to a full stop. She lifted her hand, which was being held by Damian, and gave it a little shake. “Notice anything, um, peculiar about this?”
“Nope, can’t say that I do.” Damian continued walking, taking Gigi with him.
Admit it, girl, you like the feeling of your hand in his. How long has it been since a man actually held your hand, for God’s sake? You can’t be uptight all your life.
Damian’s hand was large, and easily contained the whole of hers within it. Gigi trailed a foot or two behind him, and couldn’t help staring at the broadness of his shoulders and the leanness of his body. He was dressed quite simply, really, in a long-sleeve white cotton shirt and blue jeans, but the boy looked good, Gigi thought. His shirt was thin and light allowed ample opportunity to assess his build.
She felt Damian squeeze her hand. He turned his head slightly and said over his shoulder, “You still with me back there?”
Oh, I’m here, she thought. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.
The Piazza del Duomo was packed with tourists, panhandlers, and pigeons. Lined on each side by shops and museums, the focal point was of course the Duomo itself, the Cathedral of Milan. Grandly gothic and made of pink-hued white marble, the cathedral jutted up from the Piazza like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.
“Holy shit,” Gigi said. “Look at that thing.”
Damian leaned down to her ear. “Not sure that ‘Holy shit’ is an appropriate response in front of a church,” he said.
“Oh, you know what I mean. Just look at it. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“So what you’re saying, then, is that even if the rest of the trip is boring as hell, the whole thing will have been worth it for this.”
Gigi squeezed his hand and gave the coyest of smiles. “I don’t think ‘boring as hell’ is an appropriate response in front of a church.”
They had lunch at a café in the Galleria, where tables had been set outside the restaurant. Tourists and shoppers strolled past.<
br />
“So…why Milan?” Gigi asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a billionaire with a jet. We could’ve gone anywhere. Why here?”
Damian took a swig of his Moretti beer and shrugged. “Milan’s…a bit industrial. It’s their banking center. It’s cramped. It’s not always clean.” He paused. “It makes its own little gravy when it rains.”
Gigi laughed. “Yeah, and so…?”
“No one expects me here. I mean, look at us. We’re sitting at a café in the Galleria, in the center of Milan, tourists by the thousands walking by, and no one recognizes me. My only disguise is a pair of sunglasses. I’m Clark Kent at this point. I couldn’t get away with this in Paris or London or Madrid.” He took another swig. “People made a big deal about me renting out Six Flags one time for me and a few friends. This supposedly showed my arrogance and need for notoriety. They didn’t stop to consider what it’s like to be famous. They didn’t take a minute to ponder how else me and my friends might enjoy a day at an amusement park. I can’t go to Disney World like everybody else. I can’t go to the movies like everybody else. I’m too known. Milan is just far enough out of my usual orbit that no one’s looking for me here. I can hide a little bit in Rome, but not for long.” Another sip of beer. “You ever been to Rome?”
“I’ve never been anywhere,” Gigi said. “Till now, I mean. My first time out of the country and I didn’t even need a passport.”
Damian reached across the table and clinked his bottle to her wine glass. “Membership has its privileges.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Not much to get, really. I know people. Good people. I have money. I can help people. They can help me back. There’s nothing sketchy about it. Just people helping people. Raccomandato.”
Hard Drive_A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance Page 4
