His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal
Page 1
“I have a business proposition for you.”
Sealed with a million-dollar ring!
To win the most important deal of his life, Lazzero Di Fiore needs a fake fiancée. He strikes a pact with his gorgeous but guarded local barista Chiara: he’ll save her father from bankruptcy, if she agrees to wear his ring! But any convenience is consumed by their explosive attraction. Now Lazzero is determined to see his diamond on Chiara’s finger—for good!
JENNIFER HAYWARD has been a fan of romance since filching her sister’s novels to escape her teenage angst. Her career in journalism and PR, including years of working alongside powerful, charismatic CEOs and travelling the world, has provided perfect fodder for the fast-paced, sexy stories she likes to write—always with a touch of humour. A native of Canada’s East Coast, Jennifer lives in Toronto with her Viking husband and young Viking-in-training.
Also by Jennifer Hayward
A Deal for the Di Sione Ring
A Debt Paid in the Marriage Bed
Salazar’s One-Night Heir
Kingdoms & Crowns miniseries
Carrying the King’s Pride
Claiming the Royal Innocent
Marrying Her Royal Enemy
The Powerful Di Fiore Tycoons miniseries
Christmas at the Tycoon’s Command
His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal
Jennifer Hayward
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-07229-8
HIS MILLION-DOLLAR MARRIAGE PROPOSAL
© 2018 Jennifer Hayward
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk
For Mary Sullivan and Stefanie London, my walking partners and brainstormers extraordinaire. Thank you for being such amazing writers and women! Our Wed writing craft chats make my week.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
Extract
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
THURSDAY NIGHT DRINKS at Di Fiore’s had been a weekly ritual for Lazzero Di Fiore and his brothers ever since Lazzero and his younger brother, Santo, had parlayed a dream of creating the world’s hottest athletic wear into a reality at a tiny table near the back as students at Columbia University.
The jagged slash of red fire, the logo they had scratched into the thick mahogany tabletop to represent the high-octane Supersonic brand, now graced the finely tuned bodies of some of the world’s highest paid athletes, a visibility which had, in turn, made the brand a household name.
Unfortunately, Lazzero conceded blackly as he wound his way through the crowd in the packed, buzzing, European-style sports bar he and Santo ran in midtown Manhattan, success had also meant their personal lives had become public fodder. A fact of life he normally took in stride. The breech of his inner sanctum, however, had been the final straw.
He absorbed the show of feminine leg on display on what was supposed to be Triple-Play Thursdays—a ritual for Manhattan baseball fans. Inhaled the cloud of expensive perfume in the air, thick enough to take down a lesser man. This was all her doing. He’d like to strangle her.
“This is turning into a three-ring circus,” he muttered, sliding into a chair at the table already occupied by his brothers, Santo and Nico.
“Because the city’s most talked-about gossip columnist chose to make us number two on her most-wanted bachelor list?” Santo, elegant in black Hugo Boss, cocked a brow. “If we sue, it’d have to be for finishing behind Barnaby Alexander. He puts his dates to sleep recounting his billions. I find it highly insulting.”
“Old money,” Nico supplied helpfully. “She had to mix it up a bit.”
Lazzero eyed his elder brother, who was probably thanking his lucky stars he’d taken himself off the market with his recent engagement to Chloe, with whom he ran Evolution—one of the world’s most successful cosmetic companies. “I’m glad you’re finding this amusing,” he growled.
Nico shrugged. “You would too if you were in the middle of my three-ring circus. Why I ever agreed to a Christmas wedding is beyond me.”
Lazzero couldn’t muster an ounce of sympathy, because the entire concept of marriage was insanity to him.
“Show it to me,” he demanded, glaring at Santo.
Santo slid the offending magazine across the table, his attention captured by a glamorous-looking blonde staring unashamedly at him from the bar. Loosening his tie, he sat back in his chair and gave her a thorough once-over. “Not bad at all.”
Utterly Santo’s type. She looked ready for anything.
Lazzero fixed his smoldering attention on the list of New York’s most eligible bachelors as selected by Samara Jones of Entertainment Buzz. A follow-up to her earlier piece that had declared the “Summer Lover” the year’s hottest trend, the article, cheekily entitled “The Summer Shag” in a nod to Jones’s British heritage, featured her top twenty bachelors with which to fulfill that seasonal pursuit.
Lazzero scanned the list, his perusal sliding to a halt at entry number two:
Since they’re gorgeous and run the most popular athletic-wear company on the planet—Lazzero and Santo Di Fiore clock in at number two. Young, rich and powerful, they are without a doubt the most delicious double dose of testosterone in Manhattan. Find them at Di Fiore’s on Thursday nights, wh
ere they still run their weekly strategy sessions from the corner table where it all started.
Lazzero threw the magazine on the table, a look of disgust claiming his face. “You do realize that this,” he said, waving a hand around them, “is never going to be ours again?”
“Relax,” Santo drawled, eyes now locked with the sophisticated blonde who couldn’t take her eyes off his equally glamorous profile. “Give it a few weeks and it’ll die down.”
“Or not.”
Santo shifted his attention back to the table. “What’s got you so twisted in a knot?” he queried. “It can’t be that,” he said, inclining his head toward the magazine. “You’ve been off for weeks.”
Lazzero blew out a breath and sat back in his chair. “Gianni Casale,” he said flatly. “I had a call with him this afternoon. He isn’t biting on the licensing deal. He’s mired in red ink, knows his brand has lost its luster, knows we’re eating his lunch, and still he won’t admit he needs this partnership.”
Which was a problem given Lazzero had forecast Supersonic would be the number two sportswear company in the world by the end of the following year, a promise his influential backers were banking on. Which meant acquiring Gianni Casale’s legendary Fiammata running shoe technology, Volare, was his top priority.
Santo pointed his glass at him. “Let’s be honest here. The real problem with Casale is that he hates your guts.”
Lazzero blinked. “Hate is a strong word.”
“Not when you used to date his wife. Everyone knows Carolina married Gianni on the rebound from you, his bank balance a salve for her wounded heart. She makes it clear every time you’re in a room together. She’s still in love with you, Laz, her marriage is on the rocks and Casale is afraid he can’t hold her. That’s our problem.”
Guilt gnawed at his insides. He’d told Carolina he would never commit—that he just didn’t have it in him. The truth, given his parents’ disastrous, toxic wreck of a marriage he’d sworn never to repeat. And she’d been fine with it, until all of a sudden, a couple of months into their relationship, she’d grown far too comfortable with his penthouse key, showing up uninvited to cook him dinner after a trip to Asia—a skill he hadn’t even known she’d possessed.
Maybe he’d ignored one too many warning signs, had been so wrapped up in his work and insane travel schedule he hadn’t called it off soon enough, but he’d made it a clean break when he had.
“Gianni cannot possibly be making this personal,” he grated. “This is a fifty-million-dollar deal. It would be the height of stupidity.”
“He wouldn’t be the first man to let his pride get in his way,” Santo observed drily. He arched a brow. “You want to solve your problem? Come play in La Coppa Estiva next week. Gianni is playing. Bring a beautiful woman with you to convince him you are off the market and use the unfettered access to him to talk him straight.”
Lazzero considered his jam-packed schedule. “I don’t have time to come to Milan,” he dismissed. “While you’re off gallivanting around Italy, wooing your celebrities, someone needs to steer the ship.”
Santo eyed him. “Gallivanting? Do you have any idea how much work it is to coordinate a charity game at this level? I want to shoot myself by the end of it.”
Lazzero held up a hand. “Okay, I take it back. You are brilliant, you know you are.”
La Coppa Estiva, a charity soccer game played in football-crazy Milan, was sponsored by a handful of the most popular brands in the world, including both Supersonic and Fiammata. The biggest names in the business played in the game as well as sponsors and their partners, which made for a logistical nightmare of huge egos and impossible demands. It was only because of his skill managing such a circus that Santo had been named chairman for the second year in a row.
Lazzero exhaled. Took a pull of his beer. Santo was right—he should go. La Coppa Estiva was the only event in the foreseeable future he would get any access to Gianni. “I’ll make it work,” he conceded, “but I have no idea who I’d take.”
“Says the man with an address book full of the most beautiful women in New York,” Nico countered drily.
Lazzero shrugged. “I’m too damn busy to date.”
“How about a summer shag?” Santo directed a pointed look at the strategically placed females around the room. “Apparently, they’re all the rage. According to Samara Jones, you keep them around until you’ve finished the last events in the Hamptons, then say arrivederci after Labor Day. It’s ideal, perfect actually. It might even put you in a better mood.”
“Excellent idea,” Nico drawled. “I like it a lot. Particularly the part where we recover his good humor.”
Lazzero was not amused. Acquiring himself a temporary girlfriend was the last thing he had the bandwidth for right now. But if that’s what it took to convince Gianni he was of no threat to him, then that’s what he would do.
Making that choice from the flock of ambitious types presently hunting him and ending up in Samara Jones’s column, however, was not an option. What he needed was an utterly discrete, trustworthy woman who would take this on as the business arrangement it would be and wouldn’t expect anything more from him when it was done.
Surely that couldn’t be too hard to find?
* * *
Friday mornings at the Daily Grind on the Upper West Side were a nonstop marathon. Students from nearby Columbia University, attracted by its urban cool vibe, drifted in like sleepy, rumpled sheep, sprawling across the leather sofas with their coffee, while the slick-suited urban warriors who lived in the area dashed in on the way to the office, desperate for a fix before that dreaded early meeting.
Today, however, had tested the limits of even coolheaded barista Chiara Ferrante’s even-keeled disposition. It might have been the expensive suit who’d just rolled up to the counter, a set of Porsche keys dangling from his fingertips, a cell phone glued to his ear, and ordered a grande, half-caff soy latte at exactly 120 degrees, no more, no less, on the heels of half a dozen such ridiculous orders.
You need this job, Chiara. Now more than ever. Suck it up and just do it.
She took a deep, Zen-inducing breath and cleared the lineup with ruthless efficiency, dispatching the walking Gucci billboard with a 119-degree latte—a minor act of rebellion she couldn’t resist. A brief lull ensuing, she turned to take inventory of the coffee bar on the back wall before the next wave hit.
“You okay?” Kat, her fellow barista and roommate asked, as she replenished the stack of take-out cups. “You seem off today.”
Chiara gathered up the empty carafes and set them in the sink. “The bank turned down my father’s request for a loan. It hasn’t been a good morning.”
Kat’s face fell. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I know it’s been hard for him to make a go of it lately. Are there any other banks he can try?”
“That was the last.” Chiara bit her lip. “Maybe Todd can give me some more shifts.”
“And turn you into the walking dead? You’ve been working double shifts for months, Chiara. You’re going to fall flat on your face.” Kat leaned a hip against the bar. “What you need,” she said decisively, “is a rich man. It would solve all your problems. They’re constantly propositioning you and yet you never take them up on their offers.”
Because the one time she had, he’d shattered her heart into pieces.
“I’m not interested in a rich man,” she said flatly. “They come in here in their beautiful suits, drunk on their power, thinking their money gives them license to do anything they like. It’s all a big game to them, the way they play with women.”
Kat flashed her an amused look. “That’s an awfully big generalization don’t you think?”
Chiara folded her arms over her chest. “Bonnie, Sivi and Tara went out the other night to Tempesta Di Fuoco, Stefan Bianco’s place in Chelsea. They’re sitting at the bar when this group of investment
bankers starts chatting them up. Bonnie’s thrilled when Phil asks her out for dinner at Lido. She goes home early because she’s opening here in the morning. Sivi and Tara stay.” She lifted a brow. “What does Phil do? He asks Sivi out to lunch.”
“Pig,” Kat agreed, making a face. “But you can’t paint all men with the same brush.”
“Not all men. Them. The suit,” Chiara declared scathingly, “may change, but the man inside it doesn’t.”
“I’m afraid I have to disagree,” a deep, lightly accented voice intoned, rippling a reactionary path down her spine. “It would be a shame for Phil to give us all a bad name.”
Chiara froze. Turned around slowly, her hands gripping the marble. Absorbed the tall, dark male leaning indolently against the counter near the silver bell she wished fervently he’d rung. Clad in a silver Tom Ford suit that set off his swarthy skin to perfection, Lazzero Di Fiore was beautiful in a predatory, hawk-like way—oozing an overt sex appeal that short-circuited the synapses in her brain.
The deadpan expression on his striking face indicated he’d heard every last word of her ill-advised speech. “I—” she croaked, utterly unsure of what to say “—you should have rung the bell.”
“And missed your fascinatingly candid appraisal of Manhattan’s finest?” His sensual mouth twisted. “Not for the world. Although I do wonder if I could have an espresso to fuel my overinflated ego? I have a report I need to review for a big hotshot meeting in exactly fifty minutes.”
Kat made a sound at the back of her throat. Chiara’s cheeks flamed. “Of course,” she mumbled. “It’s on the house.”
On the house. Oh, my God. Chiara unlocked her frozen knees as Lazzero strode off to find a table near the window. Chitchatting with Lazzero when he came in in the mornings was par for the course. Insulting the regulars and losing her job was not.
* * *
Amused rather than insulted by the normally composed barista’s diatribe, Lazzero ensconced himself at a table near the windows and pulled out his report. Given his cynical attitude of late, it was refreshing to discover not all women in Manhattan were bounty hunters intent on razing his pockets.
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