“Something like this,” she said, when she was finished. “Smoother lines. As if the shoe allows you to soar no matter who you are or what you do.”
Lazzero rubbed a palm over the thick stubble on his jaw. “I like it, but I think we can go even further with it if that’s the direction we were to take. Can you give it the sense that it has wings? My scientists can make sure the aerodynamics work. It’s the impression that counts.”
She altered the image so it looked even sleeker, with an emphasis on the power of the front of the shoe. Made the back end less clunky. “Like this?”
Lazzero studied it. “Now it’s too aspirational. Too ethereal. It needs to be real at the same time it’s inspirational.”
She eyed him. “Are you always this perfectionistic?”
“Sì,” he drawled, his gaze glimmering as it rested on her. “With everything I do. It can be a good quality, I promise you.”
Heat pooled beneath her skin, his well-satisfied comment slicing through her head. She wished he’d never said it because she couldn’t get it out of her head.
She bent her head and fixed the drawing. Back and forth they went, building off each other’s ideas, Lazzero relentlessly pushing her to do better, pulling things out of her she hadn’t even known she had. Finally, they finished. She massaged her cramping hand as he examined the drawing from every angle. If he didn’t like this version, she decided, he could do it himself.
“I love it,” he said slowly, looking up at her. “You’re insanely good, Chiara.”
A glow warmed her insides. “It’s rough.”
“It’s fantastic.” He waved the drawing at her. “Do you mind if I get my New York team to play with the idea? See what they come up with?”
She shook her head. “Go ahead.”
He prowled toward her. Dipped his head and grazed her cheek with his lips, the friction of his thick stubble against her skin, the intoxicating whiff of his expensive scent, unearthing a delicious firework of sensation in her. “Thank you.”
She sank back against the counter, watching as he strode toward the living room.
“Oh, and, Chiara?”
Her pulse jumped in her throat as he turned around. “Mmm?”
A wicked smile curved his lips. “You make a mean espresso.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“SANTO CIELO.”
Pia shaded her eyes from the bright sunlight slanting through the roof of San Siro stadium as the referee added two minutes to the Americas versus Western Europe game, the teams locked two-two in the tense, bitter rivalry being played in front of eighty thousand screaming fans. “I can’t bear to watch,” her Italian friend groaned. “Valentino is going to be impossibile if this ends in a tie.”
Chiara, thankful for the one and only ally she had, kept her thoughts to herself. She knew how important this game was to Lazzero. Had witnessed how dedicated he was to the REACH charity he supported in Harlem that kept kids off the street and on the court, the cause he was playing for this week. More layers to the man she had so inaccurately assessed at the beginning of all of this.
Who, along with his penchant to care deeply for the things that mattered to him, had a seemingly inexhaustible appetite for social connection if it contributed to the bottom line. The foreign correspondents’ dinner on Saturday, cocktails at the British embassy on Sunday, a dinner meeting with the largest clothing retailer in the world last night at a posh Italian restaurant where they’d consumed wine expensive enough to eat up her entire monthly budget.
Plenty of opportunity for Lazzero to put his hands on her in those supposedly solicitous touches that sent far too much electricity through her body and plenty of opportunity for her to like it far more than she should.
She sank her teeth into her lip as Lazzero took the ball on the sidelines. It had been all business all the time. Which was exactly as it should have been. What she’d signed up for. What she’d asked for. Why then, did she feel so barefoot? Because the way she felt when she was with Lazzero made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t for a very, very long time? Because feeling something felt good?
Her palms damp, her heart pounding, she watched as Lazzero yelled instructions to his teammates, then threw the ball in. Off the Americas team went, roaring down the field. Three neat passes, the final one from Lazzero to Lucca, and the ball was in the net.
The crowd surged to its feet with a mighty roar, Chiara along with it. One last fruitless drive by the Western Europe team and the clock ran out, signaling victory for the Americas. Lazzero, looking utterly nonplussed by his assist in the winning goal, turned and trotted off the field where he and Lucca were enveloped in a melee of congratulations.
Pia groaned. “There goes my chance for romance tonight. You, on the other hand,” she said, tugging on Chiara’s arm, “must go down to the field. It’s La Coppa Estiva tradition to give the winning players a kiss. The television cameras love it.”
Oh, no. Chiara dug her heels in. She was not doing that. But as the other wives and girlfriends filed onto the field, she realized she had no choice. Getting reluctantly to her feet, she left her purse with Pia and made her way down the stairs.
Lazzero eyed her as she approached, an amused light dancing in his dark eyes. Thump went her heart as she took him in. Sweat darkening his T-shirt, his hair slicked back from his brow, his game face still on, he was spectacular.
She pulled to a halt in front of him. Balanced her hands on his waist as she stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his cheek. “Congratulations,” she murmured. “You played a fantastic game.”
He caught her jaw in his fingers, the wicked glint in his eyes sending a skitter of foreboding through her. “I think,” he drawled, “they’re going to expect a bit more than that.”
Spreading his big palm against her back, he bowed her in a delicate arch, caged her against the unyielding steel frame of his powerful body. Her breath caught in her throat as he bent his head and took her mouth in a pure, unadulterated seduction that weakened her knees.
Her arms wound around his neck out of the pure need to keep herself upright. But then, her fingers got all tangled up in his gorgeous thick hair, she got all tangled up in the dark, delicious taste of him and the way he incinerated her insides, and the plink, plink of the camera flashes faded to a distant distraction.
Dazed, disoriented, she rocked back on her heels when he ended it, the hand he had wrapped around her hip holding her steady. Light blinding her eyes, a chorus of wolf whistles and applause raining down around them, she struggled to find her equilibrium.
Lazzero swept his sexy, devastating mouth across her cheek to her ear. “It almost felt as if you meant that, angelo mio.”
She was afraid she might have.
“Finally got your priorities straight.” Lucca issued the jab as he waltzed past, his posse trailing behind him. “You look amazing, querida. As always.”
Lazzero’s face darkened. “I can still put my fist through your face, Sousa.”
Lucca only looked amused as he headed to a television interview with Brazilian TV. Chiara looked up at Lazzero, her heartbeat slowing to a more normal rhythm. “How did your meeting with Gianni go?”
His combustible expression turned satisfied. “He loved the sketches. Due in large part, to you. He’s invited us to a dinner party on Friday night to discuss the partnership further.”
She smiled. “That’s amazing. Congratulations.”
He retrieved the towel he had slung over his shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I thought I’d take you out to say thank you. Celebrate.”
“With the team, you mean?”
“No,” he said casually, slinging the towel over his shoulder. “Just us. I figured you’d had enough socializing. And, I have a surprise for you.”
A surprise? A break from the relentless socializing? She was most definitely on board.<
br />
A slither of excitement skittered up her spine. “What should I wear?”
He shrugged. “Something nice. Wear one of your own dresses if you like. We can just be ourselves tonight.”
* * *
It was a directive Lazzero might have reconsidered as he and Chiara stood on the tarmac at Milano Linate Airport in the late afternoon sunshine, her light pink dress fluttering in the wind. Empire-waisted and fitted with flowing long sleeves that somehow still left her shoulders bare, it was designed with multiple layers of some gauzy type of silk that looked as if she was wearing a flimsy scarf instead of a dress.
Which only came to midthigh, mind you, exposing a sweep of bare leg that held him transfixed. He was having dreams about those legs and what they would feel like wrapped around him, and that dress wasn’t helping. The image of what he would like to do with her wasn’t fit for public consumption.
Chiara gave him a sideways look as she proceeded him up the steps into the jet. “You told me to wear what I wanted.”
“I did and you look great.” He kept his description to the bare minimum. “The dress is fantastic.”
Her mouth curved into a smile that would have lit a small metropolis. “I’m glad you think so. It’s one of mine.”
The impact of that smile hit him square in the chest. He was screwed, he conceded. So royally screwed. But then again, he’d known that the moment she’d told him her story. When she’d quietly revealed her plan to defeat the mean girls of the world. It explained everything about the sharp, spiky skin that encased her. The fierce need for independence. The brave face she put on for the world, because he’d been exactly the same.
The difference between him and Chiara was that he had taught himself not to care. Made himself impervious to the world, and she had not. Which should label her as off-limits to him. Instead, he had the reckless desire to peel back more of those layers. To find the Chiara that lay beneath.
They flew down to the boot of Italy to Puglia, known for its sun, sea and amazing views. Sitting in the heel of the boot, it was tranquil and unspoiled, largely untouched by the masses of tourists who flocked to the country.
“It’s stunning,” Chiara breathed as they landed in Salento, nestled in the clear waters of the Adriatic, its tall cliffs sculpted by the sea.
“A friend of mine has a place here.” Lazzero helped her down the steps of the jet, afraid she would topple over in those high heels of hers, which also weren’t helping his internal temperature gauge. “It’s unbelievably beautiful.”
Her dress whipped up in the wind as they walked across the tarmac. He slapped a hand against her thigh as a ground worker stopped to stare. “Can you please control this dress?”
Hot color singed her cheeks. “It’s the wind. Had I known we were flying to dinner, I would have chosen something else.”
And that would have been so, so sad. He ruthlessly pulled his hormones under control as he guided her to the waiting car, allowing her to slide in first, then walked around the car to climb in the other side. The town of Polignano a Mare, perched atop a twenty-meter-high limestone cliff that looked out over the crystal-clear waters of the Adriatic, was only a short drive away.
Known for its cliff diving, jaw-dropping caves carved out of the limestone rock that rose from the sea, as well as its excellent food, it held a wealth of charm as the sunset bathed it in a fiery glow. Suggesting they leave the car behind and walk the rest of the way to their destination to enjoy the view, Lazzero caught Chiara’s hand in his.
Her gaze dropped to where their fingers were interlaced. “We’re not in public,” she murmured. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Sheer force of habit,” he countered blithely. “Don’t be so prickly, Chiara. We’re holding hands, not necking in the street.”
Which brought with it a whole other series of images that involved him backing her into one of the quaint, cobblestoned side streets and taking exactly what he’d wanted from the very beginning. Not helpful when added to the dress.
She left her hand in his. Was silent as they walked through the whitewashed streets toward the sea, the lanes bursting with splashes of fluorescent color from the vibrant window boxes full of brightly hued blooms. Then it was him wondering about his presence of mind, because the whole thing felt right in a way he couldn’t articulate. Had never experienced before.
The Grotta Nascondiglio Hotel, carved out of the magnificent limestone rocks, rose in front of them as they neared the seafront. Chiara gasped and pointed at something to their right. “Are those the cliff divers? Good heavens, look where they’re diving from.”
They were high—twenty meters above the ground, diving from one of the cliffs that flanked the harbor below. But Lazzero shrugged a shoulder as they moved closer to watch. “It’s perfectly safe. The water is more than deep enough.”
“I don’t care how deep it is,” Chiara breathed. “That’s crazy. I would never do it. Would you?”
“I promised my friend who lives here I would do it next year with him.”
Her eyes went wide. “No way.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “Sometimes you just have to take the leap. Trust that wherever it takes you, you will come out the other side, better, stronger than you were before. Life is about the living, Chiara. Trusting your gut.”
* * *
Chiara’s brain was buzzing as Lazzero escorted her inside the gorgeous Grotta Nascondiglio Hotel. It might have been the challenge he had just laid down in front of her. Or it could simply have been how outrageously attractive he looked in sand-colored trousers and a white shirt that stretched across his muscular torso, emphasizing every rippling muscle to devastating effect.
He didn’t need anything else to assert his dominance over the world, she concluded, knees a bit unsteady. Not even the glittering, understated Rolex that contrasted with his deeply tanned skin as he pressed a hand to her back and guided her inside the restaurant. The aura of power, solidity, about him was unmistakable, his core strength formed in a life that had been trial by fire.
The warm pressure of his palm against her back as they walked inside the massive, natural cave unearthed an excitement all of its own. It was sensory overload as she looked around her at the warmly lit room that opened onto a spectacular view of the Adriatic.
“Tell me we have a table overlooking the water,” she said, “and I will die and go to heaven.”
Lazzero’s ebony eyes danced with humor. “We have a table overlooking the water. In fact, I think it’s that one right there.”
She followed his nod toward a candlelit table for two that sat at the mouth of the cave, the only one left unoccupied. The only thing separating it from a sheer, butterfly-inducing drop to the sea was the cast-iron fence that ran along the perimeter of the restaurant. Chiara’s stomach tipped over with excitement. It was utterly heart-stopping.
The maître d’ appeared and led them toward their table. She slipped into the seat Lazzero held out for her and accepted the menu the host handed her. Pushing her chair in, Lazzero took the seat opposite her.
“Not exactly a little hole in the wall in the East Village,” she murmured, in an attempt to distract herself from the thumping of her heart.
A speculative glimmer lit his dark eyes. “Are you calling this a date, Chiara Ferrante?”
Her stomach missed its landing and crashed into her heart. “It was a joke.”
His sensual mouth curved. “You can’t even say it, can you? Are you going to run for the hills now that we’ve gotten that out of the way?”
“Are you?” she asked pointedly.
“No.” He sat back in his chair, the wine list in hand. “I’m going to choose us a wine.”
He did not ask her preference because, of course, that wasn’t how a date with Lazzero went. His women felt feminine and cared for. And she found herself feeling exactly that as he t
ook control and smoothly ordered a bottle of Barolo.
It was, she discovered, a heady feeling given she’d been the one doing the taking care of for as long as she could remember.
“So,” Lazzero said, sitting back in his chair when their glasses were full. “Tell me about this urban line of yours. What kind of a vision do you have for it?”
She snagged her lip between her teeth. “You really want to know?”
“Yes. I do.”
She told him about the portfolio of designs she’d been working on ever since she was a teenager. How her vision had been to design a line for both teenagers and young women starting out in the work force, neither of whom had much disposable income.
“Most women in New York can’t afford designer fashion. Most are like me—they want to be able to express their individuality without blowing their grocery budget on a handbag.”
Lazzero made a face. “I’ve never understood the whole handbag thing.” He pointed his glass at her. “How would you market it, then?”
“Online. My own website, which would include a blog to drive traffic to the retail store. The boutique online fashion retailers... Keep it small and targeted.”
“Smart,” he agreed. “The trends are definitely headed that way. Very little overhead and no in-store marketing costs.”
He swirled the rich red wine in his glass. Set his gaze on hers. “I was speaking with Bianca, my head designer, this morning when I signed off on the sketches. She mentioned to me how talented she thought you were.”
Her insides warmed. “That’s very nice of her to say.”
“She’s tough. It’s no faint praise. Bianca,” he elaborated, “heads up an incubator program in Manhattan, the MFDA—Manhattan Fashion Designer Association. You’ve heard of it?”
She nodded. “Of course. They nurture new talent from the community—offer bursaries for school and co-op positions in the industry. It’s an amazing mentoring program.”
“I told Bianca your story. She wants to meet you.” Lazzero’s casually delivered statement popped her eyes wide-open. “If you are interested, of course. It would just be for a coffee. To see if you’d be a good fit for the group. There are no guarantees they’d take you on, but Bianca holds a great deal of sway.”
His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal Page 10
