CHIARA’S MIND WAS on anything but business after that heated encounter with Lazzero. By putting the attraction between them squarely out in the open, he had created a sexual awareness of each other she couldn’t seem to shake. Which absolutely needed to happen because that attraction had no place in this business arrangement of theirs. Particularly when Lazzero had clearly been toying with her with his own ends in mind—making them believable for Gianni Casale.
She retreated to a book after dinner, forcing herself to focus on it rather than her ill-advised chemistry with the man sitting across from her. Night fell like a cloak outside the window. With Lazzero still absorbed in his seemingly endless mountain of work, her eyelids began to drift shut. Giving in to the compulsion, she accepted his invitation to use the luxurious bedroom at the back of the plane and caught a few hours of sleep.
When she woke, a golden, early morning light blanketed the white-capped Italian Alps in a magnificent, otherworldly glow. She freshened up in the bathroom, then joined Lazzero in the main cabin. He’d changed and looked crisp and ready to go in a light blue shirt and jeans, his dark stubble traded for a clean-shaven jaw.
Her heart jumped in her chest at how utterly gorgeous he was. Did the man ever look disheveled?
“We’re about to land,” he said, looking up from the report he was reading. “Do you want coffee and breakfast before we do?”
She wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, still groggy from sleep. But she thought the sustenance might do her good. Accepting the offer, she inhaled a cup of strong, black coffee and nibbled on a croissant. Soon, they were landing in Milan and being whisked from the airport to the luxury hotel Lazzero’s Milanese friend, hotel magnate Filippo Giordano, owned near the La Scala opera house.
The Orientale occupied four elegant fifteenth-century buildings that had been transformed from a spectacularly beautiful old convent into a luxurious, urban oasis. Chiara was picking her jaw up off the ground when the hotel manager swooped in to greet them.
“We were fully booked when Filippo made the request,” he informed them smoothly. “La Coppa Estiva is always maniaco. Luckily, the presidential suite became available. Filippo thought it was perfect, given you are newly engaged.”
Chiara’s stomach dropped. This is well and truly on. Oh, my God.
The stately suite they’d been allocated occupied the entire third floor of the hotel, living up to its presidential suite status with its high ceilings and incredible views of the city, including one from the stepped-down infinity pool on the elegantly landscaped terrace.
Sunlight flooded its expansive interiors as the butler gave them a personal tour. The suite’s lush, tasteful color scheme in cream and taupe was complemented by its black oak woodwork, the perfect combination of Milanese style with a touch of the Orient.
Chiara’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head when the butler showed them the showpiece of a bathroom, its muted lighting, Brazilian marble floors and stand-alone hot tub occupying a space as large as her entire apartment. But it was the gorgeous, palatial bedroom with its French doors and incredible vistas that made her heart drop into her stomach. One elegant, king-size, four-poster bed. How was that going to work?
Lazzero eyed her. “I’d asked for a suite, thinking we’d get one with multiple rooms, but clearly this was all that was available. I’ll sleep on the sofa in the bedroom.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’re far too tall for that. I will.”
“I’m not a big sleeper.” He shut the argument down with a shake of his head.
They got settled into the suite, Chiara waving off the butler who offered to hang up their things because she preferred to do it herself. After a sumptuous lunch on the terrace, Lazzero went off to work in the office, with a directive she should take a nap before the party because it was going to be a late night.
She didn’t have the energy to protest yet another of his arrogant commands. Too weary from only a few hours of sleep, she undressed in the serene, beautiful bedroom and put on jersey sweats before she crawled beneath the soft-as-silk sheets of the four-poster bed. The next thing she knew, it was 6 p.m., the alarm she’d set to ensure she’d have enough time to get ready sounding in her ear.
Padding out to the living room, she discovered Lazzero was outside swimming laps in the infinity pool. Deciding she would enjoy the pool with its jaw-dropping view tomorrow, minus what she was sure would be an equally spectacular half-naked Lazzero, she had a late tea, then took a long, hot bath in the sunken tub.
Lazzero came in to shower as she sat applying a light coat of makeup in the dressing room. Keeping her brain firmly focused on the mascara wand in her hand rather than on the naked man in the shower, she stroked it over her lashes, transforming them from their ordinary dark abundance to a silky, lush length that swept her cheeks. A light coat of pink gloss finished the subtle look off.
Makeup and hair complete, she slipped on the silver sequined dress she and Micaela had chosen for the party. Long-sleeved and made of a gauzy, figure-hugging material, it clung to every inch of her body, the sexy open back revealing a triangle of bare, creamy flesh.
She stared dubiously at her reflection in the mirror. It was on trend, perfect for the opening party, but it was shorter than anything she normally wore. Micaela, however, had insisted she had an amazing figure and needed to show it off. She just wasn’t sure she needed to show so much of it off.
Pushing her doubts aside, she slipped on her gold heels, a favorite purchase from her shopping trip because they were just too gorgeous to fault, and a sparkly pair of big hoop earrings, her one concession to her bohemian style. And declared herself done.
She stepped out onto the terrace to wait for Lazzero. The sun was setting on Milan, the magnificent Duomo di Milano, the stunning cathedral that sat in the heart of the city, bathed in a rosy pink light, its Gothic spires crawling high into the sky. But her mind wasn’t on the spectacular scenery, it was on the night ahead.
Her stomach knotted with nerves, her fingers closing tight around the metal railing. This wasn’t her world. What if she said or did something that would embarrass Lazzero? What if she stumbled on one of the answers they’d prepared to the inevitable questions about them?
Her mouth firmed. She’d been taking care of herself since she was fifteen. She’d learned how to survive in any situation life had thrown at her in tough, gritty Manhattan which would eat you alive if you let it. Every day at the Daily Grind was an exercise in diplomacy and small talk. Surely she could survive a few hours socializing with the world’s elite?
And perhaps, she conceded, butterflies circling her stomach, she was winding herself up for nothing over Antonio. Perhaps he wouldn’t even be there tonight. Perhaps he was out of town on business. He ran a portfolio of global investments—he very likely could be.
Better to focus on the things she could control. Another of her father’s favorite tenets.
* * *
Fifty laps of the infinity pool with its incomparable view of Milan should have rid Lazzero of his excess adrenaline. Or so he thought until he walked out onto the balcony and found Chiara sparkling like the brightest jewel in the night.
Dark hair shining in a silken cap that framed her beautiful face, the silver dress highlighting her hourglass figure, her insanely good legs encased in mile-high stilettos—she made his heart stutter in his chest. And that was before he got to her gorgeous eyes, lagoon-green in the fading light, a beauty mark just above one dark-winged brow lending her a distinctly exotic look.
The tension he read there snapped his brain back into working order. “Nervous?” he asked, moving to her side.
“A bit.”
“Don’t be,” he murmured. “You look breathtakingly beautiful. I’m even forgiving Dimitri for the hair.”
She tipped her head back to look up at him, her silky hair sliding against her shoulder. A charge vibrated the air between them, sizzling the blood in his veins. “You don’t have to feed me lines,” she murmured. “We aren’t on yet.”
His mouth curved at her prickly demeanor. “That wasn’t a line. You’ll soon know me well enough to know I don’t deliver them, Chiara. I’m all for the truth in its soul-baring, hard-to-take true colors. Even when it hurts. So how about we make a deal? Nothing but honesty between us this week? It will make this a hell of a lot easier.”
An emotion he couldn’t read flickered in her eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the railing. “Tell me why this deal with Gianni is so important for you, then? Why go to such lengths to secure it?”
He lifted a shoulder. “It’s crucial to my company’s growth plans.”
She frowned. “Why so crucial? Fiammata is a fading brand, Supersonic the rising star.”
“Fiammata has a shoe technology we’re interested in.”
“So you want to license it to use in your own designs?”
His mouth curved. “Sharp brain,” he drawled. “It’s one of the things I appreciate about you.” Her legs being the other predominant one at the moment.
She frowned. “What’s the holdup, then?”
And wasn’t that the multimillion-dollar question? A thorn unearthed itself in his side, burrowing deep. “Fiammata is a family company. Gianni may be having a hard time letting such an important piece of it go.”
“As would you,” she pointed out, “if it was yours.”
“Yes,” he agreed, a wry smile twisting his mouth, “I would.” He reached across her to point to the Duomo, glittering in the fading light. “There is a myth that Gian Galeazzo Visconti, the aristocrat who ordered the construction of the cathedral, was visited by the devil in his dreams. He ordered Visconti to create a church full of diabolical images or he would steal his soul. Thus the monstrous heads you see on the cathedral’s facade.”
“Not really much of a choice was it?” Chiara said as she turned her head to look at the magnificent cathedral.
“Not unless you intend to embrace your dark side, no.” His gaze slid over the graceful curve of her neck. Noted she’d missed a hook at the back of her dress. Perhaps more nervous than she admitted.
He stepped behind her. “You aren’t quite done up,” he murmured, setting his fingers to the tiny hook. It took a moment to work out the intricate, almost invisible closure, his fingers brushing against the velvet-soft skin that covered her spine.
She went utterly still beneath his hands, the voltage that stretched between them so potent he could almost taste it. Her floral perfume drifting into his nostrils, her soft, sensual body brushing against his, the urge to act on the elemental attraction between them was almost impossible to resist. To set his hands to those delectable hips, to put his mouth to the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear until she melted back into him and offered him her mouth.
But, he admitted, past his accelerating pulse, that would be starting something he couldn’t finish because the only thing on the agenda tonight was nailing Gianni Casale down, once and for all.
He reluctantly pulled back. Chiara exhaled an audible breath. Turned to look up at him with darkened eyes, her pupils dilated a deep black among a sea of green. “He’ll be there tonight? Gianni?” she asked huskily.
“Sì. Everyone in Milan will be there.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, we should go or we’ll be late.”
* * *
The sleek Lamborghini Lazzero had borrowed from Filippo made quick work of the drive to the venue. Soon, they were pulling up in front of Il Cattedrale, the historic church where the opening party for La Coppa Estiva was being held.
Turned into a café/nightclub over a decade ago, its stately facade was lit for the festivities, illuminating the cathedral’s elegant red brickwork and massive arched front door. Chiara’s stomach turned to stone as she took in the scores of paparazzi jostling for position on either side of the stationed-off red carpet, camera flashes snapping like mad as they photographed the arrival of the world’s glitterati.
There was the world’s most famous Portuguese footballer making his way down the red carpet with his supermodel girlfriend, followed by the eldest princess of a tiny European municipality Chiara recognized from one of the gossip magazines her fellow barista Lucy kept under the counter. The princess’s balding, older husband beside her was, Chiara recalled, a huge fan of football.
“Santo will be excited about that,” Lazzero murmured as he helped her from the car. “Free publicity right there.”
Her damp palm in his, her other clutching the tiny purse that matched her dress, Chiara didn’t respond. What had Micaela said about the etiquette for the red carpet? Her mind felt as blank as a chalkboard wiped clean.
Lazzero passed the car keys to the valet and bent his head to hers. “Relax,” he said softly, his lips brushing her ear. “I will be by your side the entire time.”
A current zigzagged through her, one she felt all the way to the pit of her stomach. It didn’t get any better as Lazzero straightened and pressed a hand to the small of her back. In a sophisticated black tux that molded his long, muscular frame to perfection, he was undeniably elegant. Hot. Utterly in command of his surroundings.
She took a deep breath and nodded. The handler gave them the signal to walk. Lazzero propelled her forward, stopping in front of the logo-emblazoned step-and-repeat banner so the photographers could get a shot of them. The heat from his splayed palm radiated through her bare skin, focusing every available brain cell on those few inches of flesh.
It did the trick in distracting her. Before she could blink, it was over and they were making their way inside the cathedral. Which was unbelievable.
Much of the original architecture of the church had been left intact, stone walls and square pillars made of cream-colored Italian marble rising up to greet the original sweeping balconies of the cathedral. The massive chandelier was incredible, a full story tall, the large canvases on the walls impressive. But the most arresting sight of all had to be the original altar which had been converted into a bar under the dome of the church. Lit tonight in Supersonic red, it was spectacular.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Chiara breathed. “It’s like we’ve all come to pray to the gods of entertainment.”
Lazzero’s mouth twisted. “Exactly what Santo was envisioning. He’ll be thrilled.”
The crowds were so thick they were difficult to negotiate as they made their way toward the bar, the upbeat music drowned out by the buzz of the hundreds in attendance. Lazzero wrapped a hand around her wrist, guiding her through it as they sought out his brothers who held court at the bar.
Santo, whom she remembered from Di Fiore’s, looked supremely sophisticated in a dark suit with a lavender shirt, every bit the blond Adonis the press painted him as. Nico had Lazzero’s dark looks, so handsome in a clean-edged, perfect kind of way, he was intimidatingly so.
Both were undeniably charming. “Trust Lazzero to show up with the most beautiful woman in the room when he claims he has been out of circulation,” Nico drawled, kissing both of Chiara’s cheeks. “Although you picked the wrong brother,” Santo interjected, stepping forward and lifting her hand to his mouth. “Why go for the middle brother when you can have the most physically viable of them all? Think of the genetics.”
He said it so straight-faced, Chiara burst out laughing. “Yes,” she said, “but Lazzero tells me you have a posse. I’m afraid that wouldn’t do for me.”
Santo pouted. “I will give it up when the time comes.”
“That will be when you are old and gray.” Nico handed her a glass of champagne and Lazzero a tumbler of some dark-colored liquor. Lounging back against the bar, the eldest Di Fiore nodded toward a table beside the dance floor. “Gianni arrived a few minutes ago.”
Chiara’s gaze moved to Gianni Casale, whose powerful presence stood out amongst the crowd at the table. In his midfifties, he had thick, coarse black hair tinged with gray, expressive dark eyes and a lined face full of character. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a silver-gray tie, he was, she conceded, undeniably handsome still.
Her attention shifted to the woman beside him. She didn’t have to wonder if it was Carolina Casale or not because the brunette’s eyes were trained on her and the hand Lazzero had rested on her waist. Remarkably beautiful with vivid blue eyes that matched her designer silk dress, dark hair and alabaster skin, the cool elegance she projected was borderline aloof.
She looked, Chiara concluded, as if she’d rather be anywhere than where she was. Hungry was the only word she could think of to describe how Carolina looked at Lazzero. She wondered if the other woman had any idea how obvious her feelings were.
Lazzero, on the other hand, looked utterly impassive as he turned around and got the lay of the land from his brothers. When they were suitably caught up, he tightened his fingers at her waist. “We should circulate,” he murmured. “You okay with the champagne?”
She pulled in a deep breath. “Yes.”
* * *
Lazzero spent the next couple of hours attempting to cover off the most important business contacts in the room as he played it cool with Gianni, waiting for the Casales to come to them. He should have been focused solely on business, his game plan with Gianni firmly positioned in his head, but his attention kept straying to the woman at his side.
He was having trouble keeping his eyes off Chiara’s legs in that dress, as were half the men in the room. Despite the tension he could sense in her, a tension he couldn’t wholly understand given the confidence he was used to from her, she remained poised at his side, charming his business associates with that natural wit and intelligence he had always appreciated about her. It was, he found, a wholly alluring combination.
He was about to acquire another glass of champagne for her from a waiter’s tray when Carolina and Gianni approached, Carolina’s hand on her husband’s arm firmly guiding him toward them.
His ex-lover looked stunning, as beautiful as ever with those icy cool, perfect features, but tonight she left him cold. She had always been too self-contained, too calculating, too bent on getting her own way. Gianni, who’d spent three years putting up with those character flaws, eyed him warily as they approached, his dark eyes betraying none of the undercurrents stretching between them.
“Lazzero.” Dropping her hand from her husband’s arm, Carolina stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to both of Lazzero’s cheeks. She lingered a bit too long, and as she did Gianni’s eyes flashed with a rare show of emotion.
“Carolina.” Lazzero set her firmly away from him so that he could shake Gianni’s hand. Releasing it, he drew Chiara forward. “I would like you both to meet my fiancée, Chiara Ferrante.”
The color drained from Carolina’s face. “I’d heard the gossip,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to Chiara’s left hand, where the asscher-cut diamond blazed bright. “I thought it must be wrong.” She forced a tight smile to her lips as she returned her perusal to Lazzero. “You swore you’d never marry.”
“Things change when you meet the right person,” Lazzero said blithely.
“Apparently so.”
Gianni, ever the gentleman, stepped forward to compensate for his wife’s lack of discretion. “Felicitazoni,” he said, pressing a kiss to Chiara’s cheeks. “Lazzero is a lucky man, clearly.”
“Grazie mille,” Chiara replied. “It’s all very new. We’re still...absorbing it.”
“When is the big day?” Carolina lifted a brow. “I haven’t seen an announcement.”
“We’re still working that out,” said Chiara. “For now, we’re just enjoying being engaged.”
“I’m sure you are.” A wounded look flashed through Carolina’s vibrant blue eyes. “You must be very happy.”
Lazzero felt a bite of guilt sink into him. He shouldn’t have let it go on so long. It was a mistake he would never repeat.
* * *
Chiara escaped to the ladies’ room after that awkward encounter with the Casales. She felt sorry for Carolina who was so clearly still in love with Lazzero, who hadn’t blinked the entire conversation. Because she knew that hurt—that rejection—what it felt like to be discarded for something better.
It took her forever to wind her way through the crowd to the powder room. An oasis in the midst of the celebration, it was done in cream and black marble with muted lighting and white lilies covering every available surface. Heading for one of the leather seats in front of the mirror, Chiara ran smack into an older woman on her way out.
An apology rose to her lips. It died in her mouth as she stared at the lined, still handsome face of Esta Fabrizio, Antonio’s mother. She froze, unsure of what to do. The older woman swept her gaze over her in a cursory look, not a hint of recognition flaring in her dark eyes. Flashing Chiara an apologetic look, she murmured, “Scusi,” then moved around her to the door.
“Is it just you and Maurizio here tonight?” Esta’s companion asked.
“Sì,” Esta replied. “My son is out of town, so it is us representing the family tonight.”
Chiara sank down on the leather seat, relief flooding through her as they left. Antonio isn’t here. She could put that fear to rest. But quick on its heels came humiliation as she stared at her pale face in the mirror. Esta had looked at her as if she was nothing. But why would she remember her?
She’d treated Chiara as if she were a bug to be crushed under her shoe the day she’d shown up unexpectedly at Antonio’s penthouse to surprise him for his birthday, only to find Chiara leaving for work. Esta had taken one look at Chiara, absorbed her working-class, Bronx accent and correctly assessed the situation. She’d informed Chiara that Antonio had a fiancée in Milan. That she was simply his American “plaything.” The Fabrizio matriarch had added, with a brutal lack of finesse, that a Fabrizio would never marry someone like her. So best if she ended it now.
A bitter taste filled her mouth as she reached for her purse and fumbled inside for her powder and lipstick. Applying a coat of pink gloss and powdering her nose with shaking hands, she willed herself composure. She would not let that woman get to her again. The important thing was that Antonio was not here. She could relax.
Now all she had to do was pull herself together.
The party was in full swing when she exited the powder room. The lights had been lowered, the massive chandelier cast a purple hue across the room, the hundreds of smaller disco balls surrounding it glittered like luminescent planets in the sky. High in the ceiling, amidst that stunning celestial display, hung sexily dressed acrobats in beautiful red dresses, hypnotizing to the eye.
Music pulsed through the room, champagne flowed freely as couples packed the dance floor. She headed toward the bar where Lazzero and Santo had ensconced themselves. Almost groaned out loud when Carolina Casale flagged her down, two glasses of champagne in her hand. That was all she needed right now.
Carolina handed her a glass of champagne. “I apologize for my behavior earlier. I was caught off guard. I thought I should congratulate you properly. Lazzero and I go a long way back.”
“He mentioned.” Chiara considered Carolina warily as she took the glass. “Grazie. How do you know each other?”
“My firm did the interior decorating for Supersonic’s offices as well as Lazzero’s penthouse when he bought it.” A low purr vibrated Carolina’s voice. “Lazzero couldn’t be bothered with that kind of thing.”
Heat seared her skin. She could only imagine how that relationship had started. Carolina walking around Lazzero’s penthouse with paint samples in her hand only to find herself in his bed. Well satisfied, no doubt.
“How did you and Lazzero meet?” Carolina prompted, a speculative glitter in her eyes. “Everyone is very curious about how you did the impossible by catching him.”
“We met in a café.”
The brunette arched a dark brow. “A café?”
“Where I work.” Chiara lifted her chin. “We’ve known each other for over a year now.”
An astonished look crossed the other woman’s face. “You’re a waitress?”
“A barista,” Chiara corrected, her encounter with Esta Fabrizio adding a bite to her tone. “Love doesn’t discriminate, I guess.”
Carolina’s face fell at the surgical strike. “Love?” Her mouth twisted. “I would offer you a piece of advice about Lazzero. He is in lust with you, Chiara, not in love with you. He doesn’t know how to love. So take my advice and make sure that prenup of yours is ironclad.”
“Duly noted,” Chiara rasped, having had more than enough. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my fiancé.”
* * *
Santo eyed Chiara as she stood toe-to-toe with Carolina. “Should we intercede?”
“Give it a minute,” Lazzero murmured, eyes on the exchange. “Chiara can handle herself.”
“That she can.” Santo shifted his study back to him. “I remember now where I’ve seen her before. Chiara. She’s the brunette you were chatting up at the Score premiere.”
“I wasn’t chatting her up,” Lazzero corrected. “I was saying hello. Her friend won tickets to the launch. I see her every day—it would have been rude not to say hi.”
His brother gave him a disbelieving look. “And you’re trying to tell me she is all business? That all she does is make your espresso every morning? I don’t believe it. Not with that body.”
A flash of fire singed his belly. “Watch your words, Santo.”
His brother blinked. “You like her.”
“Of course I like her. I brought her with me.”
“No, I mean, you like her. You’ve never once warned me off a woman like that.”
“You’re overthinking it.”
“I think not.” Santo gave him a considering look. “She is far from your usual type. I think your taste has improved.”
It might have, Lazzero conceded, if Chiara were his. Which she was not.
Santo drained his glass as Chiara stalked through the crowd toward them, an infuriated look on her face. “I see a damsel in distress. Off to do my duty. Good luck with that.”
Santo waltzed off into the crowd. Chiara slid onto the bar stool beside him, her green eyes flashing as she downed a gulp of champagne.
Lazzero eyed her. “What did she say?”
“She is—” Chiara waved a hand at him. “She was rude. She told me to make sure my prenup is airtight because it isn’t going to last.”
“It isn’t going to last,” he said. “This is fake, remember? Why are you so upset?”
She gave him a black look. “She made it clear a barista is beneath you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Her mouth set in a mutinous line. “Carolina owns her own interior decorating firm. I am merely a barista you hired to play your fiancée...someone who couldn’t, in a million years, afford to say no to your offer. Someone you would never consider marrying.” Her eyes darkened. “This is exactly what I was talking about earlier...the games rich people play where people get hurt. Carolina might be a bitch, Lazzero, but she is wounded.”
A flare of antagonism lanced through him. “I think you have it the wrong way around. I’m doing this so that no one gets hurt. If I made a mistake with Carolina, which I might have, it was in letting the relationship drag on for too long. Since I acknowledge I made that mistake, I am rectifying it now by not hurting her further by giving her hope for something that can never be.”
She gave him a caustic look. “Exactly what do you think is going to happen if you do commit to a woman? The bogeyman is going to come get you?”
The fuse inside him caught fire. “Speaks the woman who doesn’t date?”
“At least I acknowledge my faults.”
“I just did,” he growled. “And as far as you and Carolina are concerned, you are right, you are not in the same class as her. You outclass her in every way, Chiara. Carolina is an entitled piece of work who uses everything and everyone in her life to her own advantage. You are hardworking and fiercely independent with an honesty and integrity I admire. So can we please put the subject of your worth to rest?”
Her indignation came to a sliding halt. “So why did you date her, then?”
A hint of the devil arrowed through him, fueled by his intense irritation. “She took off her clothes during our consultation appointment at my penthouse. What was I going to do?”
Her eyes widened. “You aren’t joking, are you?”
“No.”
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“Yes. Now,” he murmured, bringing his mouth to her ear, “can we move on? Gianni just sat down at the end of the bar. He’s watching us and I’d like to make this somewhat believable.”
She blew out a breath. “Yes.”
“Bene.” He nodded toward her almost empty glass of champagne. “Drink up and let’s dance.”
She cast a wary eye toward the dance floor, where the couples were moving to the sinuous rhythm of a Latin tune. “Not to this.”
“This,” he insisted, sliding off the stool and tugging her off hers.
“Lazzero, I don’t know how,” she protested, setting her glass on the bar and dragging her feet. “It’s been years since I took salsa lessons and I was terrible. I’m going to look ridiculous out there.”
He stopped on the edge of the dance floor and tipped her chin up with his fingers. “All you have to do is let me lead,” he said softly. “Give up that formidable control of yours for once, Chiara, because this dance doesn’t work without complete and total...submission.”
* * *
Chiara’s heart thumped wildly against her ribs as Lazzero led her onto the dance floor. The feel of his fingers wrapped around her wrist sent a surge of electricity through her, tiny sparks unearthing themselves over every inch of her skin.
This is such a bad, bad idea.
A new song began as they found a free space among the dancers. Sultry and seductive, it brought back memories of the bruised feet and embarrassing silences she’d stumbled through in dance classes. She attempted one last objection as Lazzero pulled her close, clasping one hand around hers, the other resting against her back. “Back on one,” he said, cutting off her protest, “forward on five.”
She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to remember the first step with the heat of his tall, muscular body so close to hers, his sexy, spicy aftershave infiltrating her head. But she couldn’t just stand there on the dance floor doing nothing with everyone watching, so she took a deep breath and stepped back to mirror Lazzero’s basic step.
Her lessons, remarkably, came back immediately, the basic step easy enough to execute. Except she was all out of rhythm and stumbled into him, her cheeks heating.
“Follow my lead,” Lazzero growled. “And look at me, not at the floor. When I push, you step back, when I pull, you move forward. It’s very basic. Follow my signals.”
Except that was a dangerous thing to do because his eyes had a sexy, seductive glimmer in them that had nothing to do with a business deal and the champagne had now fully gone to her head, making any attempt at sophisticated steps a concerted effort.
Forcing herself to concentrate, she followed his lead before she fell flat on her face. His grip firm and commanding, he guided her through the steps until she was picking out the basic movement in time to the music.
“Now you’ve got it,” he murmured, as they executed a simple right turn. “See, isn’t this fun?”
It was, in fact, with a lead as good as Lazzero. He moved in ways a man shouldn’t be able to, his hips fluid and graceful. She started to trust he would place her where she needed to be and gave herself in to the sensual rhythm of the dance. The champagne, fully charging her bloodstream now, had the positive effect of loosening her inhibitions even further as they pulled off some more sophisticated steps and turns.
By the time the song was over, she was having so much fun, she fell laughing into Lazzero’s arms on the final turn. Caught up in all that muscle, his powerful body pressed against the length of hers, she swallowed past the racing of her heart as a languorous, slow number began to play. “Maybe we should go get a drink,” she suggested, breathlessly. “I am seriously thirsty.”
“While I have you so soft and compliant and all womanly in my arms?” he mocked lightly, sliding an arm around her waist to pull her closer. “We’re actually managing to be convincing at the moment. I’d like to enjoy the novelty before the arrows start flying again.”
“I don’t do that,” she protested.
“Yes, you do.” He gave her a considering look. “I think it’s a defense mechanism.”
“Against what?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out.”
She followed him through the slow, lazy steps, excruciatingly aware of the hard press of his powerful thighs against hers, the thump of his heart beneath her hand, the brush of his mouth against her temple.
“Lazzero,” she breathed.
“The Casales are watching. Relax.”
Impossible. Not with the warm touch of those sensual lips on her skin giving her an idea of how they’d feel all over her. The smooth caress of his palm against the small of her back, burning into her bare skin. Definitely not when his mouth traced a path along the length of her jaw.
He was going to kiss her, she registered with a wild jump of her heart. And there was nothing she could do to stop it. Nor could she even pretend she wanted to.
Electric shivers slid up her spine as he tilted her chin up with his thumb, holding her captive to his purposeful ebony gaze. Her breath stopped in her chest as he bent his head and lowered his mouth to hers in a butterfly-light kiss meant to seduce.
This isn’t real, she cautioned herself. But it was fruitless, as every nerve ending seemed to catch fire. Lips whispering against hers, his thumb stroking her jaw, he teased and tantalized with so much sensual expertise, she was lost before the battle even began, her lips clinging to his as she tentatively returned the kiss.
Nestling her jaw more securely in his palm, he tugged her up on tiptoe with the hand he held at her waist and took the kiss deeper. Head tilted back, each slide of his mouth over hers sending sparks through her, Chiara forgot everything but what it felt like to be kissed like this. To be seduced. As if lightning had struck.
A sound left the back of her throat as her fingers crept around his neck. Clenched tensile, hard muscle. Murmuring his approval, he nudged her mouth apart with the slick glide of his tongue and delved inside with a heated caress that liquefied her insides. Weakened her knees.
She moved closer to him, wanting, needing his support. His hand slid to her hip, shifting her closer to all that muscle, until she was molded to every centimeter of him, the languorous drift of his mouth over hers, his deep, drugging kisses, shooting sparks of fire through her.
A low groan tore itself from his throat, the hand he held at her bottom bringing her into direct contact with the shockingly hard ridge of his arousal. She should have been scandalized. Instead, the wave of heat coursing through her crashed deeper, a fission of white-hot sexual awareness arcing through her.
She was so far gone, so lost in him, she almost protested when Lazzero broke the kiss with a nuzzling slowness, his fingers at her waist holding her steady as he dragged his mouth to her ear.
“The song is over,” he murmured. “As much as I hate to say it.”
The lazy satisfaction in his voice, the beat of a fast new tune, brought the world into focus with shocking swiftness.
What was she doing? Had she lost her mind? Lazzero had kissed her to prove a point to the Casales. This was just a game to him, she simply a pawn he was playing. And she had pretty much thrown herself at him.
Head spinning, heart pounding, she pulled herself out of his arms. “Chiara,” he murmured, his eyes on hers, “it was just a kiss.”
Just a kiss. It felt as if the earth had moved beneath her feet. Like nothing she’d ever experienced before, not even with Antonio who’d been practiced in the art of seduction. But for Lazzero, it had been just a kiss.
Had she learned nothing from her experiences?
She took a step back. Lifted her chin. “Sì,” she agreed unsteadily, “it was just a kiss. And, now that we’ve given an award-winning performance, I think I’ve had enough.”