“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.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

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, where 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.

It was also, he conceded, fascinating insight into the ultracool Chiara and what lay beneath those impenetrable layers of hers. He’d watched so many men crash and burn in their attempts to scale those defences over the past year he’d been coming here, he could have fashioned a graveyard out of their pitiful efforts. But now, it all made sense. She had been burned and burned badly by a man with power and influence and she wasn’t ever going there again.

None of which, he admitted, flipping open the report on the Italian fashion market his team had prepared, was helping him nail his strategy for winning Gianni Casale over at La Coppa Estiva. The fifty-page report he needed to inhale might. As for a woman to take to Milan to satisfy Gianni’s territorial nature? He was coming up blank.

He’d gone through his entire contact list last night in an effort to find a woman who would be appropriate for the business arrangement he had in mind, but none of them was right for the job. All of his ex-girlfriends would interpret the invitation in entirely the wrong light. Ask someone new and she would do the same. And since he had no interest of any kind in a relationship—summer shag or otherwise—that was out too.

Chiara broke his train of thought as she arrived with his espresso. Bottom lip caught between her teeth, a frown pleating her brow, she seemed to be searching for something to say. Then, clearly changing her mind, she reached jerkily for one of the cups on her tray. The steaming dark brew sloshed precariously close to the sides, his expensive suit a potential target. Lazzero reached up to take it from her before she dumped it all over him, his fingers brushing against hers as he did.

A sizzling electrical pulse traveled from her fingers through his, unfurling a curl of heat beneath his skin. Their gazes collided. Held. He watched her pupils flare in reaction—her beautiful eyes darkening to a deep, lagoon green.

It was nothing new. They’d been dancing around this particular attraction for weeks, months. He, because he was a creature of habit, and destroying his morning routine when it all went south hadn’t appealed. She, apparently because he was one of the last men on earth she wanted to date.

Teeth sinking deeper into that lush, delectable lower lip, her long, dark lashes came down to veil her expression. “Enjoy your coffee,” she murmured, taking a step back and continuing on her way.

Lazzero sat back in his chair, absorbing the pulse of attraction that zigzagged through him. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt it—felt anything beyond the adrenaline that came with closing a big deal and even that was losing its effect on him. That it would be the untouchable enigma that was Chiara who inspired it was an irony that didn’t escape him.

He watched her deliver an espresso to an old Italian guy a couple of tables away. At least sixty with a shock of white hair and weathered olive skin, the Italian flirted outrageously with her in his native language, making her smile and wiping the pinched, distracted look from her face.

She was more than pretty when she smiled, he acknowledged. The type of woman who needed no makeup at all to look beautiful with her flawless skin and amazing green eyes. Not to mention her very Italian curves presently holding poor Claudio riveted. With the right clothes and the raw edges smoothed out, she might even be stunning.

And she spoke Italian.

She was perfect, it dawned on him. Smart, gorgeous and clearly not interested in him or his money. She did, however, need to help her father. He needed a beautiful woman on his arm to take to Italy who would allow him to focus on the job at hand. One who would have no expectations about the relationship when it was over.

For the price of a couple of pieces of expensive jewelry, what he’d undoubtedly have to fork out for any woman he invited to go with him, he could solve both their problems.

He lifted the espresso to his mouth with a satisfied twist of his lips and took a sip. Nearly spit it out. Chiara looked over at him from where she stood chatting with Claudio. “What’s wrong?”

“Sugar.” He grimaced and pushed the cup away. “Since when did I ever take sugar?”

“Oh, God.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “It’s Claudio that takes sugar.” She bustled over to retrieve his cup. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I’m so distracted today. I’ll fix it.”

* * *

Lazzero waved her into the chair opposite him when she returned. “Sit.”

Chiara gave him a wary look. She’d started to apologize a few minutes ago, then stopped because she’d meant every word she’d said and Lazzero Di Fiore was the worst offender of them all when it came to the broken hearts he’d left strewn across Manhattan. Avoiding her attraction to him was the right strategy.

She crossed one ankle over the other, her fingers tightening around her tray. “I should get back to work.”

“Five minutes,” Lazzero countered. “I have something I want to discuss with you.”

Something he wanted to discuss with her? A glance at the bar revealed Kat had the couple of customers well in hand. Utterly against her better judgment, she set her tray down and slid into the chair opposite Lazzero.

The silver-gray suit and crisp, tailored white shirt set off his olive skin and toned muscular physique to perfection. He looked so gorgeous every woman in the café was gawking at him. Resolutely, she lifted her gaze to his, refusing to be one of them.

He took a sip of his espresso. Set the cup down, his gaze on her. “Your father is having trouble with the bakery?”

She frowned. “You heard that part too?”

“Sì. I had a phone call to make. I thought I’d let the lineup die down.” He cocked his head to the side. “You once said he makes the best cannoli in the Bronx. Why is business so dire?”

“The rent,” she said flatly. “The neighborhood is booming. His landlord has gotten greedy. That, along with some unexpected expenses he’s had, are killing him.”

“What about a small business loan from the government?”

“We’ve explored that. They don’t want to lend money to someone my father’s age. It’s too much of a risk.”

A flash of something she couldn’t read moved through his gaze. “In that case,” he murmured, “I have a business proposition for you.”

A business proposition?

Lazzero sat back in his chair and rested his cup on his thigh. “I am attending La Coppa Estiva in Milan next week.” He lifted a brow. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Of course.”

“Gianni Casale, the CEO of Fiammata, an Italian sportswear company I’m working on a deal with, will be there as will my ex, Carolina, who is married to Gianni. Gianni is very territorial when it comes to his wife. It’s making it difficult to convince him he should do this deal with me, because the personal is getting mixed up with the business.”

“Are you involved with his wife?” The question tumbled out of Chiara’s mouth before she could stop it.

“No.” He flashed her a dark look. “I am not Phil. It was over with Carolina when I ended it. It will, however, smooth things out considerably if I take a companion with me to Italy to convince Gianni I am of no threat to him.”

Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. “You’re suggesting I go to Italy with you and play your girlfriend?”

“Yes. I would, of course, compensate you accordingly.”

“How?”

“With the money to help your father.”

Her jaw dropped. “Why would you do that? Surely a man like you has dozens of women you could take to Italy.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to take any of them. It will give them the wrong idea. What I need is someone who will be discreet, charming with my business associates and treat this as the business arrangement it would be. I think it could be an advantageous arrangement for us both.”

An advantageous arrangement. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Her ex, Antonio, had proposed a convenient arrangement. Except in Antonio’s case, she had been good enough to share his bed, but not blue-blooded enough to grace his arm in public.

Her stomach curled. Never would she voluntarily walk into that world again. Suffer that kind of humiliation. Be told she didn’t belong. Not for all the money in the world.

She shook her head. “I’m not the right choice for this. Clearly I’m not after what I said earlier.”

“That makes you the perfect choice,” Lazzero countered. “This thing with Samara Jones has made my life a circus. I need someone I can trust who has no ulterior motives. Someone I don’t have to worry about babysitting while I’m negotiating a multimillion-dollar deal. I just want to know she’s going to keep up her end of the bargain.”

“No.” She waved a hand at him. “It’s ridiculous. We don’t even know each other. Not really.”

“You’ve known me for over a year. We talk every day.”

“Yes,” she agreed, skepticism lacing her tone. “I ask you how business is, or ‘What’s the weather like out there, Lazzero?’ Or, ‘How about that presidential debate?’ We spend five minutes chitchatting, then I make your espresso. End of conversation.”

His sensual mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “So we have dinner together. I’m quite sure we can master the pertinent facts over a bottle of wine.”

Her stomach muscles coiled. He was disconcerting enough in his tailored, three-piece suit. She could only imagine what it would be like if he took the jacket off, loosened his tie and focused all that intensity on the woman involved over a bottle of wine. She knew exactly how that scenario went and it was not a mistake she was repeating.

“It would be impossible,” she dismissed. “I have my shifts here. I can’t afford to lose them.”

“Trade them off.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I don’t belong in that world, Lazzero. I have no desire to put myself in that world. I would stick out like a sore thumb. Not to mention the fact that I would never be believable as your current love interest.”

“I disagree,” he murmured, setting his espresso on the table and leaning forward, arms folded in front of him, eyes on hers. “You are beautiful, smart and adept at putting people at ease. With the right wardrobe and a little added...gloss, you would easily be the most stunning woman in the room.”

Gloss? A slow curl of heat unraveled inside of her, coiling around an ancient wound that had never healed. “A diamond in the rough so to speak,” she suggested, her voice pure frost.

His brow furrowed. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you meant it.”

“You know what I mean, Chiara. I was giving you a compliment. La Coppa Estiva is a different world.”

She flicked a wrist at him. “Exactly why I have no interest in this proposal of yours. In these high-stakes games you play. I thought I’d made that clear earlier.”

His gaze narrowed. “What I heard was you on your soapbox making wild generalizations about men of a certain tax bracket.”

“Hardly generalizations,” she refuted. “You need someone to take to Italy with you because you’ve left a trail of refuse behind you, Lazzero. Because Gianni Casale doesn’t trust you with his wife. I won’t be part of aiding and abetting that kind of behavior.”

“A trail of refuse?” His gaze chilled to a cool, hard ebony. “I think you’re reading too many tabloids.”

“I think not. You’re exactly the sort of man I want nothing to do with.”

“I’m not asking you to get involved with me,” he rebutted coolly. “I’m suggesting you get over this personal bias you have against a man with a bank balance and solve your financial problems while you’re at it. I have no doubt we can pull this off if you put your mind to it.”

“No.” She slid to the edge of the chair. “Ask someone else. I’m sure one of the other baristas would jump at the chance.”

“I don’t want them,” he said evenly, “I want you.” He threw an exorbitant figure of money at her that made her eyes widen. “It would go a long way toward helping your father.”

Chiara’s head buzzed. It would pay her father’s rent for the rest of the year. Would be enough to get him back on his feet after the unexpected expenses he’d incurred having to replace some machinery at the bakery. But surely what Lazzero was proposing was insane? She could never pull this off and even if she could, it would put her smack in the middle of a world she wanted nothing to do with.

She got to her feet before she abandoned her common sense completely. “I need to get back to work.”

Lazzero pulled a card out of his wallet, scribbled something on the back and handed it to her. “My cell number if you change your mind.”

CHAPTER TWO

CHIARA’S HEAD WAS still spinning as she finished up her shift at the café and walked home on a gorgeous summer evening in Manhattan. She was too distracted, however, to take in the vibrant New York she loved, too worried about her father’s financial situation to focus.

If he couldn’t pay off the new equipment he’d purchased, he was going to lose the bakery—the only thing that seemed to get him up in the morning since her mother died. She couldn’t conceive of that prospect happening. Which left Lazzero’s shocking business proposition to consider.

She couldn’t possibly do it. Would be crazy to even consider it. But how could she not?

Her head no clearer by the time she’d picked up groceries at the corner store for a quiet night in, she carried them up the three flights of stairs of the old brick walk-up she and Kat shared in Spanish Harlem, and let herself in.

They’d done their best to make the tiny, two-bedroom apartment warm and cozy despite its distinct lack of appeal, covering the dingy walls in a cherry-colored paint, adding dark refinished furniture from the antiques store around the corner, and topping it all off with colorful throws and pillows.

It wasn’t much, but it was home.

Kat, who was busy getting ready for a date, joined her in the shoebox of a kitchen as Chiara stowed the groceries away. Possessing a much more robust social life than she, her roommate had plans to see a popular play with a new boyfriend she was crazy about. At the moment, however, lounging against the counter in a tomato-red silk dress and impossibly slender black heels, her roommate was hot on the trail of a juicy story.

“So,” she said. “What really happened with Lazzero Di Fiore today? And no blowing me off like you did earlier.”

Chiara—who thought Kat should’ve been a lawyer rather than the doctor she was training to be, she was so relentless in the pursuit of the facts—stowed the carton of milk in the fridge and stood up. “You can’t say anything to anyone.”

Kat lifted her hands. “Who am I going to tell?”

Chiara filled her in on Lazzero’s business proposition. Kat’s eyes went as big as saucers. “He’s always had the hots for you. Maybe he’s making his move.”

Chiara cut that idea off at the pass. “It is strictly a business arrangement. He made that clear.”

“And you said no? Are you crazy?” Her friend waved a red tipped hand at her. “He is offering to solve all your financial problems, Chiara, for a week in Italy. La Coppa Estiva is the celebrity event of the season. Most women would give their right arm to be in your position. Not to mention the fact that Lazzero Di Fiore is the hottest man on the face of the planet. What’s not to like?”

Chiara pressed her lips together. Kat didn’t know about her history with Antonio. Why Milan was the last place she’d want to be. It wasn’t something you casually dropped into conversation with your new roommate, despite how close she and Kat had been getting.

She pursed her lips. “I have my shifts at the café. I need that job.”

“Everyone’s looking for extra hours right now. Someone will cover for you.” Kat stuck a hand on her silk-clad hip. “When’s the last time you had a holiday? Had some fun? Your life is boring, Chiara. Booorrring. You’re a senior citizen at age twenty-six.”

A hot warmth tinged her cheeks. Her life was boring. It revolved around work and more work. When she wasn’t on at the café, she was helping out at the bakery on the weekends. There was no room for relaxation.

The downstairs buzzer went off. Kat disappeared in a cloud of perfume. Chiara cranked up the air-conditioning against the deadly heat, which wouldn’t seem to go below a certain lukewarm temperature no matter how high she turned it up, and made herself dinner.

She ate while she played with a design of a dress she’d seen a girl wearing at the café today, but hadn’t quite had the urban chic she favored. Changing the hemline to an angular cut and adding a touch of beading to the bodice, she sketched it out, getting close to what she’d envisioned, but not quite. The heat oppressive, the blaring sound of the television from the apartment below destroying her concentration, she threw the sketchbook and pencil aside.

What was the point? she thought, heart sinking. She was never going to have the time or money to pursue her career in design. Those university classes she’d taken at Parsons had been a waste of time and money. All she was doing was setting herself up for more disappointment in harboring these dreams of hers, because they were never going to happen.

Cradling her tea between her hands, she fought a bitter wave of loneliness that settled over her, a deep, low throb that never seemed to fade. This was the time she’d treasured the most—those cups of tea after dinner with her mother when the bakery was closed.

A seamstress by trade, her mother had been brilliant with a needle. They’d talked while they’d sewed—about anything and everything. About Chiara’s schoolwork, about that nasty boy in her class who was giving her trouble, about the latest design she’d sketched at the back of her notebook that day. Until life as she’d known it had ended forever on a Friday evening when she was fifteen when her mother had sat her down to talk—not about boys or clothes—but about the breast cancer she’d been diagnosed with. By the next fall, she’d been gone. There had been no more cups of tea, no more confidences, only a big, scary world to navigate as her father had descended into his grief and anger.

The heavy, pulsing weight encompassing all of her now, she rolled to her feet and walked to the window. Hugging her arms tight around herself, she stared out at the colorful graffiti on the apartment buildings across the street. Usually, she managed to keep the hollow emptiness at bay, convince herself that she liked it better this way, because to engage was to feel, and to feel hurt too much. But tonight, imagining the fun, glamorous evening Kat was having, she felt scraped raw inside.

For a brief moment in time, she’d had a taste of that life. The fun and frivolity of it. She’d met Antonio at a party full of glamorous types in Chelsea last summer when a fellow barista who traveled in those circles had invited her along. The newly minted vice president of his family’s prestigious global investment firm, Antonio Fabrizio had been gorgeous and worldly, intent on having her from the first moment he’d seen her.

She’d been seduced by the effortless glamour of his world, by the beguiling promises he’d made. By the command and authority he seemed to exert over everything around him. By how grounded he’d made her feel for the first time since her mother had died. Little had she known, she’d only been a diversion. That the woman Antonio was slated to marry was waiting for him at home in Milan. That she’d only been his American plaything, a “last fling” before he married.

Antonio had tried to placate her when she’d found out, assuring her his was a marriage of convenience, a fortuitous match for the Fabrizios. That she was the one he really wanted. In fact, he’d insisted, nothing would change. He would set her up in her own apartment and she would become his mistress.

Chiara had thrown the offer in his face, along with his penthouse key, shocked he would even think she would be interested in that kind of an arrangement. But Antonio, in his supreme arrogance, had been furious with her for walking out on him. Had pursued her relentlessly in the six months since, sending her flowers, jewelry, tickets to the opera, all of which she’d returned with a message to leave her alone, until finally he had.

Her mouth set as she stared out at the darkening night, a bitter anger sweeping through her. She had changed since him. He had made her change. She had become tougher, wiser to the world. She was not to blame for what had happened, Antonio was. Why should she be so worried about seeing him again?

If this was, as Lazzero had reasoned, a business proposition, why not turn it around to her own advantage? Use the world that had once used her? Surely she could survive a few days in Milan playing Lazzero’s love interest if it meant saving her father’s bakery? And if she were to run into Antonio at La Coppa Estiva, which was a real possibility, so what? It was crazy to let him have this power over her still.

She fell asleep on the sofa, the TV still on, roused by Kat at 2 a.m., who sent her stumbling to bed. When she woke for her early morning shift at the café, her decision was made.

* * *

Di Fiore’s was blissfully free of its contingent of fortune hunters when Lazzero met Santo for a beer on Saturday night to talk La Coppa Estiva and their strategy for Gianni Casale.

He’d been pleasantly surprised when Chiara had called him earlier that afternoon to accept his offer. Was curious to find out why she had. Thinking he could nail those details down along with his game plan for Gianni, he’d arranged to meet her here for a drink after his beer with Santo.

Ensconcing themselves at the bar so they could keep an eye on the door, he and Santo fleshed out a multilayered plan of attack, with contingencies for whatever objections the wily Italian might present. Satisfied they had it nailed, Lazzero leaned back in his stool and took a sip of his beer. Eyed his brother’s dark suit.

“Work or pleasure tonight?”

“Damion Howard and his agent are dropping by to pick up their tickets for next week. Thought I’d romance them a bit while I’m at it.”

“What?” Lazzero derided. “No beautiful blonde lined up for your pleasure?”

“Too busy.” Santo sighed. “This event is a monster. I need to keep my eye on the ball.”

Lazzero studied the lines of fatigue etching his brother’s face. “You should let Dez handle the athletes. It would free up your time.”

His brother cocked a brow. “Says the ultimate control freak?”

Lazzero shrugged. He was a self-professed workaholic. Knew the demons that drove him. It was part of the territory when your father self-destructed, leaving his business and your life in pieces. No amount of success would ever convince him it was enough.

Santo gave him an idle look. “Did Nico tell you about his conversation with Carolina?”

Lazzero nodded. Carolina Casale, an interior designer by trade, was coordinating the closing night party for La Coppa Estiva, a job perfectly suited to her extensive project management skills. Nico, who’d negotiated a reprieve from the wedding planning to attend the party with a client, had called her to request an additional couple of tickets for some VIPs, only to find himself consoling a weepy Carolina instead, who had spent the whole conversation telling him how unhappy she was. She’d finished by asking how Lazzero was.

His fingers tightened around his glass. He could not go through another of those scenes. It was not his fault Carolina had married a man old enough to be her father.

“I’m working on a solution to that,” he said grimly. “Tonight, in fact. Speaking of solutions, you aren’t giving me too much field time are you? I can feel my knee creaking as we speak.”

Santo’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid the answer is yes. We need a solid midfielder. But it’s perfect, actually. Gianni plays midfield.”

Lazzero was about to amplify his protest when his brother’s gaze narrowed on the door. “Now she could persuade me to abandon my plans for the evening.”

Lazzero turned around. Found himself equally absorbed by the female standing in the doorway. Her slender body encased in a sheer, flowing blouse that ended at midthigh, her dark jeans tucked into knee-high boots, Chiara had left her hair loose tonight, the silky waves falling to just below her shoulder blades in a dark, shiny cloud.

It wasn’t the most provocative outfit he’d ever seen, but with Chiara’s curves, she looked amazing. The wave of lust that kicked him hard in the chest irritated the hell out of him. She had labeled him a bloody Lothario, for God’s sake. Had told him he was exactly the kind of man she’d never get involved with. He’d do well to remember this was a business arrangement they were embarking on together.

Chiara’s scan of the room halted when she found him sitting at the bar. Santo’s gaze moved from Chiara to him. “She’s the one you’re meeting?”

“My date for Italy,” Lazzero confirmed, sliding off the stool.

“Who is she?” His brother frowned. “She looks familiar.”

“Her name is Chiara. And she’s far too nice a girl for you.”

“Which means she’s definitely too nice for you,” Santo tossed after his retreating figure.

Lazzero couldn’t disagree. Which was why he was going to keep this strictly business. Pulling to a halt in front of her, he bent to press a kiss to both of her cheeks. An intoxicating scent of orange blossom mixed with a musky, sensual undertone assailed his senses. It suited her perfectly.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she murmured, stepping back. “The barista who was supposed to relieve me was sick. I had to wait until the sub came in.”

“It’s fine. I was having a beer with my brother.” Lazzero whisked her past Santo just as his brother’s clients walked in. Chiara cocked her head to the side. “You’re not going to introduce us?”

“Not now, no.”

“Because I’m a barista?” A spark of fire flared in her green eyes.

“Because my brother likes to ask too many questions,” he came back evenly. “Not to mention the fact that we don’t have our story straight yet.”

“Oh.” The heat in her eyes dissipated. “That’s true.”

“Just for the record,” he murmured, pressing a palm to the small of her back to guide her through the crowd, “Santo and I started Supersonic from nothing. We had nothing. There is no judgment here about what you do.”

Her long dark lashes swept down, dusting her cheeks like miniature black fans. “Is it true what Samara Jones said about you and your brother masterminding your business from here?”

His mouth twisted. “It’s become a bit of an urban myth, but yes, we brainstormed the idea for Supersonic at a table near the back when we were students at Columbia. We kept the table for posterity’s sake when we bought the place a few years later.” He arched a brow at her. “Would you like to sit there? It’s nothing special,” he warned.

“Yes.” She surprised him by answering in the affirmative. “I’ll need to know these things about you to make this believable.”

“Perhaps,” he suggested, his palm nearly spanning her delicate spine as he directed her around a group of people, “you’ll discover other things that surprise you. Why did you say yes, by the way?”

“Because my father needs the money. I couldn’t afford to say no.”

Direct. To the point. Just like the woman who felt so soft and feminine beneath his hand, but undoubtedly had a spine of steel. He was certain she was up to the challenge he was about to hand her.

Seating her at the old, scarred table located in a quiet alcove off the main traffic of the bar, he pushed her chair in and sat opposite her. His long legs brushed hers as he arranged them to get comfortable. Chiara shifted away as if burned. He smothered a smile at her prickly demeanor. That they would have to solve if they were going to make this believable.

She traced a finger over the deep indentation carved into the thick mahogany wood, a rough impersonation of the Supersonic logo. “Who did this?”

“I did.” A wry smile curved his mouth. “I nearly got us kicked out of here for good that night. But we were so high on the idea we had, we didn’t care.”

She sat back in her chair, a curious look on her face. “How did you make it happen, then, if you started with nothing?”

“Santo and I put ourselves through university on sports scholarships. We knew a lot of people in the industry, knew what athletes wanted in a product. Supersonic became a ‘by athletes, for athletes’ line.” He lifted a shoulder. “A solid business plan brought our godfather on board for an initial investment, some athletes we went to school with made up the rest.”

A smile played at her mouth. “And then you parlayed it into one of the world’s most successful athletic-wear companies. Impressive.”

“With some detours along the way,” he amended. “It’s a bitterly competitive industry. But we had a vision. It worked.”

“Will Santo be in Milan?”

He nodded. “He’s the chairman of the event. He’ll have his hands full massaging all of our relationships. When he isn’t busy doing that with his posse of women,” he qualified drily.

“Clearly runs in the family,” Chiara murmured.

Lazzero set a considering gaze on her. “I think you would be surprised by the actual number of relationships I engage in versus what the tabloids print. I do need some time to run a Fortune 500 company, after all.”

“So actually,” Chiara suggested, “you are a choir boy.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

* * *

Chiara expelled a breath as a pretty waitress arrived to take their order. In dark jeans and a navy T-shirt, Lazzero was elementally attractive in a way few men could ever hope to emulate. When he smiled, however, he was devastating. It lit up the rugged, aggressive lines of his face, highlighting his beautiful bone structure and the sensual line of his mouth. Made him beautiful in a jaw-dropping kind of way. And that was before you got to his intense black stare that seemed to dissect you into your various assorted parts.

Which was clearly having its effect on their waitress. Dressed in a gray Di Fiore’s T-shirt and tight black pants, she flashed Lazzero a high-wattage smile and babbled out the nightly specials. Without asking Chiara’s preference, Lazzero rattled off a request for a bottle of Italian red, spring water and an appetizer for them to share.

She eyed him as the waitress disappeared. “Are you always this...domineering?”

“Sì,” he murmured, eyes on hers. “Most women like it when I take control. It makes them feel feminine and cared for. They don’t have to think—they just sit back and...enjoy.”

A wave of heat stained her cheeks, her pulse doing a wicked little jump. “I am not most women. And I like to think.”

“I’m beginning to get that impression,” he said drily. “The ‘not like most women’ part.”

“What happens,” she countered provocatively, “when you turn this hopelessly addicted contingent of yours back out into the wild? Isn’t that exactly the problem you’re facing with Carolina Casale?”

He shrugged. “Carolina knew the rules.”

“Which are?”

“It lasts as long as she keeps it interesting.”

Her jaw dropped. His arrogance was astounding. Carolina, however, had likely believed she was different—her cardinal mistake. As had been hers.

“She married Gianni on the rebound from you,” she guessed.

“Perhaps.”

She felt a stab of sympathy for Carolina Casale. She knew how raw those dashed hopes felt. Antonio had married within months of their breakup. Because that was what transactionally motivated men like Antonio and Lazzero did. They used people for their own purposes without thought for the consequences. It didn’t matter who got hurt in the process.

The waitress returned and poured their wine. Chiara put the conversation firmly back on a business footing after she’d left. “Shall we talk details, then?”

“Yes.” Lazzero sat back in his chair, glass in hand. “La Coppa Estiva is a ten-day-long event. It begins next Wednesday with the opening party, continues with the tournament, then wraps up on the following Saturday with the final game and closing party. We will need to leave New York on Tuesday night to fly overnight to Milan.”

Her stomach lurched. She was actually doing this.

“That’s fine,” she said. “There’s a girl at work who’s looking for extra shifts. I can trade them off.”

“Good.” He inclined his head. “Have you ever been to Milan?”

She shook her head. “We have family there, but I’ve never been.”

“The game,” he elaborated, “is held at the stadium in San Siro, on the outskirts of the city. We’ll be staying at my friend Filippo Giordano’s luxury hotel in Milan.”

Her stomach curled at the thought of sharing a hotel suite with Lazzero. But of course, they were supposedly together and they would be expected to share a room. Which got her wondering. “How do you expect us to act together? I mean—”

“How do I normally act with my girlfriends?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “I don’t expect you to be all over me. But if there is an appropriate moment where some kind of affection is in order, we go with the flow.”

Which could involve a kiss. Her gaze landed on his full, sensual mouth, her stomach doing a funny roll as she imagined what it would be like to kiss him. It would be far from forgettable, she concluded with a shiver. That mouth was simply far too...erotic.

Which was exactly how she should not be thinking.

“You were right,” she admitted, firmly redirecting her thoughts. “I don’t have the appropriate clothes for this type of an event. I would make them, but I don’t have time.”

Lazzero waved a hand at her. “That comes with the deal. We have a stylist we use for our commercial shoots. Micaela’s offered to outfit you on Monday.”

She stiffened. “I don’t need a stylist.”

He shrugged. “I can send my PA with you with my credit card. But you would lose the benefit of Micaela’s experience with an event like this. Which could be invaluable.”

She hated the idea of his PA accompanying her even more than she hated the idea of the stylist. And, she grumpily conceded, a stylist’s help would be invaluable given her doubts about her ability to pull this off.

“Fine,” she capitulated, “the stylist is fine.”

“Bene. Which brings us to the public story of us we will use.”

She eyed him. “What were you thinking?”

“I thought we would go with the truth. That we met at the café.”

“And you couldn’t resist my espressos, nor me?” she filled in sardonically.

His mouth curved. “Now you’re getting into the spirit. Except,” he drawled, his ebony gaze resting on hers, “I would have gone with the endlessly beautiful green eyes, the razor-sharp brain and the elusive challenge of finding out who the real Chiara Ferrante is underneath all those layers.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “There isn’t anything to find out.”

“No?” His perusal was the lazy study of a big cat. “I could have sworn there was.”

“Then you’d be wrong,” she came back evenly. “How long has this supposed relationship of ours been going on, then?”

“Let’s say a couple of blissful months. So blissful, in fact, that I just put an engagement ring on your finger.”

She gaped at him. “You never said anything about being engaged.”

He hiked a broad shoulder. “If I put a ring on your finger, it will be clear to Carolina there is no hope for a reconciliation between us.”

“Does she think there is?”

“Her marriage is on the rocks. She’s unhappy. Gianni is worried he can’t hold her.”

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “Why don’t you just tell Gianni he has nothing to worry about? That you have a heart of stone.”

He reached into his jeans pocket and retrieved a box. Flipping it open, he revealed the ring inside. “I think this will be more effective. It looked like you. What do you think?”

Her jaw dropped at the enormous asscher-cut diamond with its halo of pave-set stones embedded into the band. It was the most magnificent thing she’d ever seen.

“Lazzero,” she said unsteadily. “I did not sign on for this. This is insane.”

“Think of it as a prop, that’s all.” He picked up her left hand and slid the glittering diamond on her index finger. Her heart thudded as she drank in how perfectly it suited her hand. How it fit like a glove. How warm and strong his fingers were wrapped around hers, tattooing her skin with the pulse of attraction that beat between them.

How crazy this was.

She tugged her hand free. “You can’t possibly expect me to wear this. What if I put it down somewhere? What if I lose it?”

“It’s insured. There’s no need to worry.”

“How much is it worth?”

“A couple million.”

She yanked the ring off her hand. “No,” she said, setting it on the table in front of him. “Absolutely not. Get something cheaper.”

“I am not,” he said calmly, “giving you a cheaper engagement ring because you are afraid of losing it. Carolina will be all over it. She will notice.”

“And what happens when we call this off?” She searched desperately for objections. “What is Gianni going to think about that?”

“I should have him on board by then. We can let it die a slow death when we get back.” He took her hand and slid the ring on again.

“I won’t sleep,” Chiara murmured, staring at the ring, her heart pounding. Not when she would publicly, if only for a few days, be branded the future Mrs. Lazzero Di Fiore. It was crazy. She would be crazy to agree to do this.

She should shut it down right now. Would, if she were wise. But as she and Lazzero sat working out the remaining details, she couldn’t seem to find the words to say no. Because saving her father’s business was all that mattered. Pulling him out of this depression that was breaking her heart.

CHAPTER THREE

CHIARA, IN FACT, didn’t sleep. She spent Sunday morning bleary-eyed, nursing a huge cup of coffee while she filled out the passport application Lazzero was going to fast-track for her in the morning.

The dazzling diamond on her finger flashed in the morning sunlight—a glittering, unmistakable reminder of what she’d signed on to last night. Her heart lurched in her chest, a combination of caffeine and nerves. Playing Lazzero’s girlfriend was one thing. Playing his fiancée was another matter entirely. She was quickly developing a massive, severe case of cold feet.

She would be to Italy and back—unengaged—in ten days’ time, she reassured herself. No need to panic or for anyone to know. Except for her father, given she wouldn’t be able to help out at the bakery on the weekends. Nor could she check in on him as she always did every night, a fact that left her with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She chewed on her lip as she eyed her cell phone. Telling her father the truth about the trip was not an option. He would never approve of what she was doing, nor would his pride allow him to take the money. Lazzero, for whom logistics were clearly never a problem, had offered to make an angel donation to her father’s business through a community organization Supersonic supported which provided assistance to local businesses.

Which solved the problem of the money. It did not, however, help with the little white lie she was going to have to tell her father about why she was going to Italy. Her father had always preached the value of keeping an impeccable truth with yourself and with others. It will, he always said, save you much heartache in life. But in this case, she concluded, the end justified the means.

She called her father and told him she was going to be vacationing with friends in a house they’d rented in Lake Como, feeling like a massive ball of guilt by the time she’d gotten off the phone. Giving in to her need to ensure he would be okay while she was gone, she called Frankie DeLucca, an old friend of her father’s who lived down the street, and asked him to look in on her father while she was away.

She dragged her feet all the way down to meet Gareth, Lazzero’s driver, the next morning for her shopping expedition with Micaela Parker. She was intimidated before she’d even stepped out of the car as it halted in front of the posh Madison Avenue boutique where she was to meet the stylist. Everything in the window screamed one month’s salary.

Micaela was waiting for her in the luxurious lounge area of the boutique. An elegant blonde, all long, lean legs, she was more interesting looking than beautiful. But she was so perfectly put together in jeans, a silk T-shirt and a blazer, funky jewelry at her wrists and neck, Chiara could only conclude she was in excellent hands. Micaela was, after all, the dresser of a quarter of Manhattan’s celebrities.

“Tell me a bit about your personal style,” Micaela prompted over coffee.

Chiara showed her a few of her own pieces she’d made on her phone. Micaela gave them a critical appraisal. “I like them,” she said finally. “Very Coachella boho. Those soft feminine lines look great on you.”

“Within reason.” A pang moved through her at the praise. “I have too many curves.”

“You have perfect curves. You just need to show them off properly.” Micaela handed back her phone. “What other staples do you have in your wardrobe we can work with?”

Not much, it turned out.

“Not a problem,” Micaela breezed. “We’ll get you everything. Luckily,” she teased, “Lazzero’s PA gave me carte blanche. He must be seriously smitten with you.”

Chiara decided no answer was better than attempting one to that statement. Micaela took the hint and reached for her coffee cup to get started. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw the giant diamond sparkling on Chiara’s hand.

“You and Lazzero are engaged?”

“It’s brand-new,” Chiara murmured, as every assistant in the shop turned to stare. “We haven’t made a formal announcement yet.”

“You won’t have to now,” Micaela said drily, inclining her head toward the shop girls. “Half the city will know by noon.”

Oh, God. Chiara bit her lip. Why had she agreed to do this again?

Micaela led her into the dressing area and started throwing clothes at her with military-like precision. Telling herself it was the armor she needed to face a world in which she’d been declared not good enough, Chiara tried on everything the stylist presented her with and discovered Micaela had impeccable taste that worked well with her own personal style.

It was when they came to the search for the perfect evening dresses that Micaela got intensely critical. Chiara would be in the limelight on these occasions, photographed by paparazzi from around the world. They needed to be flawless. Irreproachable. Eye-catching, but not ostentatious.

Just the thought of walking down a red carpet made her stomach churn.

By the time they’d chosen purses and jewelry to go with her new wardrobe, she was ready to drop. Looking forward to collapsing at the spa appointment Micaela had booked for her, she protested when the stylist dragged her next door to the lingerie boutique.

“I don’t need any of that,” she said definitively. “I’m good.”

“Are you sure what you have isn’t going to leave lines?” Micaela asked.

No dammit, she wasn’t. And she wasn’t about to end up on a red carpet with them. Marching into the fitting room, she tried on the beautiful lingerie Micaela handed over. Felt her throat grow tighter as she stood in front of the mirror in peach silk, the lace on the delicate bra the lingerie’s only nod to fuss.

Antonio had loved to buy her lingerie. Had always said it was because he loved having her all to himself—that he didn’t want to share her with anyone else. He’d used that excuse when it came to social engagements too—taking her to low-key restaurants rather than his high-profile events because, she’d assumed, he was deciding whether he should make her a Fabrizio or not, and fool that she’d been, she hadn’t wanted to mess it up.

Heat lashed her cheeks. Never again would she give a man that power over her. Never again would she be so deluded about the truth.

Sinking her fingers into the clasp of the delicate bra, she stripped it off. She hadn’t quite shed the sting of the memory when Micaela whisked her off to the salon for lunch, hair and treatments.

Dimitri, whom Micaela proclaimed the best hair guy in Manhattan, promptly suggested she cut her hair to shoulder length and add bangs for a more sophisticated look. A rejection rose in her throat, an automatic response, because her hair had always been her thing. Her kryptonite. Antonio had loved it.

That lifted her chin. She wasn’t that Chiara anymore. She wanted all signs of her gone. And if there was a chance she was going to run into Antonio in Milan, she would need all her armor in place.

“Cut it off,” she said to Dimitri. “And yes to the bangs.”

* * *

Lazzero was on the phone tying up a loose end before he left for Europe on Tuesday evening when Chiara walked into the tiny lounge at Teterboro Airport. Gareth, who’d dropped her off with Lazzero’s afternoon meetings on the other side of town, deposited Chiara’s suitcase beside her, gave him a wave and melted back outside. But Lazzero was too busy looking at Chiara to notice.

Dressed in black cigarette pants, another pair of those sexy boots she seemed to favor and a silk shirt that skimmed the curve of her amazing backside, she looked cool and sophisticated. It was her hair that had him aghast. Gone were the thick, silky waves that fell down her back, in their place a blunt bob that just skimmed her shoulders. He couldn’t deny the sophisticated style and wispy bangs accentuated her lush features and incredible eyes. It just wasn’t her.

Wrapping up the call, he strode across the lounge toward her. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”

Her eyes widened, a flash of defiance firing their green depths. “It was time for a change. Dimitri, Micaela’s hair guy, thinks it looks sophisticated. Wasn’t that what you were going for?”

Yes. No. Not if it meant cutting her hair. She had gorgeous hair. Had gorgeous hair. He wanted to inform Dimitri he was an idiot. Except Chiara looked exactly like the type of woman he’d have on his arm. Micaela had done her job well. So why the hell was he so angry? Because he’d liked her better the way she’d been before?

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “It’s been a long day. You look beautiful. And yes, it’s chic...very sophisticated.”

Her chin lowered a fraction. “Micaela was amazing. She gave me some excellent advice.”

“Good.” Catching a signal from a waiting official, he inclined his head. “We’re good to go. You ready?”

She nodded and went to pick up her bag. He bent to take it from her, his fingers brushing against hers as he did. She flinched and took a step back. He grimaced and hoisted the bag. He was going to have to deal with that reaction before they landed in Italy or this relationship between them wasn’t going to be remotely believable.

He carried it and his own bag onto the tarmac, where the sleek corporate jet was waiting. After a quick check of their passports, they were airborne, winging their way across the Atlantic.

He pulled out his laptop as soon as they’d leveled out. Chiara, an herbal tea in hand, fished out a magazine and started reading.

Together they silently coexisted, seated across from each other in the lounge area. Appreciating the time to catch up and finding it heartily refreshing to be with a woman who didn’t want to chatter all the way across the ocean about inane things he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in, it wasn’t until a couple of hours later that he noticed Chiara wasn’t really focusing on anything. Staring out the window in between flipping pages, applying multiple coats of lip balm and fidgeting to the point where he finally sighed and set his laptop aside.

“Okay,” he murmured. “What’s wrong?”

She dug into her bag, pulled out a newspaper and dropped it on the table in front of him. Too busy to have touched the inch-thick pile of press clippings that had been left on his desk that morning, he picked it up and scanned the tabloid page, finding the story Chiara was referring to near the bottom. It was Samara Jones’s weekly column, featuring a shot of Chiara leaving a store, shopping bags in hand.

One Down—One to Go!

Sorry, ladies, but this Di Fiore is now taken. According to my sources, Lazzero Di Fiore’s new fiancée was seen shopping in fashion hot spot Zazabara on Monday with celebrity stylist Micaela Parker, a four-carat asscher-cut diamond dazzling on her finger. My source wouldn’t name names, but revealed an appearance at La Coppa Estiva was the impetus for the shopping excursion.

Lazzero threw the tabloid down. For once he didn’t feel like strangling the woman. It was perfect, actually. Word would get around, Carolina would realize the reality of the situation and his problem would be solved.

The pinched expression on Chiara’s face, however, made it clear she didn’t feel the same way. “It was the point of this, after all,” he reasoned. “Don’t sweat it. It will be over in a few days.”

She shot him a deadly look. “Don’t sweat it? Playing your girlfriend is one thing, Lazzero. Having my face plastered across one of New York’s dailies as your fiancée is another matter entirely. What if my father sees it? Not to mention the fact that it’s going to be the shortest engagement in history. The press will have a field day with it.”

He shrugged. “You knew they were going to photograph you in Milan.”

“I was hoping it would get buried on page twenty.” Her mouth pursed. “Honestly, I have no idea how we’re going to pull this off.”

“We won’t,” he said meaningfully, “if you flinch every time I touch you.”

A rosy pink dusted her cheeks. “I don’t do that.”

“Yes, you do.” Now, he decided, was the time to get to the bottom of the enigmatic Chiara Ferrante.

“Have a drink with me before dinner.”

She frowned. “I’m sure you have far too much work to do.”

“It’s an eight-hour flight. There’s plenty of time. You just said it yourself,” he pointed out. “We need to work on making this relationship believable if we’re going to pull this off. Part of that is getting to know each other better.”

Summoning the attendant, he requested a predinner drink, stood and held out a hand to her.

* * *

Chiara took the hand Lazzero offered and rolled to her feet. She could hardly say no. He would only accuse her of being prickly again. And she thought that maybe he was right, maybe if they got to know each other better she wouldn’t feel so apprehensive about what she was walking into. About her ability to carry this charade off.

She curled up beside him on the sofa in the lounge area, shoes off, legs tucked beneath her. Tried to relax as she took a sip of her drink, but it was almost impossible to do so with Lazzero looking so ridiculously attractive in dark pants and a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, dark stubble shadowing his jaw. It was just as disconcerting as she’d imagined it would be. As if the testosterone level had been dialed up to maximum in the tiny airplane cabin with nowhere to go.

God. She took another sip of her drink. Grasped on to the first subject that came to mind. “What sport did you play in university?”

“Basketball.” He sat back against the sofa and crossed one long leg over the other. “It was my obsession.”

“Santo too?”

His mouth curved. “Santo is too pretty to rough it up. He’d be running straight to his plastic surgeon if he ever got an elbow to the face. Santo played baseball.”

She considered him curiously. “How good were you? You must have been talented to put yourself through school on a full scholarship.”

He shrugged. “I was good. But an injury in my senior year put me on the sidelines. I didn’t have enough time to get back to the level I needed to be before the championships and draft.” He pursed his lips. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

She absorbed his matter-of-fact demeanor. She didn’t think it could have been so simple. Giving up her design classes had been like leaving a piece of herself behind when money had been prioritized for the bakery. Lazzero had had his fingers on every little boy’s dream of becoming a professional athlete, only to have it slip right through them.

“That must have been difficult,” she observed, “to have your dream stolen from you.”

A cryptic look moved across his face. “Some dreams are too expensive to keep.”

“Supersonic was a dream you and your brothers had,” she pointed out.

“Which was built on a solid business case backed up by a gap in the market we identified. Opportunity,” he qualified, “makes sense to me. Blind idealism does not.”

“Too much ambition can also be destructive,” she said. “I see plenty of examples of that in New York.”

“In the man who broke your heart?” Lazzero inserted smoothly.

Her pulse skipped a beat. “Who says he exists?”

“I do,” he drawled. “Your speech at the café...the fact that you’ve never given any man who comes in there a fighting chance. You have ‘smashed to smithereens’ written all over you.”

She sank her teeth into her lip, finding that an all-too-accurate description of what Antonio had done to her. “There was someone,” she acknowledged quietly, “and yes, he broke my heart. But in hindsight, it was for the best. It made me see his true colors.”

“Which were?”

“That he was not to be trusted. That men like him are not to be trusted.”

He eyed her. “That is a massive generalization. So he hurt you...so he burned you badly. He is only one man, Chiara. What are you going to do? Spend the rest of your life avoiding a certain kind of man because he might hurt you?”

Her mouth set at a stubborn angle. “I’m not willing to take the risk.”

“Did you love him?”

“I thought I did.” She gave him a pointed look. “I could ask you the same thing. Where does your fear of commitment come from? Because clearly, you have one.”

A lift of his broad shoulder. “I simply don’t care to.”

“Why not?”

“Because relationships are complicated dramas I have no interest in participating in.” He took a sip of his drink. Rested his glass on his lean, corded thigh. “What about family?” he asked, tipping his glass at her. “I know nothing about yours other than the fact that your father, Carlo, runs Ferrante’s. What about your mother? Brothers? Sisters?”

A shadow whispered across her heart. “My mother died of breast cancer when I was fifteen. I’m an only child.”

His gaze darkened. “I’m sorry. You were close to her?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “She ran the bakery with my father. She was amazing—wonderful, wise. A pseudo parent to half the kids in the neighborhood. My father always said most of the clientele came in just to talk to her.”

“You miss her,” he said.

Heat stung the back of her eyes. “Every day.” It was a deep, dark hollow in her soul that would never be filled.

Lazzero curled his fingers around hers. Strong and protective, they imparted a warmth that seemed to radiate right through her. “My father died when I was nineteen,” he murmured. “I know how it feels.”

Oh. She bit her lip. “How?”

“He was an alcoholic. He drank himself to death.”

She absorbed his matter-of-fact countenance. “And your mother? Is she still alive?”

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