Читать книгу Italian Mavericks: A Deal With The Italian: The Italian's Deal for I Do / A Pawn in the Playboy's Game / A Clash with Cannavaro - Кэтти Уильямс, Elizabeth Power, Cathy Williams - Страница 12
ОглавлениеOLIVIA SPENT THE REST of the week scouring Milan for apartments that would accommodate her work. She grew more dismayed with each visit. None of them were big enough, even if she did take on a roommate to afford one. The luxury apartment Giovanni had given her use of was palatial in comparison.
The end of her shift at the café at hand, she pulled her apron over her head, drew herself an espresso from the machine and sat down at one of the tables outside. She had to be out of the apartment tomorrow. The only thing she could do was pack up her designs, move into Violetta’s already overcrowded house and pound doors to see if a local designer would take her on—which was unlikely, given how ultracompetitive the marketplace was.
Or she could go home, tail between her legs, and try to work some of her New York contacts. But New York wasn’t going to be an easier nut to crack, and the thought of answering the inevitable questions when doors did open made her stomach knot. She wasn’t ready to go back.
Panic rose up inside of her, her fingers curling tight around the handle of her cup. If she’d been more on top of her career, her finances, she wouldn’t be in this situation. She never would have let her mother take control and fritter the money away. A lot of money. But preoccupied with pressure-packed million-dollar assignments and endorsements, traveling out of a suitcase more often than not, barely knowing what time zone she was in, let alone keeping her head above water, she’d had put her trust in the one person she’d thought she could.
Her mother had never been able to hold a real job when her career had fizzled out, and Olivia’s father, Deacon Fitzgerald, had left when she was eight. A B-list photographer, her father had abandoned his career and started over with a new family and a new job at the transit company in a bid to erase the woman who had broken his heart. Olivia and her mother had sputtered along with whatever money her father could provide and her mother’s spotty, on-again, off-again jobs until Olivia’s career had taken off and Tatum had put the only skills she had, managing her, to work making her daughter a household name. But the more money Olivia had made, the faster it had gone, and the vicious, never-ending cycle was cemented.
The discovery she was broke on the heels of her best friend Petra Danes’s overdose had sent her on a tailspin she’d never recovered from. The money had been her way out, and when that door was closed she’d quite literally self-destructed that last night in New York.
She took a sip of the coffee, the acrid brew harsh on her tongue. She’d come to Milan because she couldn’t do it anymore. She was not healed; she needed time. That hadn’t changed.
She watched as one exquisitely dressed Italian after another strolled by, the women in designer dresses even for a trip to the market. Turning to her father in her darkest time, for emotional support if not financial, hadn’t been an option. She’d been so young when he’d left she’d hardly known him. And though they’d met regularly for a while until she was a teenager, each time she’d seen him it had grown more awkward and painful, as if her father had wanted to put as much distance between him and his old life as he could. So Olivia had stopped trying to see him, and he’d stopped calling except on big occasions like her birthday. And that was the way it had been ever since.
She bit her lip, refusing to get emotional over a parent lottery she’d lost a long time ago. A resigned clarity fell over her. She had only two choices: give up or accept Rocco Mondelli’s offer. And since giving up her dream wasn’t on the table, it left her only with the option to return to a career she’d vowed she never would. To an industry that had almost eaten her alive.
Her lashes fluttered down. Something Giovanni had said to her in those early dark days filled her head. Passion is what makes life worth living, ragazza mia. If you don’t have it in your soul, it dies a day at a time. Stop thinking of what you must do and start thinking of what will save you.
And that was how she finally made her decision.
* * *
Olivia Fitzgerald showed up at his office forty-eight hours after Rocco had predicted she would. He instructed his assistant, Gabriella, to show her in. Gabriella appeared seconds later with Olivia at her side, an expectant look on his assistant’s face.
“Go home,” he instructed his PA. “I’m on my way out, as well. Buona serata.”
Gabriella echoed his farewell and disappeared. Olivia stood just inside the doorway, her carefully controlled expression veiling whatever thoughts were going on in her beautiful head. The tap of her toe on the marble was the only indicator she was apprehensive about what she’d come to do, and he liked that there was at least one outward sign filling him in on the inside picture.
The outside view was undeniably compelling. Her dark jeans made the most of her long legs, the cut of her clingy jersey shirt emphasizing her cool blonde beauty. Her hair was caught up in a ponytail once again, big dark sunglasses perched on her head as if to say she wasn’t coming out of hiding until absolutely forced to.
He felt his nerve receptors react to her with that same layers-deep effect she’d had on him that night in Navigli. Even without makeup, she was still the most arresting woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
She lifted her chin as he brought his gaze slowly back up to her face. “If you’re on your way out, we can do this another time.”
“I’m on my way home.” He got to his feet and reached for his briefcase. “I’m staying at my apartment in Milan tonight. We can talk there.”
“This won’t take long,” she supplied hastily. “No need for that.”
His mouth twisted. “I’m assuming you’ve come to take me up on my offer?”
Her lips pressed together. “Yes.”
“Then we have lots to talk about. We can do it over dinner.” He tossed the file he’d been working on into his briefcase, along with another pile of documents.
“I don’t want to intrude on your evening. Why don’t we...”
“Olivia.” He lifted his head and pinned his gaze on hers. “Let’s get something straight right off the top. In this relationship, I talk and you listen. I make the rules. You follow them. In no way is this going to be an equal, democratic partnership. Not for the money I’m paying you.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I haven’t signed your deal yet.”
“But you will, because you’re here.” He dropped a last sheaf of papers in the briefcase and snapped it shut.
She sank her hands into her hips, her sapphire eyes a vivid blue beam blazing into him. “That night in Navigli must have been an aberration. Is this how you really treat your women? Favor them with a wild night in bed so they’ll nip at your heels as required?”
He smiled at that. “Usually I have a bit more finesse, but in this case, it isn’t necessary. Make no mistake about it, Olivia, Navigli was about me finding out what kind of a woman you really are. That was all.”
Better she chew on that than the naked, unadulterated urge he felt to show her that wild ride in bed before he brought her to heel. Because this was a business arrangement. She had been Giovanni’s lover. And rule number one for this particular business arrangement was to keep his hands off his soon-to-be pretend fiancée.
She flashed him a defiant look. “Helpful, then, for our little charade that you are such a magnificent actor. You fooled me with that kiss. It almost felt as if you meant it.”
He lifted a brow, his gaze raking over her face. “As much as I’m loath to damage your ego heading into this very important assignment for both of us, I’m afraid my taste runs to sophisticated brunettes of a European bent. So you are quite safe, cara, from me.”
She flinched, a tiny, almost indiscernible retraction he would have missed had he not been studying her so intently. Bene. The more they ignored the undeniable attraction between them, the better.
Her long, gold-tipped lashes came down to veil her eyes. “Too bad you’re saddled with a very blonde, outspoken American fiancée for a year.”
He gave her a slow smile. “I can handle you, Olivia, and you know it.”
“You think you can because you are the epitome of arrogance.” Fire lit the blue gaze she trained on him. “How is this going to work, then? Your overactive libido is well documented. Do we act as a joyous engaged couple while you engage in a discreet liaison or two on the side?”
He shifted his weight to both feet, widening his stance, his laconic smile intensifying. “Who said I have an overactive libido? I would call it standard for a young, healthy male.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Your reputation speaks for itself.” Her gaze rested on him assessingly. “Giovanni thought it reflected a certain...emotional immaturity on your part. That you use it to avoid attachment.”
“Emotional immaturity?” His head jerked back. “He said that?”
She nodded. “He thought you and Alessandra suffered from not having a direct parental influence while growing up. He said he did the best he could, but it’s not the same as having your own parents to guide you.”
He stared speechlessly at her, absorbing the look of satisfaction on her face. He’d started this war of words, yes. But her telling him his grandfather’s innermost thoughts, thoughts that had apparently played a part in his decision to give Rocco a mere 50 percent stake in House of Mondelli? His fists itched to find the nearest wall and bury themselves in it. Giovanni had trusted his twenty-six-year-old lover enough to confide his thoughts in her, but not him?
He worked his jaw. Gathered his composure before he said something else to tip his cards. “What other confidences did Giovanni elect to illuminate you with?”
She gave him a wary look, as if realizing she might have gone too far. “He only made the odd comment here and there when we were talking about family. He was a private man, Rocco.”
Apparently not that private. He jammed his hands in his pockets and impaled her with his gaze. “To answer your question, there will be no liaisons for either of us. This is a five-million-dollar partnership, Olivia, plus what I had to pay Le Ciel to break the contract you reneged on. We don’t mess it up because we have to satisfy an urge. I can do that in the shower.”
Her cheeks flamed a rosy pink. “That discussion was more for your benefit than mine. I’m just trying to understand the ground rules.”
He picked up his briefcase and jacket. “They will become eminently clear as we discuss them over dinner. Shall we?”
She was silent as he drove them the short distance to the Mondelli penthouse, and he was glad for it, still steaming over the inside track she seemed to have on Giovanni’s thoughts.
His frustration had abated, somewhat, by the time they reached the Galleria Passarella area in the heart of Milan. He should be estatico. He had exactly what he wanted after all. The perfect jewel to dangle in front of the board to cement his control of the company he’d helped build. He was no longer sporting the shorter end of the stick in this power struggle, and it felt good. More than good.
The penthouse occupied the top three floors of a graceful, modern building with superb views of the city. Rocco had chosen it because of the uniqueness of its design, the hidden jewel it contained. With the living quarters located on the ninth floor, the architect had used the tenth and eleventh floors to create a garden paradise that overlooked the city, including a terrace big enough to entertain fifty and a rock-pool retreat.
They stopped on the ninth floor, where he requested a light meal for him and Olivia from his housekeeper, then he led the way up the stone staircase to the roof garden. He could tell from the wide-eyed wonder in her eyes Olivia loved it instantly.
“It’s hard to imagine this could exist up here.”
“Exactly why I bought it. The heaters I had built in keep it the perfect temperature year-round.” He opened his briefcase, pulled out her contract and tossed it on the soft-backed sofa near the pools. “Read through this while I get us a drink.”
She gave the contract a rueful look. “You were that sure of me?”
“A dream is a powerful thing,” he said simply. “So is desperation.”
She opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it after a long moment. Bene. She was learning.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“A glass of wine, thank you.”
He pulled a bottle of rosé out of the wine fridge and tore off the foil.
“A toxicology screen?”
He had listed it as one of the up-front conditions. “Fairly standard, isn’t it?”
“For a model with a history of substance abuse.”
He worked the corkscrew into the bottle. “This is a five-million-dollar deal we’re negotiating, Olivia. When a formerly trustworthy top model starts showing up late for her shoots...reneges on obligations...blows off a three-million-dollar contract, there has to be a reason. I’m covering my investment.”
Her chin lifted at a defiant angle. “There was no substance abuse problem. Unless you call one dirty martini too many on the odd night out an issue.”
“Alcohol is a drug. If it interfered with your work, it was an issue.”
“It did not interfere with my work.”
“Then what did?” He poured two glasses of the rosé, put the bottle back in the fridge and carried the glasses over to her. “For all intents and purposes, you were a client’s dream until that last year. You did your work, you did it exceptionally well and you were conscientious. What happened to change all that? Why the out-of-control partying near the end?”
A stubborn look crossed her face. “Maybe I was getting my bad-girl genes out of my system. I am my mother’s daughter after all.”
“You were for the first part of your career, as well.” He handed her a glass and sat down beside her.
She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe the glow faded. Maybe it wasn’t enough to hold my attention anymore.”
And maybe she was lying through her teeth. A model didn’t just walk away from a three-million-dollar contract because she was bored. She fulfilled her obligations, left on good terms and used the contacts she had made to build her reputation as a designer.
It made no sense. It was a mystery he intended to unravel.
He pointed his glass at her. “Did you leave New York to get away from a man? Were there issues with a relationship?”
She gave him an even look. “There was only one relationship—a long-term one I had that ended on good terms before I left.”
“With Guillermo Villanueva...”
“Yes.”
One of the world’s most sought-after photographers, Venezuelan-born Guillermo Villanueva was known for his ability to put a twist, a different angle, on a face or a landscape that had been shot a thousand times. He was equally known for his swarthy good looks, which had models flocking eagerly to his shoots, putting their best foot forward as he reduced them to fluttery, feminine creatures that bent to his will.
Had Olivia been like that with him, too?
“How long was the relationship?” he asked to distract himself from a question that didn’t matter.
She gave him a pointed look. “Does this really have relevance here?”
“Sì, Olivia, it does. We’re about to be in the spotlight as a newly engaged couple. I need to know your personal history.”
She sighed. “Three years. We were together three years.”
He blinked. An eternity as far as he was concerned... For him, a two-month stint with a woman was an accomplishment. He wondered if Villanueva had been unfaithful to her. It wouldn’t be surprising given the opportunities the photographer would have had working with beautiful women day in, day out.
“Was Villanueva the reason for the partying?” he asked.
A glimmer of emotion flashed in her brilliant blue eyes. “Guillermo was the most steadying influence I had in my life.”
“Then why leave him?”
She was silent for a long moment, her gaze resting on the cascading pools of water. “I fell out of love with him,” she said finally. “I wasn’t with him for the right reasons.”
Her quiet, level voice held a poignancy that made him look at her hard. It was a pattern, it seemed, that she was with men for the wrong reasons. With Giovanni, it had been money, a mentor. With Villanueva? Maybe a mentor, also. A stepping-stone to bigger and better jobs?
His rancor stirred anew. He was suddenly very sorry for Guillermo Villanueva. He had likely never seen it coming, so blinded with the radiance that was Olivia. She, on the other hand, had been done with him, ready to take those last steps to stardom. And Villanueva had been left in the dust.
Rocco had seen it happen to his brilliant Sicilian friend Stefan with a woman he’d sacrificed everything for, only to find out she’d been more interested in his bank account than him. A more trusting man than the rest of the Columbia Four initially, Stefan had subsequently become ten times harder than all of them.
He grimaced, taking a healthy swallow of his wine. Love was like that. It was never equally distributed between two people. And the poor fool who didn’t recognize that got his heart torn out eventually.
“Finish reading the contract,” he instructed. “We have much to discuss.”
She picked it up and scanned it. He wasn’t expecting her to have issues with it. It was a straightforward, clean contract. Olivia’s face and body would be exclusive to the House of Mondelli for the next twelve months in a five-million-dollar endorsement deal, after which the second part of the contract, a design partnership agreement, would kick in.
After a few moments, she tossed the contract on the coffee table. “It’s fine. Minus the tox screen.”
“Olivia...”
“No.” Her voice was harsh. “You need to trust me. This is a two-way street.”
He trusted her as much as his rogue stallion on his best-behaved day. About a centimeter leeway on the reins... But he needed to get this deal done.
“Bene.” He inclined his head. “But one sign that I need to and I will do it, regardless of your objections.” He flicked a hand at the contract. “Can your lawyer look at it tomorrow?”
“Yes. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’ve also had the paperwork drawn up to release you from your Le Ciel contract. You can show him that, too. It will clear you of any remaining obligations.”
She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “Thank you. That’s a big weight off my shoulders.”
The vulnerability glittering in her eyes caught him off guard. It was there when you peeled back the layers. When she forgot to hide it. He studied her for a long moment, then told himself he’d be a fool to overanalyze it. To buy in to it.
“See that you don’t let me down,” he advised tersely. “The eyes of the world are going to be on us. Millions of dollars are at stake. Screw up once, miss one shoot by ten minutes, blow off an appearance, however insignificant, fail to show up to any job with less than one-hundred-percent enthusiasm and I will make you rue the day you put pen to paper.”
An emotion he couldn’t read flashed in her eyes. Intimidation? Fear? Antagonism?
Her gaze tangled with his. “I will execute this contract to the best of my ability. You have my word on it. See that you keep yours.”
“I intend to do so.” He rose to his feet, walked over to the bar, procured the wine bottle and refilled their glasses. “How does working alongside Mario Masini sound?”
Her eyes widened. “You’re serious?”
He sat down and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I never say anything I don’t mean.”
“Wow.” She looked dumbstruck. And rightly so. Mondelli’s head designer was a legend in the fashion industry. He had joined the company to partner with Giovanni when the two men were in their early twenties. His classic yet inspired designs were the mainstay of high-profile personalities worldwide who wanted a streamlined vision that took its cues from beautiful materials and perfect cuts.
He allowed an inner smile as his plan came to brilliant, vivid life. “So now we talk details. We have one year. I want to move fast on this.”
She nodded, looking a little overwhelmed.
“There is a design conference in New York next week the House of Mondelli is represented at. You will come with me and we will announce you as the new face of Mondelli at the press conference on the opening day.”
Her face went gray. “That’s very fast.”
“It’s the perfect opportunity. The eyes of the design world will be there.”
She pushed her hair out of her face in what he was coming to recognize as a nervous tick. “And the engagement? When do we announce that?”
“My plan is to let the gossip hounds do it. We go ring shopping tomorrow, we show up in New York together with a massive rock on your hand and let the buzz take care of the rest.”
The gray cast to her skin deepened. “And your family? When will we tell them?”
“We’ll have dinner with Alessandra tomorrow night and tell her. You have met her, sì?”
She nodded. “We worked together on a shoot a few years ago.”
“Bene. I am not intending on telling her the truth about us. She is too chatty, too apt to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. It’s better she takes it for what it is.”
She frowned. “Is our engagement really worth all this subterfuge? Wouldn’t it be easier to simply announce me as the new face of Mondelli? It will generate a huge amount of buzz in its own right.”
His gaze speared hers. “This is more than a publicity stunt, Olivia. This is the joining of two of the world’s great brands. The creation of a dynasty, so to say. It will be a far more powerful story than you simply becoming the face of Mondelli.”
“And when we end our engagement?”
“That will only increase the buzz. Everyone loves a heartsick, broken couple. It’s great photography.”
She looked at him as if he had an answer for everything. He did, in fact.
“I will have your belongings transferred to Villa Mondelli this week. I spend most of my time there commuting back and forth so it makes sense you are there with me. But we’ll delay your actual move date until after we get back from New York. I have meetings in London later this week, and you likely won’t want to spend your first days in the villa alone.”
Her face lost the remainder of its color. “We’re to live together?”
His mouth curved. “We’re madly in love, Olivia. Of course we’re living together.”
“Yes, but—” she waved a hand at him “—we could position it as we’re both so busy, I’m going to be traveling a ton, it just makes sense to keep it separate until we marry. I mean, living apart doesn’t preclude...”
“A wild night in bed?” He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, bella, but I’m not sleeping on your sofa to make this look real. You will move into Villa Mondelli when we get back.”
She gave him an agitated look. “The apartment...”
He shrugged. “It’s a good investment. If you can manage not to blow your money this time, maybe I’ll allow you to buy it back.”
Her mouth tightened. He plunged on relentlessly, “We have a lot of work to do before New York. Alessandra will be all about the big eyes for each other, but my Sicilian friend Stefan, who will undoubtedly want to toast us in New York, will be tougher. We’ll need to know each other inside out.”
She scrunched her face up. “What do you mean by tough?”
A wry smile twisted his mouth. “I went to Columbia with three other men I became very close with. We are all confirmed bachelors. For me to announce my engagement, to make such a quick, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, we’re going to have to make our feelings for each other convincing.”
She slid a perfectly manicured nail in her mouth. “What will our story be, then?”
“I think we should say we met in a café and it was love at first sight.”
She arched a brow at him, the humor of it all lost on her apparently. “And this was when?”
“A month ago. We’ve been staying out of the limelight, but now with your return to the modeling world, we’re making our engagement public.”
She chewed on the fingernail. That would have to stop, but he wasn’t about to antagonize her further tonight. “Is there anyone you need to tell about the engagement?”
“My parents, eventually. I can do that in New York.”
“You don’t want to give them a heads-up?”
“We’re not close,” she said flatly. “It can wait.”
“Siblings? Close friends? Anyone we should invite out the night we see Stefan?”
A shadow made its way across her face, intensifying the dark bags under her eyes. “No siblings,” she said quietly. “And there are just the friends I’ve made here in Milan.”
He nodded. “Any other details I should know?”
“No.” She took a sip of her wine and lifted her gaze to his. “What else should I know about my fiancé other than the fact he is cynical and arrogant?”
“I work. A lot. Christian Markos and Zayed Al Afzal are my other two close friends I went to Columbia with. Christian is a financial genius based in Athens. Zayed has recently gone home to take the throne in his home country of Gazbiyaa.”
“He’s a king?”
“A sheikh. Gazbiyaa is in the heart of the Arabian desert.”
“Okaaay.” She rubbed a palm against her temple. “And Stefan? What does he do?”
“He’s in high-end real estate. As in the deals that make the Wall Street Journal... He doesn’t touch anything under ten million.”
She shook her head. “Quite the group of underachievers.”
He lifted a shoulder. “We are all driven. But very different. More like brothers than friends. We even argue that way.”
She smiled, and, Dio, when she did, it made the night sky light up. He’d have to make sure she didn’t do that often. “You should know we run a charity together. It’s a big thing for us. The Knights of Columbia was created to help disadvantaged youth overcome their backgrounds and succeed in business. It’s based in New York, but we all do work in our home countries and funnel the kids through to various business programs in Manhattan.” He took a sip of his wine. “We also personally mentor some of the kids.”
Her eyes brightened. “It sounds amazing. Whose idea was it?”
“It arose out of work Christian was doing. He grew up on the streets of Athens, the child of a single mother. He never knew his father, had to fight his way out of poverty to take care of himself and his mother. It has defined him as a man, and he wanted to give back. We all loved what he was doing and wanted to be a part of it. Thus, the Knights of Columbia was born.”
“I did charity work when I worked for Le Ciel,” she murmured. “I miss it.”
“We have a charity for young female designers who have suffered at the hands of men and have been forced to resort to shelters. It would be a great thing for you to get involved with if you have time.”
“I would love to.” She pressed her fingers against her mouth, her gaze uncertain. “You are so close to these men. How ever are we going to convince them this is real?”
An image of her plastered against the door of her apartment begging for more of him flashed through his head. His lip curled. “Act like you did that night in Navigli—act as if you want to devour me, as if you can’t wait to get your hands on me. It doesn’t get any more convincing than that.”
A flush filled her cheeks. “That might be difficult,” she drawled in response, “now that I know what kind of a man you are.”
The insult bounced off him like the most ineffective of feints. “Fortunately, cara, pheromones aren’t ruled by the brain. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
Her fingers tightened around the glass. He could tell she wanted to slap them across his face and tell him what to do with his deal. But she restrained herself because they both knew how important this was. For him, it was his chance to solidify control of House of Mondelli. For Olivia, her chance to take hold of her dream.
He only hoped he hadn’t taken too big a risk on an asset that was a complete unknown. Because Olivia Fitzgerald was undoubtedly a wild card. She would either be the most brilliant play he’d ever orchestrated, or the one that would bring him down.
