Читать книгу His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal - Jennifer Hayward - Страница 11

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?”