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,”
