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
