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
