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

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.”