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

Outwardly she was perfect. Internally she was a mess.

She glanced over at her complex, stunning fiancé for a smidge of reassurance, but he had his head down working. Had been since they’d taken off seven hours ago.

She took advantage of the moment to study him. He may not be attracted to her, but she was to him, and he knew it. The way his tall, lithe body was too big for the streamlined airplane seat, the hard olive-skinned muscle visible where his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the serious, intensely male lines of his face that always seemed to be furrowed in concentration, made her feel distinctly weak at the knees.

Pathetic, really, when he hadn’t exercised any of those attributes on her since that kiss against her door, except for a few possessive touches during the dinner with Alessandra. She’d been sadly responsive to him, while he’d remained unaffected.

He also hated her. Let’s not forget that. Reason number one to ignore him. He was an arrogant son of a bitch who thought she was a sycophant who’d bedded his seventy-year-old grandfather. She needed to get over him. Now.

She sighed and tapped her fingers on the glossy pages of the magazine lying on her lap. At least the massive amount of media coverage had negated the need to inform her parents of her engagement. Her mother had called her within minutes of reading the first tabloid piece, salivating over Rocco’s money. Olivia had wanted to tell her she’d never see a penny of it, but Rocco had forbade her from revealing the truth to anyone. Which left her with exactly no one to confide in.

And God forbid she confide her feelings to her fiancé. Alessandra Mondelli, who’d been clearly fascinated with her brother’s sudden engagement, clearly shocked to find Olivia hiding out in Milan and clearly determined to know all the details, had given her the lowdown on the man who seemed about as open as an ice cream shop on a bitterly cold February day.

“He’s a driven perfectionist who’s been forced his whole life to take charge,” Alessandra had told her when Rocco had left their table in the busy Milanese restaurant to chat with a business acquaintance. “Of us when our father left, and of the company when Giovanni went running wild with his creative pursuits and left the business side of things in disarray.” Alessandra had shaken her head. “He’s hurting badly about Giovanni, but in typical Rocco fashion, he’s internalized it all.”

Alessandra’s comments should have made Rocco seem more human, more approachable, but had instead only increased her insecurities. Yes, she was a world-famous beauty, but she was not her fiancé’s type. He’d told her so.

That was supposed to help her heading into tonight’s dinner with the formidable Stefan Bianco, who apparently had had his heart broken by a woman after his money?

Amazing.

She squirmed in her seat. Rocco glanced over at her, a sigh escaping his lips. “Are you always this distracted? You’re like a six-year-old in need of toys...”

She rolled her eyes at how badly he read her. How completely inaccurately he’d judged her. To Rocco she was Mata Hari reincarnate.

“The paparazzi are going to be out in force looking for us,” she murmured. “I’m anxious.”

“Aren’t you used to it by now?”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “I would have preferred an evening to acclimatize before I have to face it. It’s intimidating enough having to convince one of your best friends we’re mad about each other. Having a camera shoved in my face, I could do without.”

His smile flashed white in the muted confines of the jet. “Worried you won’t be able to control yourself?”

“From clawing your eyes out?” she came back tartly. “Yes.”

The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened. “You know, I actually think we might pull this off. We argue like an old married couple.”

She made a face. “Luckily this madness will end before that happens.”

A curious gleam entered his eyes. “Do you ever intend to marry?”

“It isn’t high on my list. I think I’ll rely on my career as a designer instead.”

His brow arched. “You don’t want a big poufy dress and a veil? A lifetime commitment?”

“I’m not sure I’m capable of that kind of love.”

Wow. She hadn’t even realized she’d thought that until she’d said it.

He reclined back in his chair and fixed her with a speculative look. “That’s an honest statement. One I can identify with.”

“You don’t think you are, either?”

His lips curled. “I don’t think I’m not, I know I’m not. It’s what makes this engagement of convenience just so very easy for me.”

She wondered what had brought him to that conclusion. What was behind the cynicism Giovanni had spoken of when it came to his grandson... Despite his transgressions, Giovanni and his son had been madly in love with their wives. The Mondelli men clearly fell hard. So what had happened to Rocco? Had a woman burned him badly?

Their conversation was cut off as they made their final descent into Manhattan. The elegant little jet set down on the runway, they disembarked into the chill of a winter Manhattan night and were quickly ushered into a car operated by Rocco’s driver and spirited to the Mondelli apartment in the heart of the city.

The insistent, pulsing energy of New York wrapped itself around her like a particularly deadly python with the ability to steal her breath. Her nerves began to shred as they navigated its busy streets and honking horns.

She had once adored this city, thrived on it as if it were her lifeblood. Later, she had grown to hate it for what it had done to her, to the people she loved. Now her dominant emotion was fear. Fear of a debilitating variety.

Her chest as she stepped out of the limo in front of the Mondellis’ exclusive Central Park West apartment building was so tight she felt as though they were on a smog alert times a million. She pressed a hand to the cool metal exterior of the car to steady herself. Rocco was by her side in a nanosecond, cupping her elbow.

“Are you all right?”

No, she wasn’t all right. She’d never be all right again in this city.

But now was the time to pull herself together if she were to survive. She sucked in a deep breath, forced herself to nod and step away from the car. If she didn’t think about Petra, if she didn’t think about that last show at the Lincoln Center and how she’d disintegrated in front of her peers, she might just pull this off.

Rocco kept his hand under her elbow as he guided her into the limestone-faced building, notorious for its wealthiest-of-the-wealthy residents and the deal makers who anchored it with their vast fortunes. The doorman let them out on the twentieth floor, referring to Rocco by name as he wished them a good evening.

The apartment was beautifully decorated in muted caramels and greens, complementing the exquisite, original finish work the renovators had restored to a gleaming mahogany. Olivia headed straight for the long, narrow terrace that overlooked the park, braced her hands on the iron railing and sucked in big breaths, the chill in the air filling her lungs.

Rocco joined her, his jacket discarded, tie loosened. “What is it?” he asked quietly, throwing her a sideways glance. “What is it that upsets you so much about this city you were so triumphant in?”

The genuine concern on his face, the unusual softness in his voice, almost made her believe he cared. But letting her guard down around the man who held all the cards in this deal of theirs would be stupidity.

“It has some bad memories for me. I’m not the naive young girl making tons of money who couldn’t see beyond the bright lights and the rush anymore.”

His gaze rested on her face with that unnerving intensity he brought to everything. “Everyone has bad memories, Olivia. You can’t let them control you.”

“I’m not,” she said brightly. “We’re having dinner at an outrageously good restaurant, I get to meet the illustrious Stefan Bianco and I’m about to become a household name again. Who could ask for more?”

She spun on her heel and strode inside. The first thing she noticed upon further investigation of the luxury apartment was that there was only one bedroom in the suite.

They were sharing a bed.

Oh, Lord. She glanced around desperately. Maybe there was a pullout sofa.

“Only one bed,” Rocco qualified, coming to a halt behind her. “Sorry, princessa. This apartment wasn’t meant for entertaining.”

Compartmentalize, she told herself. She needed to compartmentalize this problem and focus on the big one at the moment: getting ready for this dinner she so heartily didn’t want to attend. She glanced at the grandfather clock ticking loudly in the lounge, and her queasiness dissolved into panic. They had to leave in fifteen minutes.

She hightailed it into the bathroom. Luckily she was adept at putting on her face in just under seven minutes. Her hair, a bit wild from the travel, would have to be put up in a quick chignon. And her dress...

Which dress?