His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal

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 I’m working on a deal with, will be there as will my ex, Carolina, who is married to Gianni. Gianni is very territorial when it comes to his wife. It’s making it difficult to convince him he should do this deal with me, because the personal is getting mixed up with the business.”

“Are you involved with his wife?” The question tumbled out of Chiara’s mouth before she could stop it.

“No.” He flashed her a dark look. “I am not Phil. It was over with Carolina when I ended it. It will, however, smooth things out considerably if I take a companion with me to Italy to convince Gianni I am of no threat to him.”

Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. “You’re suggesting I go to Italy with you and play your girlfriend?”

“Yes. I would, of course, compensate you accordingly.”

“How?”

“With the money to help your father.”

Her jaw dropped. “Why would you do that? Surely a man like you has dozens of women you could take to Italy.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to take any of them. It will give them the wrong idea. What I need is someone who will be discreet, charming with my business associates and treat this as the business arrangement it would be. I think it could be an advantageous arrangement for us both.”

An advantageous arrangement. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Her ex, Antonio, had proposed a convenient arrangement. Except in Antonio’s case, she had been good enough to share his bed, but not blue-blooded enough to grace his arm in public.

Her stomach curled. Never would she voluntarily walk into that world again. Suffer that kind of humiliation. Be told she didn’t belong. Not for all the money in the world.

She shook her head. “I’m not the right choice for this. Clearly I’m not after what I said earlier.”

“That makes you the perfect choice,” Lazzero countered. “This thing with Samara Jones has made my life a circus. I need someone I can trust who has no ulterior motives. Someone I don’t have to worry about babysitting while I’m negotiating a multimillion-dollar deal. I just want to know she’s going to keep up her end of the bargain.”

“No.” She waved a hand at him. “It’s ridiculous. We don’t even know each other. Not really.”

“You’ve known me for over a year. We talk every day.”

“Yes,” she agreed, skepticism lacing her tone. “I ask you how business is, or ‘What’s the weather like out there, Lazzero?’ Or, ‘How about that presidential debate?’ We spend five minutes chitchatting, then I make your espresso. End of conversation.”

His sensual mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “So we have dinner together. I’m quite sure we can master the pertinent facts over a bottle of wine.”

Her stomach muscles coiled. He was disconcerting enough in his tailored, three-piece suit. She could only imagine what it would be like if he took the jacket off, loosened his tie and focused all that intensity on the woman involved over a bottle of wine. She knew exactly how that scenario went and it was not a mistake she was repeating.

“It would be impossible,” she dismissed. “I have my shifts here. I can’t afford to lose them.”

“Trade them off.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I don’t belong in that world, Lazzero. I have no desire to put myself in that world. I would stick out like a sore thumb. Not to mention the fact that I would never be believable as your current love interest.”

“I disagree,” he murmured, setting his espresso on the table and leaning forward, arms folded in front of him, eyes on hers. “You are beautiful, smart and adept at putting people at ease. With the right wardrobe and a little added...gloss, you would easily be the most stunning woman in the room.”

Gloss? A slow curl of heat unraveled inside of her, coiling around an ancient wound that had never healed. “A diamond in the rough so to speak,” she suggested, her voice pure frost.

His brow furrowed. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you meant it.”

“You know what I mean, Chiara. I was giving you a compliment. La Coppa Estiva is a different world.”

She flicked a wrist at him. “Exactly why I have no interest in this proposal of yours. In these high-stakes games you play. I thought I’d made that clear earlier.”

His gaze narrowed. “What I heard was you on your soapbox making wild generalizations about men of a certain tax bracket.”

“Hardly generalizations,” she refuted. “You need someone to take to Italy with you because you’ve left a trail of refuse behind you, Lazzero. Because Gianni Casale doesn’t trust you with his wife. I won’t be part of aiding and abetting that kind of behavior.”

“A trail of refuse?” His gaze chilled to a cool, hard ebony. “I think you’re reading too many tabloids.”

“I think not. You’re exactly the sort of man I want nothing to do with.”

“I’m not asking you to get involved with me,” he rebutted coolly. “I’m suggesting you get over this personal bias you have against a man with a bank balance and solve your financial problems while you’re at it. I have no doubt we can pull this off if you put your mind to it.”

“No.” She slid to the edge of the chair. “Ask someone else. I’m sure one of the other baristas would jump at the chance.”

“I don’t want them,” he said evenly, “I want you.” He threw an exorbitant figure of money at her that made her eyes widen. “It would go a long way toward helping your father.”

Chiara’s head buzzed. It would pay her father’s rent for the rest of the year. Would be enough to get him back on his feet after the unexpected expenses he’d incurred having to replace some machinery at the bakery. But surely what Lazzero was proposing was insane? She could never pull this off and even if she could, it would put her smack in the middle of a world she wanted nothing to do with.

She got to her feet before she abandoned her common sense completely. “I need to get back to work.”

Lazzero pulled a card out of his wallet, scribbled something on the back and handed it to her. “My cell number if you change your mind.”

CHAPTER TWO (#u0e9a8d9e-9eb8-55ec-9adb-ba9ead4e454f)

CHIARA’S HEAD WAS still spinning as she finished up her shift at the café and walked home on a gorgeous summer evening in Manhattan. She was too distracted, however, to take in the vibrant New York she loved, too worried about her father’s financial situation to focus.

If he couldn’t pay off the new equipment he’d purchased, he was going to lose the bakery—the only thing that seemed to get him up in the morning since her mother died. She couldn’t conceive of that prospect happening. Which left Lazzero’s shocking business proposition to consider.

She couldn’t possibly do it. Would be crazy to even consider it. But how could she not?

Her head no clearer by the time she’d picked up groceries at the corner store for a quiet night in, she carried them up the three flights of stairs of the old brick walk-up she and Kat shared in Spanish Harlem, and let herself in.

They’d done their best to make the tiny, two-bedroom apartment warm and cozy despite its distinct lack of appeal, covering the dingy walls in a cherry-colored paint, adding dark refinished furniture from the antiques store around the corner, and topping it all off with colorful throws and pillows.

It wasn’t much, but it was home.

Kat, who was busy getting ready for a date, joined her in the shoebox of a kitchen as Chiara stowed the groceries away. Possessing a much more robust social life than she, her roommate had plans to see a popular play with a new boyfriend she was crazy about. At the moment, however, lounging against the counter in a tomato-red silk dress and impossibly slender black heels, her roommate was hot on the trail of a juicy story.

“So,” she said. “What really happened with Lazzero Di Fiore today? And no blowing me off like you did earlier.”

Chiara—who thought Kat should’ve been a lawyer rather than the doctor she was training to be, she was so relentless in the pursuit of the facts—stowed the carton of milk in the fridge and stood up. “You can’t say anything to anyone.”