His Million-Dollar Marriage Proposal

“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 marriage is on the rocks. She’s unhappy. Gianni is worried he can’t hold her.”

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “Why don’t you just tell Gianni he has nothing to worry about? That you have a heart of stone.”

He reached into his jeans pocket and retrieved a box. Flipping it open, he revealed the ring inside. “I think this will be more effective. It looked like you. What do you think?”

Her jaw dropped at the enormous asscher-cut diamond with its halo of pave-set stones embedded into the band. It was the most magnificent thing she’d ever seen.

“Lazzero,” she said unsteadily. “I did not sign on for this. This is insane.”

“Think of it as a prop, that’s all.” He picked up her left hand and slid the glittering diamond on her index finger. Her heart thudded as she drank in how perfectly it suited her hand. How it fit like a glove. How warm and strong his fingers were wrapped around hers, tattooing her skin with the pulse of attraction that beat between them.

How crazy this was.

She tugged her hand free. “You can’t possibly expect me to wear this. What if I put it down somewhere? What if I lose it?”

“It’s insured. There’s no need to worry.”

“How much is it worth?”

“A couple million.”

She yanked the ring off her hand. “No,” she said, setting it on the table in front of him. “Absolutely not. Get something cheaper.”

“I am not,” he said calmly, “giving you a cheaper engagement ring because you are afraid of losing it. Carolina will be all over it. She will notice.”

“And what happens when we call this off?” She searched desperately for objections. “What is Gianni going to think about that?”

“I should have him on board by then. We can let it die a slow death when we get back.” He took her hand and slid the ring on again.

“I won’t sleep,” Chiara murmured, staring at the ring, her heart pounding. Not when she would publicly, if only for a few days, be branded the future Mrs. Lazzero Di Fiore. It was crazy. She would be crazy to agree to do this.

She should shut it down right now. Would, if she were wise. But as she and Lazzero sat working out the remaining details, she couldn’t seem to find the words to say no. Because saving her father’s business was all that mattered. Pulling him out of this depression that was breaking her heart.

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

CHIARA, IN FACT, didn’t sleep. She spent Sunday morning bleary-eyed, nursing a huge cup of coffee while she filled out the passport application Lazzero was going to fast-track for her in the morning.

The dazzling diamond on her finger flashed in the morning sunlight—a glittering, unmistakable reminder of what she’d signed on to last night. Her heart lurched in her chest, a combination of caffeine and nerves. Playing Lazzero’s girlfriend was one thing. Playing his fiancée was another matter entirely. She was quickly developing a massive, severe case of cold feet.

She would be to Italy and back—unengaged—in ten days’ time, she reassured herself. No need to panic or for anyone to know. Except for her father, given she wouldn’t be able to help out at the bakery on the weekends. Nor could she check in on him as she always did every night, a fact that left her with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She chewed on her lip as she eyed her cell phone. Telling her father the truth about the trip was not an option. He would never approve of what she was doing, nor would his pride allow him to take the money. Lazzero, for whom logistics were clearly never a problem, had offered to make an angel donation to her father’s business through a community organization Supersonic supported which provided assistance to local businesses.

Which solved the problem of the money. It did not, however, help with the little white lie she was going to have to tell her father about why she was going to Italy. Her father had always preached the value of keeping an impeccable truth with yourself and with others. It will, he always said, save you much heartache in life. But in this case, she concluded, the end justified the means.

She called her father and told him she was going to be vacationing with friends in a house they’d rented in Lake Como, feeling like a massive ball of guilt by the time she’d gotten off the phone. Giving in to her need to ensure he would be okay while she was gone, she called Frankie DeLucca, an old friend of her father’s who lived down the street, and asked him to look in on her father while she was away.

She dragged her feet all the way down to meet Gareth, Lazzero’s driver, the next morning for her shopping expedition with Micaela Parker. She was intimidated before she’d even stepped out of the car as it halted in front of the posh Madison Avenue boutique where she was to meet the stylist. Everything in the window screamed one month’s salary.

Micaela was waiting for her in the luxurious lounge area of the boutique. An elegant blonde, all long, lean legs, she was more interesting looking than beautiful. But she was so perfectly put together in jeans, a silk T-shirt and a blazer, funky jewelry at her wrists and neck, Chiara could only conclude she was in excellent hands. Micaela was, after all, the dresser of a quarter of Manhattan’s celebrities.

“Tell me a bit about your personal style,” Micaela prompted over coffee.

Chiara showed her a few of her own pieces she’d made on her phone. Micaela gave them a critical appraisal. “I like them,” she said finally. “Very Coachella boho. Those soft feminine lines look great on you.”

“Within reason.” A pang moved through her at the praise. “I have too many curves.”

“You have perfect curves. You just need to show them off properly.” Micaela handed back her phone. “What other staples do you have in your wardrobe we can work with?”

Not much, it turned out.

“Not a problem,” Micaela breezed. “We’ll get you everything. Luckily,” she teased, “Lazzero’s PA gave me carte blanche. He must be seriously smitten with you.”