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 paused, his hand on the handle of the Aventador’s door. Suddenly the path forward became clear. He had what Olivia needed as head of one of the most powerful design houses in the world. Olivia had what he needed if he could persuade her to come back to modeling for a year as the exclusive face of Mondelli. Her star power would turn Mondelli into a superstar brand, the couture house of the moment, the board would fall to its knees at such an acquisition and he would have control of his company again.

Adrenaline fueled his movements as he stepped into his car and brought it purring to life. Making Olivia an offer she couldn’t refuse was an undeniably alluring play. But there was something else his mind was manufacturing that would be the icing on the cake. The pièce de résistance. Olivia Fitzgerald as the face of Mondelli and the brand-new fiancée of the CEO of House of Mondelli. A perfect union from all angles. And the perfect way to convince the board he had House of Mondelli as his top priority.

All his problems solved in one tidy little package.

A smile curved his mouth. Renzo Rialto would wet himself. How much more could he want? Now all he had to do was persuade Olivia Fitzgerald his plan was in both their interests.

* * *

Olivia was packing a box of design materials when the knocking sounded hard and insistent on her front door. Thinking it might be Violetta coming to help, and frowning at her exuberance, she got to her feet, dusted off her hands and went to answer it. Any distraction to take her mind off her rather desperate situation was welcome at this point.

When she saw who was standing in the hallway, she amended that thought. Any distraction other than a fully resplendent Rocco Mondelli clad in the dark suit he’d worn to the funeral that morning. Despite her vow to hate him, her heart pitter-pattered in her chest as she took him in leaning against the doorjamb, impatience written across his olive-skinned face.

“You said I had a month.”

“You do.” He walked past her into the apartment. “You’ll find I’m a man of my word, Olivia. Have you had any luck yet finding another apartment?”

A man of his word? He’d deliberately seduced and misled her in this very apartment. She gave him a cool look and shut the door. “As a matter of fact, no, but I thought I’d better start getting packed up before you send in the goons.”

“I won’t have to.” He waved a hand toward the kitchen. “This time I would like an espresso.”

She stared at him in amazement. “You were ready to toss me out of that funeral this morning and now I’m supposed to make you coffee?”

He returned her stare, nonplussed. “I have an offer I think you’d like to hear.”

Not in this decade.

His mouth curved. “Get me that coffee, Olivia.”

Deciding she wasn’t really in a position to argue because he could toss her out on her butt at this very moment, she walked past him to the kitchen, emptied the grinds from the espresso machine and did his bidding. He stood there, hands in his pockets, watching her.

“You were genuinely sad this morning.”

She pressed the start button, turned and leaned back against the counter. “I loved Giovanni. Of course I was.”

“So now it’s love,” he jibed. “Giovanni was madly in love with a woman and I hadn’t a clue. How remarkable.”

“You can walk right back out that door if this is the way this is going to go.”

“Nessuno, Liv, it isn’t.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the countertop. “I’m going to make you an offer that makes a whole lot of sense, you’re going to take it and we’re going to make the most of this difficult situation.”

“There’s nothing you could say that would convince me to have anything to do with you after what you did to me.”

“I think you’re wrong.” He waved his hand toward the living room and the packed boxes littering every open space. “You are never going to be able to afford an apartment in Milan that will allow you to do your design work on a barista’s salary. You’ve made it clear returning to your former life is not an option and you cannot rely on family and friends for help. So all you have left,” he concluded, touching his chest, “is me.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” she said pointedly, shoulders rising to her ears. “I will figure out a way.”

His gaze darkened to a forbidding ebony. “What if I said I would honor the commitment Giovanni made to you? But I would take it even further. I would move the development of your line in-house at Mondelli, offer you all the design and marketing support we have and bring it to market for the fall of next year.”

Her mouth dropped open. He would take the development of her line in-house? Why, when he clearly thought so little of her?

“Because you have something I want, Olivia.” He answered her unspoken question with a twist of his lips. “I need a face to carry the House of Mondelli through the next year. Bridget Thomas’s contract is up and I don’t care to renew it. I would offer you a five-million-dollar contract for the year. You coming back to modeling would generate a great deal of excitement for the brand, make people stand up and pay attention again.”

Her heart dropped. “I’m not modeling anymore. That part of my life is over.”

He nodded. “I understand you want to design, that that’s where your heart is. But surely one year, twelve months of your life, to secure your dream isn’t such a hardship.”

“No.” The word flew out of her mouth, harsh, vehement. “I will never model again.”

He pinned his gaze on her. “Why? What happened to make you give it all up?”

Her last appearance on a runway. Her best friend overdosing after walking that same runway months before... The memory of it slammed through her head, dark and terrifying. She reached back and gripped the counter, her fingertips pressing into the cold granite. She had completely lost it that night, her pressure-packed life finally eating her alive. And she was never going back.

She lifted her gaze to his. “It doesn’t matter why. I left and I’m not going back.”

“When the alternative is letting your dream die?” He stared at her, an incredulous look on his face. “If you debut a line with House of Mondelli you will instantly become a star of the design world. You won’t have to build a reputation, you will have one immediately. And from there, all you need to do is choose your path. You would never have to set foot on a runway again after the twelve months.”

She sank her palms into her temples and turned away. It was tempting, so tempting, to say yes. What he was saying was true. She’d thanked her lucky stars when Giovanni had taken her under his wing, because with his help she could succeed in a cutthroat industry that was almost impossible to break into. She could change her life and finally be happy. But return to modeling to make it happen? Acid inched its way up her throat. Not doable.

It would be the end of her this time.

She turned back to him, her features schooled into an expressionless mask. “I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.”

The incredulity on his face deepened. “I would wipe out the three-million-dollar debt you owe Le Ciel for the contract you broke.”

She pulled in a deep breath. Lord, he was hitting all her weak spots. She would love to erase that blight on her track record. It would put her at peace with the world. But she couldn’t do it. “No.”

He lifted his shoulders, his gaze cool and calculating. “Then you’d better keep packing.”

Desperation surged through her. “You saw the designs. They’re amazing. Let me show them to you properly and you’ll see how perfect they are for Mondelli’s fall line. Let me bring them to market with you as Giovanni intended. The cachet of having my name attached to them, Giovanni’s name, will give you that buzz you are looking for. It doesn’t have to be me modeling.”

He shook his head. “You have no cachet as a designer. I want you as the face of Mondelli. That is the only deal on the table.”

“Then, no.” She would rather beg on the street than go back to modeling.

“I would take some time to think about it,” he advised, pushing away from the counter. “I won’t ask again. And while you’re at it, you might want to consider the other half of my offer.”

She was almost afraid to ask what it was.

“I want to create huge buzz around our partnership. Therefore, if you accept my offer to be the face of Mondelli, we would also announce our engagement to the world at the same time. The marriage of two great brands.”

Her mouth fell open, a dizzy feeling sweeping through her. He was joking. He had to be joking, except there wasn’t one bit of humor on his beautiful face.

“That idea is preposterous.”

“It’s genius. A master publicity stunt.”

She shook her head. “We hate each other. How would we possibly convince the world we are in love?”

A cynical smile twisted his lips. “Chemistry, Liv. We may hate each other, but neither of us would be being honest if we didn’t admit that was one hell of a kiss against that door, bella.”

“And this engagement...” she ventured weakly. “Would it be real or pretend?”

“Real?” His gaze moved scathingly over her. “You think I would take the gold digger who used my grandfather for his money as a fiancée in the true sense of the word?”

Fury singed her veins, fisting her hands at her sides. “For the last time, I didn’t use him.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He waved a hand at her. “All of that is inconsequential now. I’m offering you a way out of your situation. Our engagement would cover the period of your contract with Mondelli. Once you’ve fulfilled it, we go our separate ways—uncouple, as it’s fashionably put these days. You will have your line with Mondelli and my promise to support you every step of the way.”

This time she was speechless. He wanted her to act as his fiancée? She’d had to acquire the skills of an actress to model, but this was way, way beyond her skill set.

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “I will never return to modeling. If that’s the only form your proposal will take, I’ll have to decline.”

He shrugged. “It’s your decision. You have a week to come to me. After that the offer is off the table, this apartment is no longer yours and you, Olivia, better have a backup plan.”

She watched as he turned on his heel and left, apparently not that interested in the espresso this time around, either. The sound of the door thudding shut made her wince. She had no backup plan. She had no plan at all. All she had was a beautiful apartment she desperately didn’t want to leave, a life she’d built here she loved and an almost complete fall line that would make all her dreams come true if the House of Mondelli put its name behind it.

Everywhere she looked, she was out of options. Out of time. And that bastard knew it. He damn well knew it.

CHAPTER FOUR

OLIVIA SPENT THE REST of the week scouring Milan for apartments that would accommodate her work. She grew more dismayed with each visit. None of them were big enough, even if she did take on a roommate to afford one. The luxury apartment Giovanni had given her use of was palatial in comparison.

The end of her shift at the café at hand, she pulled her apron over her head, drew herself an espresso from the machine and sat down at one of the tables outside. She had to be out of the apartment tomorrow. The only thing she could do was pack up her designs, move into Violetta’s already overcrowded house and pound doors to see if a local designer would take her on—which was unlikely, given how ultracompetitive the marketplace was.

Or she could go home, tail between her legs, and try to work some of her New York contacts. But New York wasn’t going to be an easier nut to crack, and the thought of answering the inevitable questions when doors did open made her stomach knot. She wasn’t ready to go back.

Panic rose up inside of her, her fingers curling tight around the handle of her cup. If she’d been more on top of her career, her finances, she wouldn’t be in this situation. She never would have let her mother take control and fritter the money away. A lot of money. But preoccupied with pressure-packed million-dollar assignments and endorsements, traveling out of a suitcase more often than not, barely knowing what time zone she was in, let alone keeping her head above water, she’d had put her trust in the one person she’d thought she could.

Her mother had never been able to hold a real job when her career had fizzled out, and Olivia’s father, Deacon Fitzgerald, had left when she was eight. A B-list photographer, her father had abandoned his career and started over with a new family and a new job at the transit company in a bid to erase the woman who had broken his heart. Olivia and her mother had sputtered along with whatever money her father could provide and her mother’s spotty, on-again, off-again jobs until Olivia’s career had taken off and Tatum had put the only skills she had, managing her, to work making her daughter a household name. But the more money Olivia had made, the faster it had gone, and the vicious, never-ending cycle was cemented.

The discovery she was broke on the heels of her best friend Petra Danes’s overdose had sent her on a tailspin she’d never recovered from. The money had been her way out, and when that door was closed she’d quite literally self-destructed that last night in New York.

She took a sip of the coffee, the acrid brew harsh on her tongue. She’d come to Milan because she couldn’t do it anymore. She was not healed; she needed time. That hadn’t changed.

She watched as one exquisitely dressed Italian after another strolled by, the women in designer dresses even for a trip to the market. Turning to her father in her darkest time, for emotional support if not financial, hadn’t been an option. She’d been so young when he’d left she’d hardly known him. And though they’d met regularly for a while until she was a teenager, each time she’d seen him it had grown more awkward and painful, as if her father had wanted to put as much distance between him and his old life as he could. So Olivia had stopped trying to see him, and he’d stopped calling except on big occasions like her birthday. And that was the way it had been ever since.

She bit her lip, refusing to get emotional over a parent lottery she’d lost a long time ago. A resigned clarity fell over her. She had only two choices: give up or accept Rocco Mondelli’s offer. And since giving up her dream wasn’t on the table, it left her only with the option to return to a career she’d vowed she never would. To an industry that had almost eaten her alive.

Her lashes fluttered down. Something Giovanni had said to her in those early dark days filled her head. Passion is what makes life worth living, ragazza mia. If you don’t have it in your soul, it dies a day at a time. Stop thinking of what you must do and start thinking of what will save you.

And that was how she finally made her decision.

* * *

Olivia Fitzgerald showed up at his office forty-eight hours after Rocco had predicted she would. He instructed his assistant, Gabriella, to show her in. Gabriella appeared seconds later with Olivia at her side, an expectant look on his assistant’s face.

“Go home,” he instructed his PA. “I’m on my way out, as well. Buona serata.”

Gabriella echoed his farewell and disappeared. Olivia stood just inside the doorway, her carefully controlled expression veiling whatever thoughts were going on in her beautiful head. The tap of her toe on the marble was the only indicator she was apprehensive about what she’d come to do, and he liked that there was at least one outward sign filling him in on the inside picture.

The outside view was undeniably compelling. Her dark jeans made the most of her long legs, the cut of her clingy jersey shirt emphasizing her cool blonde beauty. Her hair was caught up in a ponytail once again, big dark sunglasses perched on her head as if to say she wasn’t coming out of hiding until absolutely forced to.

He felt his nerve receptors react to her with that same layers-deep effect she’d had on him that night in Navigli. Even without makeup, she was still the most arresting woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

She lifted her chin as he brought his gaze slowly back up to her face. “If you’re on your way out, we can do this another time.”

“I’m on my way home.” He got to his feet and reached for his briefcase. “I’m staying at my apartment in Milan tonight. We can talk there.”

“This won’t take long,” she supplied hastily. “No need for that.”

His mouth twisted. “I’m assuming you’ve come to take me up on my offer?”

Her lips pressed together. “Yes.”

“Then we have lots to talk about. We can do it over dinner.” He tossed the file he’d been working on into his briefcase, along with another pile of documents.

“I don’t want to intrude on your evening. Why don’t we...”

“Olivia.” He lifted his head and pinned his gaze on hers. “Let’s get something straight right off the top. In this relationship, I talk and you listen. I make the rules. You follow them. In no way is this going to be an equal, democratic partnership. Not for the money I’m paying you.”

Her mouth dropped open. “I haven’t signed your deal yet.”

“But you will, because you’re here.” He dropped a last sheaf of papers in the briefcase and snapped it shut.

She sank her hands into her hips, her sapphire eyes a vivid blue beam blazing into him. “That night in Navigli must have been an aberration. Is this how you really treat your women? Favor them with a wild night in bed so they’ll nip at your heels as required?”

He smiled at that. “Usually I have a bit more finesse, but in this case, it isn’t necessary. Make no mistake about it, Olivia, Navigli was about me finding out what kind of a woman you really are. That was all.”

Better she chew on that than the naked, unadulterated urge he felt to show her that wild ride in bed before he brought her to heel. Because this was a business arrangement. She had been Giovanni’s lover. And rule number one for this particular business arrangement was to keep his hands off his soon-to-be pretend fiancée.

She flashed him a defiant look. “Helpful, then, for our little charade that you are such a magnificent actor. You fooled me with that kiss. It almost felt as if you meant it.”

He lifted a brow, his gaze raking over her face. “As much as I’m loath to damage your ego heading into this very important assignment for both of us, I’m afraid my taste runs to sophisticated brunettes of a European bent. So you are quite safe, cara, from me.”

She flinched, a tiny, almost indiscernible retraction he would have missed had he not been studying her so intently. Bene. The more they ignored the undeniable attraction between them, the better.

Her long, gold-tipped lashes came down to veil her eyes. “Too bad you’re saddled with a very blonde, outspoken American fiancée for a year.”

He gave her a slow smile. “I can handle you, Olivia, and you know it.”

“You think you can because you are the epitome of arrogance.” Fire lit the blue gaze she trained on him. “How is this going to work, then? Your overactive libido is well documented. Do we act as a joyous engaged couple while you engage in a discreet liaison or two on the side?”

He shifted his weight to both feet, widening his stance, his laconic smile intensifying. “Who said I have an overactive libido? I would call it standard for a young, healthy male.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Your reputation speaks for itself.” Her gaze rested on him assessingly. “Giovanni thought it reflected a certain...emotional immaturity on your part. That you use it to avoid attachment.”

“Emotional immaturity?” His head jerked back. “He said that?”

She nodded. “He thought you and Alessandra suffered from not having a direct parental influence while growing up. He said he did the best he could, but it’s not the same as having your own parents to guide you.”

He stared speechlessly at her, absorbing the look of satisfaction on her face. He’d started this war of words, yes. But her telling him his grandfather’s innermost thoughts, thoughts that had apparently played a part in his decision to give Rocco a mere 50 percent stake in House of Mondelli? His fists itched to find the nearest wall and bury themselves in it. Giovanni had trusted his twenty-six-year-old lover enough to confide his thoughts in her, but not him?

He worked his jaw. Gathered his composure before he said something else to tip his cards. “What other confidences did Giovanni elect to illuminate you with?”

She gave him a wary look, as if realizing she might have gone too far. “He only made the odd comment here and there when we were talking about family. He was a private man, Rocco.”

Apparently not that private. He jammed his hands in his pockets and impaled her with his gaze. “To answer your question, there will be no liaisons for either of us. This is a five-million-dollar partnership, Olivia, plus what I had to pay Le Ciel to break the contract you reneged on. We don’t mess it up because we have to satisfy an urge. I can do that in the shower.”

Her cheeks flamed a rosy pink. “That discussion was more for your benefit than mine. I’m just trying to understand the ground rules.”

He picked up his briefcase and jacket. “They will become eminently clear as we discuss them over dinner. Shall we?”

She was silent as he drove them the short distance to the Mondelli penthouse, and he was glad for it, still steaming over the inside track she seemed to have on Giovanni’s thoughts.

His frustration had abated, somewhat, by the time they reached the Galleria Passarella area in the heart of Milan. He should be estatico. He had exactly what he wanted after all. The perfect jewel to dangle in front of the board to cement his control of the company he’d helped build. He was no longer sporting the shorter end of the stick in this power struggle, and it felt good. More than good.

The penthouse occupied the top three floors of a graceful, modern building with superb views of the city. Rocco had chosen it because of the uniqueness of its design, the hidden jewel it contained. With the living quarters located on the ninth floor, the architect had used the tenth and eleventh floors to create a garden paradise that overlooked the city, including a terrace big enough to entertain fifty and a rock-pool retreat.

They stopped on the ninth floor, where he requested a light meal for him and Olivia from his housekeeper, then he led the way up the stone staircase to the roof garden. He could tell from the wide-eyed wonder in her eyes Olivia loved it instantly.

“It’s hard to imagine this could exist up here.”

“Exactly why I bought it. The heaters I had built in keep it the perfect temperature year-round.” He opened his briefcase, pulled out her contract and tossed it on the soft-backed sofa near the pools. “Read through this while I get us a drink.”

She gave the contract a rueful look. “You were that sure of me?”

“A dream is a powerful thing,” he said simply. “So is desperation.”

She opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it after a long moment. Bene. She was learning.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“A glass of wine, thank you.”

He pulled a bottle of rosé out of the wine fridge and tore off the foil.

“A toxicology screen?”

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.”