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

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.”

She nodded, looking a little overwhelmed.

“There is a design conference in New York next week the House of Mondelli is represented at. You will come with me and we will announce you as the new face of Mondelli at the press conference on the opening day.”

Her face went gray. “That’s very fast.”

“It’s the perfect opportunity. The eyes of the design world will be there.”

She pushed her hair out of her face in what he was coming to recognize as a nervous tick. “And the engagement? When do we announce that?”

“My plan is to let the gossip hounds do it. We go ring shopping tomorrow, we show up in New York together with a massive rock on your hand and let the buzz take care of the rest.”

The gray cast to her skin deepened. “And your family? When will we tell them?”

“We’ll have dinner with Alessandra tomorrow night and tell her. You have met her, sì?”

She nodded. “We worked together on a shoot a few years ago.”

“Bene. I am not intending on telling her the truth about us. She is too chatty, too apt to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. It’s better she takes it for what it is.”

She frowned. “Is our engagement really worth all this subterfuge? Wouldn’t it be easier to simply announce me as the new face of Mondelli? It will generate a huge amount of buzz in its own right.”

His gaze speared hers. “This is more than a publicity stunt, Olivia. This is the joining of two of the world’s great brands. The creation of a dynasty, so to say. It will be a far more powerful story than you simply becoming the face of Mondelli.”

“And when we end our engagement?”

“That will only increase the buzz. Everyone loves a heartsick, broken couple. It’s great photography.”

She looked at him as if he had an answer for everything. He did, in fact.

“I will have your belongings transferred to Villa Mondelli this week. I spend most of my time there commuting back and forth so it makes sense you are there with me. But we’ll delay your actual move date until after we get back from New York. I have meetings in London later this week, and you likely won’t want to spend your first days in the villa alone.”

Her face lost the remainder of its color. “We’re to live together?”

His mouth curved. “We’re madly in love, Olivia. Of course we’re living together.”

“Yes, but—” she waved a hand at him “—we could position it as we’re both so busy, I’m going to be traveling a ton, it just makes sense to keep it separate until we marry. I mean, living apart doesn’t preclude...”

“A wild night in bed?” He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, bella, but I’m not sleeping on your sofa to make this look real. You will move into Villa Mondelli when we get back.”

She gave him an agitated look. “The apartment...”

He shrugged. “It’s a good investment. If you can manage not to blow your money this time, maybe I’ll allow you to buy it back.”

Her mouth tightened. He plunged on relentlessly, “We have a lot of work to do before New York. Alessandra will be all about the big eyes for each other, but my Sicilian friend Stefan, who will undoubtedly want to toast us in New York, will be tougher. We’ll need to know each other inside out.”

She scrunched her face up. “What do you mean by tough?”

A wry smile twisted his mouth. “I went to Columbia with three other men I became very close with. We are all confirmed bachelors. For me to announce my engagement, to make such a quick, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, we’re going to have to make our feelings for each other convincing.”

She slid a perfectly manicured nail in her mouth. “What will our story be, then?”

“I think we should say we met in a café and it was love at first sight.”

She arched a brow at him, the humor of it all lost on her apparently. “And this was when?”

“A month ago. We’ve been staying out of the limelight, but now with your return to the modeling world, we’re making our engagement public.”

She chewed on the fingernail. That would have to stop, but he wasn’t about to antagonize her further tonight. “Is there anyone you need to tell about the engagement?”

“My parents, eventually. I can do that in New York.”

“You don’t want to give them a heads-up?”

“We’re not close,” she said flatly. “It can wait.”

“Siblings? Close friends? Anyone we should invite out the night we see Stefan?”

A shadow made its way across her face, intensifying the dark bags under her eyes. “No siblings,” she said quietly. “And there are just the friends I’ve made here in Milan.”

He nodded. “Any other details I should know?”

“No.” She took a sip of her wine and lifted her gaze to his. “What else should I know about my fiancé other than the fact he is cynical and arrogant?”

“I work. A lot. Christian Markos and Zayed Al Afzal are my other two close friends I went to Columbia with. Christian is a financial genius based in Athens. Zayed has recently gone home to take the throne in his home country of Gazbiyaa.”

“He’s a king?”

“A sheikh. Gazbiyaa is in the heart of the Arabian desert.”

“Okaaay.” She rubbed a palm against her temple. “And Stefan? What does he do?”

“He’s in high-end real estate. As in the deals that make the Wall Street Journal... He doesn’t touch anything under ten million.”

She shook her head. “Quite the group of underachievers.”

He lifted a shoulder. “We are all driven. But very different. More like brothers than friends. We even argue that way.”

She smiled, and, Dio, when she did, it made the night sky light up. He’d have to make sure she didn’t do that often. “You should know we run a charity together. It’s a big thing for us. The Knights of Columbia was created to help disadvantaged youth overcome their backgrounds and succeed in business. It’s based in New York, but we all do work in our home countries and funnel the kids through to various business programs in Manhattan.” He took a sip of his wine. “We also personally mentor some of the kids.”

Her eyes brightened. “It sounds amazing. Whose idea was it?”

“It arose out of work Christian was doing. He grew up on the streets of Athens, the child of a single mother. He never knew his father, had to fight his way out of poverty to take care of himself and his mother. It has defined him as a man, and he wanted to give back. We all loved what he was doing and wanted to be a part of it. Thus, the Knights of Columbia was born.”

“I did charity work when I worked for Le Ciel,” she murmured. “I miss it.”

“We have a charity for young female designers who have suffered at the hands of men and have been forced to resort to shelters. It would be a great thing for you to get involved with if you have time.”

“I would love to.” She pressed her fingers against her mouth, her gaze uncertain. “You are so close to these men. How ever are we going to convince them this is real?”

An image of her plastered against the door of her apartment begging for more of him flashed through his head. His lip curled. “Act like you did that night in Navigli—act as if you want to devour me, as if you can’t wait to get your hands on me. It doesn’t get any more convincing than that.”

A flush filled her cheeks. “That might be difficult,” she drawled in response, “now that I know what kind of a man you are.”

The insult bounced off him like the most ineffective of feints. “Fortunately, cara, pheromones aren’t ruled by the brain. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

Her fingers tightened around the glass. He could tell she wanted to slap them across his face and tell him what to do with his deal. But she restrained herself because they both knew how important this was. For him, it was his chance to solidify control of House of Mondelli. For Olivia, her chance to take hold of her dream.

He only hoped he hadn’t taken too big a risk on an asset that was a complete unknown. Because Olivia Fitzgerald was undoubtedly a wild card. She would either be the most brilliant play he’d ever orchestrated, or the one that would bring him down.

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS A New York press frenzy at its finest, camera people crawling over one another to get a better position, journalists jockeying their way to the front of the room, extralarge coffee cups clutched in their hands. The buzz of a big story was in the air.

“No doubt way over the fire code,” Savanna Piers, Mondelli’s chic head of public relations, commented wryly, “but no one’s going anywhere.”

Olivia stood alongside Savanna and Rocco in the atrium of the hotel where the annual meeting of fashion designers was being held, the opening press conference about to begin. Standing beside them were spokespeople from the other represented manufacturers, but it was clear from the tone of the overheard conversations nobody wanted to talk to them. They all wanted to talk to her: Olivia Fitzgerald, the supermodel who had abandoned her career at its peak, defected on a three-million-dollar contract with a major French cosmetics company and disappeared from the face of the earth.

A sheen of perspiration blanketed her body. She felt a pool of it trickle down her back. Felt her breathing quicken as the oxygen in the room seemed to drain with every second...

The colors and movement around her faded into a detail-less swirling gray. It reached out for her then, the panic, beckoning her, dark and familiar. She pulled in a desperate breath and fought it. Tried to hold it at bay, but the room grew darker around her.

“I need some air.” She backed away and headed toward the hallway. Standing with her back against the wall in the corridor as catering staff bustled by her, she closed her eyes and made herself breathe in and out, deep long breaths like her therapist had taught her.

Eleven years she’d been having these panic attacks. Since she was fifteen. And they never got less terrifying. On the road in foreign countries with no support system in her emotionally unavailable parents and the stress of having to be the best every time she stepped onto a set, they’d started one night in Berlin. Debilitating, overwhelming, she’d been terrified of them. It had felt as though she was losing her mind.

Petra had finally made her see a doctor. Her therapist had helped her get the attacks somewhat under control, but when the pressure was high she couldn’t fight them. Like that night at the Lincoln Center. It had ended her career.

“Olivia.”

Rocco had joined her in the hallway. She opened her eyes to look at him, but the world kept swaying around her and she closed them again.

“There was no air in there.”

He took her hands in his and pulled her down into a squatting position. “Head between your knees.”

She pushed her head down and breathed. But it didn’t seem as if she could get enough air into her lungs... The blackness was calling to her. Comforting. Easier than being here.

Rocco’s hands tightened around hers. “No. Don’t do that. Breathe, Olivia. Deep breaths, in and out.”

His hands were tight around her ice cold ones. Insistent. She kept breathing, in and out. Deep, steadying pulls of air into her lungs. And slowly the blackness receded.

She brought herself upright. Rocco’s gaze was pinned on her, dark and concerned. “Better?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at his watch. “We’re starting in five minutes. Are you okay to go back in?”

She nodded.

He brought her to her feet with a hand around her waist and kept a firm palm to her back as they walked back inside. Savanna led them to the side of the podium, her eagle-eyed gaze resting on Olivia’s face. “Focus on the feel-good story of you and Rocco and your partnership. No one’s going to choose mean over a picture-perfect story if they have any sense. You’re America’s sweetheart. Go with it.”

Was. She had been America’s sweetheart... Now she was afraid sensational was going to rule the day.

She straightened the hem of her dress as the president of this year’s conference took the stage and made his opening remarks. By the time Mondelli was summoned forward, Olivia’s knees were knocking against one another. Rocco captured her hand in his and started up the steps to the podium. The room blurred into a sea of faces and electronics as she climbed the steps, her clammy fingers clutching tighter to Rocco’s as they ascended.

“Relax,” he murmured out of the side of his mouth, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’m right here with you.”

Despite her ever-present antagonism toward him, she did feel better with him by her side. Rocco was like that tree in a storm you knew would never come down. Its roots were too secure, its foundation too solid, to ever be unearthed by a mere media scrum.

Reporters began yelling questions even before they reached the microphone. Rocco held up a hand to silence them. “If you’ll let me make my announcement, there will be plenty of time for questions.”

When the din finally cleared, Rocco tugged on her hand and drew her to the microphone. “I know you have all missed her, which is why I am thrilled to welcome Olivia Fitzgerald back to the modeling world as the new face of the House of Mondelli.”

The room broke out in a fevered pitch. Rocco held up a hand and silenced them. “Combining the talents of one of the world’s most famous faces with one of the globe’s most venerable fashion houses is an undeniably exciting occasion to mark. But,” he added, slipping an arm around Olivia’s waist and tucking her into his side, “as many of you have speculated, there is another union we are even more happy to announce, and that is the forthcoming marriage of Olivia and I.”

The noise in the room grew deafening. Savanna stepped forward and took control of the Q and A. “Francesca,” she called out, pointing to an older blond-haired fashion reporter from one of the networks.

“First of all,” Francesca began, “congratulations on your engagement and partnership.” Her gaze shifted to Olivia. “The mystery we’re all trying to unravel, Olivia, is why you disappeared at the peak of your career. Would you care to set the record straight?”

Olivia swallowed hard. Why couldn’t they just let the past lie?

“It’s very simple.” She forced the words through excessively dry lips. “I just needed some time away. I was working on a project I’m going to be very excited to tell you about shortly.”

The veteran reporter lifted a brow. “You reneged on a three-million-dollar contract with Le Ciel to take some personal time?”

Her heart dropped. Here we go.

“That contract has now been settled,” she said huskily. “For legal reasons, I have to leave it at that.”

“Word is,” Francesca continued, undaunted, “Le Ciel is furious. Do you think this will impact your career going forward?”

Olivia felt some of her old press savvy kick back in. “I was just named the face of Mondelli. Does it look like it?”

The veteran reporter inclined her head with a wry smile.

“Where were you hiding out?” The question came from the center of the room.

“I was in Milan.” She threw a smile at her fiancé. “Where I met Rocco.”

Savanna pointed to another veteran fashion reporter. “Dan.”

“When will we first see Olivia in your campaigns?”

“In the spring,” Rocco answered. “You’ll see her back in New York for Fashion Week next month.”

Savanna nodded at a redhead Olivia didn’t recognize, wearing very fashionable purple glasses. “Tara?”

“How is the House of Mondelli going to move forward without Giovanni’s genius at the helm? Some say Mario won’t be enough to keep things afloat.”

“We have half a dozen spectacular young designers Giovanni trained working with Mario,” Rocco said smoothly. “No company can be content to rest on its laurels. We had always intended these designers to carry the torch forward. Giovanni was seventy after all.”

“Olivia.” A notoriously bigmouthed gossip reporter waved from the front. “How does it feel to land one of the world’s most sought-after bachelors?”

Olivia relaxed back into Rocco’s arm and turned to smile up at him. “Very lucky.”

Eyes glittering with humor, Rocco lifted a hand to cup her jaw. “I am the lucky one to land, as you put it, Olivia.”

“Since you’ve managed to elude us for the past week,” the gossip reporter continued, “how about a kiss?”

Her fiancé let loose a good-natured smile. “I suppose that’s only fair.”

Her heartbeat picked up in a steady thrum as Rocco splayed his fingers wider around her jaw, leaned down and covered her lips with his own. Her lashes fluttered closed as he took her mouth in a thorough kiss that had the camera flashes going off madly like fireworks.