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

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.”