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’s a driven perfectionist who’s been forced his whole life to take charge,” Alessandra had told her when Rocco had left their table in the busy Milanese restaurant to chat with a business acquaintance. “Of us when our father left, and of the company when Giovanni went running wild with his creative pursuits and left the business side of things in disarray.” Alessandra had shaken her head. “He’s hurting badly about Giovanni, but in typical Rocco fashion, he’s internalized it all.”

Alessandra’s comments should have made Rocco seem more human, more approachable, but had instead only increased her insecurities. Yes, she was a world-famous beauty, but she was not her fiancé’s type. He’d told her so.

That was supposed to help her heading into tonight’s dinner with the formidable Stefan Bianco, who apparently had had his heart broken by a woman after his money?

Amazing.

She squirmed in her seat. Rocco glanced over at her, a sigh escaping his lips. “Are you always this distracted? You’re like a six-year-old in need of toys...”

She rolled her eyes at how badly he read her. How completely inaccurately he’d judged her. To Rocco she was Mata Hari reincarnate.

“The paparazzi are going to be out in force looking for us,” she murmured. “I’m anxious.”

“Aren’t you used to it by now?”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “I would have preferred an evening to acclimatize before I have to face it. It’s intimidating enough having to convince one of your best friends we’re mad about each other. Having a camera shoved in my face, I could do without.”

His smile flashed white in the muted confines of the jet. “Worried you won’t be able to control yourself?”

“From clawing your eyes out?” she came back tartly. “Yes.”

The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened. “You know, I actually think we might pull this off. We argue like an old married couple.”

She made a face. “Luckily this madness will end before that happens.”

A curious gleam entered his eyes. “Do you ever intend to marry?”

“It isn’t high on my list. I think I’ll rely on my career as a designer instead.”

His brow arched. “You don’t want a big poufy dress and a veil? A lifetime commitment?”

“I’m not sure I’m capable of that kind of love.”

Wow. She hadn’t even realized she’d thought that until she’d said it.

He reclined back in his chair and fixed her with a speculative look. “That’s an honest statement. One I can identify with.”

“You don’t think you are, either?”

His lips curled. “I don’t think I’m not, I know I’m not. It’s what makes this engagement of convenience just so very easy for me.”

She wondered what had brought him to that conclusion. What was behind the cynicism Giovanni had spoken of when it came to his grandson... Despite his transgressions, Giovanni and his son had been madly in love with their wives. The Mondelli men clearly fell hard. So what had happened to Rocco? Had a woman burned him badly?

Their conversation was cut off as they made their final descent into Manhattan. The elegant little jet set down on the runway, they disembarked into the chill of a winter Manhattan night and were quickly ushered into a car operated by Rocco’s driver and spirited to the Mondelli apartment in the heart of the city.

The insistent, pulsing energy of New York wrapped itself around her like a particularly deadly python with the ability to steal her breath. Her nerves began to shred as they navigated its busy streets and honking horns.

She had once adored this city, thrived on it as if it were her lifeblood. Later, she had grown to hate it for what it had done to her, to the people she loved. Now her dominant emotion was fear. Fear of a debilitating variety.

Her chest as she stepped out of the limo in front of the Mondellis’ exclusive Central Park West apartment building was so tight she felt as though they were on a smog alert times a million. She pressed a hand to the cool metal exterior of the car to steady herself. Rocco was by her side in a nanosecond, cupping her elbow.

“Are you all right?”

No, she wasn’t all right. She’d never be all right again in this city.

But now was the time to pull herself together if she were to survive. She sucked in a deep breath, forced herself to nod and step away from the car. If she didn’t think about Petra, if she didn’t think about that last show at the Lincoln Center and how she’d disintegrated in front of her peers, she might just pull this off.

Rocco kept his hand under her elbow as he guided her into the limestone-faced building, notorious for its wealthiest-of-the-wealthy residents and the deal makers who anchored it with their vast fortunes. The doorman let them out on the twentieth floor, referring to Rocco by name as he wished them a good evening.

The apartment was beautifully decorated in muted caramels and greens, complementing the exquisite, original finish work the renovators had restored to a gleaming mahogany. Olivia headed straight for the long, narrow terrace that overlooked the park, braced her hands on the iron railing and sucked in big breaths, the chill in the air filling her lungs.

Rocco joined her, his jacket discarded, tie loosened. “What is it?” he asked quietly, throwing her a sideways glance. “What is it that upsets you so much about this city you were so triumphant in?”

The genuine concern on his face, the unusual softness in his voice, almost made her believe he cared. But letting her guard down around the man who held all the cards in this deal of theirs would be stupidity.

“It has some bad memories for me. I’m not the naive young girl making tons of money who couldn’t see beyond the bright lights and the rush anymore.”

His gaze rested on her face with that unnerving intensity he brought to everything. “Everyone has bad memories, Olivia. You can’t let them control you.”

“I’m not,” she said brightly. “We’re having dinner at an outrageously good restaurant, I get to meet the illustrious Stefan Bianco and I’m about to become a household name again. Who could ask for more?”

She spun on her heel and strode inside. The first thing she noticed upon further investigation of the luxury apartment was that there was only one bedroom in the suite.

They were sharing a bed.

Oh, Lord. She glanced around desperately. Maybe there was a pullout sofa.

“Only one bed,” Rocco qualified, coming to a halt behind her. “Sorry, princessa. This apartment wasn’t meant for entertaining.”

Compartmentalize, she told herself. She needed to compartmentalize this problem and focus on the big one at the moment: getting ready for this dinner she so heartily didn’t want to attend. She glanced at the grandfather clock ticking loudly in the lounge, and her queasiness dissolved into panic. They had to leave in fifteen minutes.

She hightailed it into the bathroom. Luckily she was adept at putting on her face in just under seven minutes. Her hair, a bit wild from the travel, would have to be put up in a quick chignon. And her dress...

Which dress?

She kicked off her jeans and top and raced into the dressing room. The breath was knocked from her lungs when she ran headfirst into a brick wall, otherwise known as Rocco searching for a tie. His hands closed automatically around her waist to steady her. Winded, she put a palm to his chest and caught her breath. The feel of warm, muscled male beneath her fingertips upped her pulse a point or two. Damn.

She unpeeled herself from him and put some space between them. “So sorry,” she murmured with a self-conscious smile. “I’m working on eight minutes.”

He nodded and stood back to give her space. The heightened color in his high cheekbones was a rare enough sight that she stopped and stared for a moment. What’s wrong with him?

She followed his gaze like a detective searching for clues. Down over her chest it went, past her hips, down her legs. And it struck her then. She was wearing lingerie. Skimpy lingerie. It was so second nature for her to run around half-naked given her former profession—current profession, she corrected—that she hadn’t given it a second thought.

The color darkening his olive skin deepened. Her brain mind-numbingly processed the facts in front of her. That was lust on his face. Unmistakable. He had been lying to her.

Her mind reeled with the realization. He didn’t want to admit he wanted her because he didn’t want to want her. And wasn’t she an idiot for ignoring her instincts? She had known that night in Navigli the heat hadn’t been one-sided. And yet he’d cruelly let her think he found her lacking in the face of his Italian brunettes!

“You...” She bit her lip before she tore a strip off him, her rational brain kicking in. Having one up on the man who held all the cards could be a good thing.

“Could you help me with my dress?” she asked sweetly instead, turning her back to him as she rustled through her suitcase for one of Mario’s dresses that eluded wrinkles. “That would speed things up.”

* * *

Rocco stood utterly still as Olivia bent over in front of him and rustled through the case. The lingerie she had on were not the skimpiest he had ever seen, but on his blonde bombshell of a fiancée they looked indescribable. Her rounded, toned behind made his head feel as tight as his groin. Her legs went on forever, ending in slim perfect ankles he could so clearly imagine wrapped around himself he almost groaned.

She spun around, holding up a silver-blue dress victoriously. “Just need you to do the hook at the back.”

Or he could hang himself right now. That was a definite option. Better than seeing her perfect nipples outlined against the fine lace of her bra. Better than wondering how soft the skin was between those delectable thighs, showcased perfectly by the revealing cut of her panties...

“Rocco?” She waggled a brow at him. “Are you okay?”

“Perfetto.” He waved a hand at her. “Put the damn dress on so I can do it up. The driver’s waiting outside.”

Mercifully, she slipped the dress over her head. It didn’t get any easier, though, as she backed up against him and held her hair out of the way for him to do up the clasp. “That top tiny one please.”

He found the tiny hook, his big hands fumbling over the minute closure. She squeezed closer to him, the silk of her dress swishing against his thighs, sending his blood pressure into dangerous territory.

“You smell good.” She sighed. “What are you wearing?”

With her bottom perilously close to his raging erection, her lush body lining the length of his, there was only one thought in his head and it wasn’t the name of the cologne he was wearing.

The hook slid into the clasp. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks. “Finito.”

She turned around, a tiny smile playing about her lips. “Grazie. I may need help taking it off again later, though.”

He would be conveniently getting ice for a nightcap at that moment. He grabbed the tie he wanted to wear, did it up with swift precision while Olivia did her hair, then ushered her out into the warm night air and to the car.

Stefan Bianco met them at the back entrance of the fusion restaurant he was part owner of in Chelsea. His friend’s mouth curved into one of his signature lazy smiles when he saw them, the one that camouflaged one of the most ruthless, hard-edged businessmen Rocco had ever met.

He and Rocco embraced.

“Welcome to Tempesta Di Fuoco.”

“Impressive, my friend.” Rocco stood back and drew Olivia forward. “Olivia, meet Stefan. Not nearly as intimidating as he’s made out to be.”

Stefan carried the hand Olivia offered to his lips. “You are even more beautiful in person. I can see why Rocco lost his head.”

A hint of color washed his fiancée’s cheeks. “And you are even more...charismatic...than Rocco painted you.”

Amusement gleamed in Stefan’s eyes. “You will have to enlighten me on his description. I’m sure it would be entertaining.”

Rocco curved an arm around Olivia’s waist and pulled her into his side. “Nothing you haven’t heard before, fratello.”

They were seated at a quiet table in one of the alcoves of the exceedingly modern restaurant, done in chrome and steel and muted colors. Rocco and Olivia sat on one side of the table for four, while Stefan sat on the other, his hand lifting to summon the sommelier to bring them a very old, very fine bottle of cabernet.

“I trust that’s fine?” he asked Olivia. “I can’t tolerate champagne. Such a woman’s drink. And French,” he added caustically.

“I’m not a fan of champagne myself,” Olivia observed, bestowing that high-wattage smile of hers on his friend. “And I do love a good Cab, thank you.”

Stefan did a double take. There wasn’t a man on this earth who would be immune to Olivia Fitzgerald when she used that smile on him, and Rocco would bet his stock portfolio by the end of this meal she would have his incorrigible friend eating out of her hand.

Stefan sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “So how did you manage to work your way past my friend’s considerable defenses? He has enough to man an army.”

A smile curved Olivia’s lips. “He picked me up in a café after scaring my girlfriends away... It was more...lust than love at first sight.”

Humor darkened his friend’s eyes. “That sounds more like him. What isn’t like him is to fall flat on his face like this. He’s usually much more careful. I always said if he’d ever marry, he would choose a blue-blooded Italian to carry on the Mondelli line and live a very premeditated life.”

Olivia blinked at the backhanded compliment. Rocco put up his hand. “I’m still here, fratello, in case you’d forgotten.”

His friend shrugged. “You have to admit, this is knee-jerk behavior for you. If we were in my wine cellar, you’d spend half an hour choosing the vintage, then decide perhaps it needed more thinking on.”

Olivia put her water down with a deliberate movement, those amazing blue eyes of hers glittering as she recovered. Rocco almost jumped out of his seat when she curved her palm around his thigh underneath the table and squeezed. “Apparently we are compatible on other levels. Although Rocco attempted to deny it at first.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw at the twin sensations of Olivia’s hand burning into his thigh like a brand and the anger emanating from her like a physical, living entity despite the smile plastered across her face.

“There was a slight miscommunication between us at first,” he managed. “We moved past it.”

Olivia’s fingers splayed wider on his thigh, caressing muscles far too alert from that close encounter in the dressing room.

Stefan’s gaze sharpened on his fiancée. “That was you at Giovanni’s funeral.”

Olivia nodded. “Rocco and I had had a lover’s quarrel. Not the most appropriate place, I admit, but he was green with jealousy over my former relationship with Guillermo Villanueva. I managed to convince him there’s simply nothing left there.”

“There’s a first.” Stefan’s mouth quirked. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Rocco care enough about a female to go running after her.”

Rocco gritted his teeth, unable to remove Olivia’s disturbing hand because his right hand was covering hers on the table. He squeezed it hard. “I did not run after you.”

“Of course you did, sweetheart.” She gave him a saccharine-sweet smile and closed her fingers over his thigh in another firm squeeze. “You showed up on my doorstep with flowers and poetry.” She angled a look at Stefan. “Can you imagine big bad Rocco writing poetry? It was outrageously cute. Anyway,” she said, looking adoringly back at her fiancé, “he really had nothing to worry about. He knows I only have eyes for him.”

A hot flush spread its way across his cheeks. His brain was catching up with his groin now, and it hit him what was happening. Olivia had read his attraction in that dressing room, had figured out he was lying. And this was payback.

He released her hand and captured the one on his thigh, bringing it to his lips. “I do know that, amore mio. Now stop spilling our secrets. I’ll never be able to live them down.”

“On the contrary,” Stefan demurred, “I am highly entertained.”

Rocco kept a firm grip on his fiancée’s hand. “Olivia is enough to inspire any man to poetry.” He couldn’t mask the sarcasm in his voice. “I’m sure you can see how that is.”

Stefan’s green eyes danced. “I certainly can. Maybe you should read the poem at the wedding. I’m sure we’ll all be wiping the tears away.”

Rocco gave his friend a dangerous look. He was saved by the arrival of the sommelier, who presented the wine to Stefan. The Sicilian glanced at the label, nodded and indicated for it to be served.

“So when and where is this star-studded marriage expected to happen?” he asked. “Are you giving yourselves some time to enjoy your newfound compatibility, or should we expect an invitation?”

Olivia tucked in closer to Rocco’s side and returned her hand to his thigh. “We haven’t set a date. It’s going to be an extremely busy year for both of us. Maybe the summer of next year.”

Stefan nodded. “Nothing wrong with restraint. Bambini can come later.”

Rocco almost choked on his mouthful of water. “I haven’t totally gone off the deep end, Bianco. There’s been no talk of bambini yet.”

Olivia’s fingers settled in a red-light zone between his thighs. His erection throbbed in his pants, begging for more. “Oh, but we don’t plan to wait too long, do we, cara? I am twenty-six. These eggs of mine aren’t getting any younger.”

Rocco gave her a meaningful smile laced with warning. “They’ve plenty of life left in them, bella. You are only twenty-six. And believe me, I do want you to myself for a while.”

Tonight. To strangle her. To find out what had happened to the nerve-racked woman he’d arrived in New York with.

Olivia stared innocently back at him, using her big doe eyes to full effect. “Oh, I want that, too. I know what we’ve agreed upon, sweetheart... It’s just that when I think of little Roccos with dark curly hair and big brown eyes, I find it hard to resist.”

“Who could?” Stefan drawled facetiously. “If we populated the world with millions of little Roccos, it would be a better place.”

“And the hands...” Olivia picked one of his up and showed it off. “Rocco has great hands, but they’ll be chubby little amazing ones to begin with.”

Stefan nodded. “No doubt about it. Mondelli has great hands. Many a woman would attest to that, but now that he’s taken, too bad for them, hmm?”

Rocco bit down on the inside of his mouth. Counted to three. “I am famished,” he asserted in a blatant change of subject. “Should we look at the menu?”

“The chef has prepared a special celebratory meal.” Stefan eliminated that distraction with a wave of his hand and a glimmer of laughter in his dark eyes. “Sit back and enjoy.”

Rocco attempted to. The vibe in Stefan’s new restaurant was high energy, the food as they tasted their appetizers superb, the easy familiarity of the conversation with his longtime friend enjoyable. It was Olivia who was the problem. If she’d been sitting any closer to him she’d be in his lap. Her spicy perfume, which he found he enjoyed a bit too much, kept invading his thinking processes. And her hands were everywhere... Caressing his fingers on the table, massaging his thigh. And now she’d slipped her shoe off and was—what did the Americans call it? Playing footsie with him!

Santo Cielo.

He frowned and focused intently on the idea Stefan was proposing for a Knights of Columbia charity basketball game fund-raiser. “I think it fits perfectly with our mission statement,” he agreed. “And if you can get the players, we’re golden. When were you thinking?”

Stefan lifted a brow. “I just told you—late September so we can play outside.”

He closed his eyes briefly as Olivia’s inquisitive fingers investigated the contents of his pocket, then slid back out again. “Right. Sorry.”

“Can I help?” Olivia leaned forward, all halo-endowed innocence. “I’m in my element at a fund-raiser. I can cheer you on.”

Rocco watched his friend keep his eyes above her plunging neckline. Just. “By all means,” Stefan said wryly. “Half the men in New York would show up to see you.” He passed his palm over the heavy stubble on his chin. “Would you consider doing a promotional poster for us?”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Rocco inserted. “My fiancée is not a pinup model.”

“She was.”

“It’s true,” Olivia offered. “I don’t mind. Those were fun shoots.”

“No.” The word exploded out of his mouth as Olivia slid her finger up the zipper of his pants and traced the rigid length of him. He was on fire. Literally on fire. He reached down, picked up her hand and slapped it down on her thigh, then rose from the table.

“I need to make a call.” He directed the words at Stefan. “Entertain my fiancée, would you?”

“That won’t be difficult.” Stefan’s amused comment sidled through the air to him as he walked away.

He exited the front door of the restaurant and stood leaning against the facade of the building while he made his call, his only company on the street another diner in a designer suit smoking a cigarette. When he finished, he stayed there for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Attempting to regain control over his tense, aroused body.

Stefan strolled out the front door and over to where he stood. “Cooling off? Where was her hand, by the way?”

Rocco gave him a dark look. “Where is she?”

“In the ladies’.” Stefan moved his gaze over him and shook his head. “She has your number, my friend. You have it bad. I feel as if I’m watching Rocco unplugged.”

He wanted badly to tell his friend it was a facade. That she, Olivia, was playing a necessary role. Trying to drive him mad while she was at it... But he couldn’t risk everything he’d put into this investment by being anything less than fully committed. Blood brothers or otherwise.

He pulled on the cloak of aloofness he did every bit as well as Stefan. “She is a handful. But honestly,” he challenged, quirking a brow at his friend, “would you want anything else?”

Stefan eyed him. “Perhaps not. I guess I’m wondering if the board’s POV on you has anything to do with this sudden engagement.”

His insides tensed. “You think I care what they think?”

Stefan leaned back against the wall beside him. “I’m just saying marriage is a big step. This is all very sudden.” He waved a hand at him. “So she’s beautiful. So she’s good in bed. Those are a dime a dozen for you, fratello. Enjoy her, but think hard about what you’re doing.”

Rocco turned to face him. Wondered why he felt the unusual urge to put his fist through his friend’s face. “She’s a good choice for me and for the brand.”

“Maybe. But you’re grieving over your grandfather. Give yourself some time before you do something stupid.”

“That’s why we’re planning a long engagement.” Rocco gave the Sicilian an assessing look. “When are you going to get over Serena? No one wants to say it, but it’s time.”

The guarded, impenetrable expression that seemed to be his friend’s de facto look of late descended over his square-jawed face. “I’ve been over Serena for a long time.”

“You think so?”

Stefan stared him down. “You think you’re in control of your little situation in there?”

No. He decidedly was not. But he was about to fix that.

* * *

The deliberate twist of the key in the lock of the apartment door echoed excessively loudly in Olivia’s ears after the loaded silence in the car coming home. The explosive look on Rocco’s face as they’d driven through the relatively quiet streets of Manhattan made her wonder if she’d taken her exercise in distraction a bit too far.