His Virgin Acquisition

Chapter Three

THE phone had been ringing all day. How reporters had gotten hold of the extension to access his office line, he didn’t know. Once the phone stopped ringing he would have to interrogate his staff.

Granted, he wanted press. That was the point of the arrangement. But he certainly didn’t want the paps to have personal access to him. It was his PA’s job to field phone calls, and he paid her handsomely for it.

The trip to Tiffany’s had done its job, just as he’d planned. The picture of Elaine and himself entering Tiffany’s together, and exiting holding the telltale robin’s-egg-blue bags, had spawned a host of articles in every news source from the New York Times to TMZ—the latter speculating that it was a Mafia arrangement. His Italian heritage was all he could credit for the creation of that rumor. But then, when did a tabloid need anything silly like facts to come up with a story?

That, combined with strategically leaked information about his reservations at La Paz, a trendy restaurant in Manhattan, had the press engaged in a feeding frenzy to extract more information about Marco De Luca and his mystery woman.

He answered the phone midway through the first ring. “I’ll tell you the same thing I’ve told everyone else. Ms. Chapman and I will comment when there is something to comment about.” Denial, in his experience, was the best way to fuel a rumor. The more he downplayed it, the more interest would be piqued.

“That’s a shame. I thought you’d be a little more straightforward with your own brother.”

“Rafael.” He was pleasantly surprised to hear his younger brother’s voice. Despite living less than half an hour from each other, with Marco being a workaholic and Rafael being a family man, it was hard for their schedules to coincide. “I take it you picked up the paper this morning?”

“Actually, Sarah showed me. She loves all forms of gossip media. Though I doubt you’re getting married to this woman to save her father from a mob hit.”

Marco laughed. “Not even close. The Mafia has recently quit asking my opinion on whose knees they should break.”

“Why are you getting married, then?”

Marco picked up a pen and started doodling on his day planner. “Oh, the usual reasons.”

“Love?” Rafael asked, in what Marco thought was a hopeful tone. His brother had drunk the love Kool-aid a couple of years ago, and seemed to think that he should want to do the same.

“No. Financial gain.” He explained how the arrangement had come about.

“Well, that sounds typically you,” Rafael grumbled.

“That’s because it is typically me, little brother. We can’t all be happy running a dinky little real estate office. Some of us have ambition.”

“My ‘dinky little office’ is a multi-million-dollar operation. And anyway, I have a wife I like to go home to every night.”

Marco cut him off. “Well, that’s fine for you. But I’ve raised one kid already, and I’m not planning on willingly doing anything like it again. Commitment of any kind is not on the agenda. This is for business.”

Rafael cleared his throat. “I know that taking care of me wasn’t easy. But I’m grateful for it.”

“I don’t need your gratitude, Rafael. You’re my brother and I did it gladly. But this marriage, if you want to call it that, is strictly a business arrangement. The length of the marriage isn’t indefinite. The longest it will last is a year. If neither of us has achieved our goal by then, we’ll go our separate ways—no harm, no foul.”

“And the woman? She knows that you’re not madly in love with her?”

Marco huffed out a laugh. “I’m a ruthless bastard, Rafael, but not even I’m that bad.”

Rafael sighed. “You’re going to go ahead with this no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

“Always. But you will agree to be my best man? It’s the only chance you’ll have.”

“Of course I will. No one else would do it.”

Marco barked out a laugh. “That’s probably true. Now, let me get back to work, little brother. Some of us work for a living.”

Marco turned back to his computer and tried to get on with his work day. The phone rang again.

The phone in Elaine’s workspace rang for what seemed like the twentieth time since she’d come back from lunch.

She looked at it dubiously. It was either a reporter or, worse, her father again. He’d called her at work early this morning, beside himself with glee that Elaine had managed to snare herself such a rich husband, and even happier that Elaine was finally settling down. Probably because her marriage, especially such a suitable one, would go a long way in blotting out that “unfortunate incident” from a few years back.

Thankfully he didn’t seem suspicious about her marrying the man who’d just bought his company. He was too busy congratulating himself for raising a daughter who had finally wised up to the fact that a woman’s place was in the home, not behind an executive’s desk. And probably too confident in his skills as a businessman to even begin to think that his daughter could have seen a loophole that he hadn’t.

She had ended the conversation with her father feeling renewed determination. That was exactly the reminder she’d needed for why this was necessary.

She picked up the phone. “Hello?” she said curtly.

It was another reporter, rattling off questions at lightning speed that were both personal and degrading. She hung up on the man mid-sentence, and rested her forehead on the cool veneer surface of her desk.

Her head popped up when she heard a knock on her office door—or, to be more accurate, her cubicle wall.

Marco’s handsome face appeared around the corner, followed by the rest of him. Her mouth went dry at the sight of him. Her memories of how gorgeous he was didn’t do him justice. And it had barely been twenty-four hours since she’d last seen him.

“Have the press been hounding you?”

She blew out a breath. “Yes. My phone has been ringing all day.”

“The cost of doing business.”

“So it seems.” She sighed. “You know, I’m not putting myself through this just because I feel some sort of sense of entitlement—like I deserve it because I’m my father’s daughter.” It seemed important somehow that she tell him the details to make sure he understood what she’d accomplished and why she felt the way she did. She shouldn’t care what he thought, but even as she reminded herself of that, she did care. “Four years ago Chapman’s nearly declared bankruptcy. I identified a flaw in the system and helped my father rework the way products were shipped. It shaved four points off the cost and brought the company back into the black. I proved myself. I saved the company. My family’s company. And still he’d rather let your corporation absorb what he built up from nothing than give it to me. All because I’m a woman. Do you see why I feel the way I do?”

“If everything goes according to plan, you should be getting exactly what you’re entitled to.” Truth be told, Marco wasn’t the most modern guy. He was of the opinion that in general women should stay home and take care of their kids. But he could understand why she wanted to claim what was rightfully hers. It was a feeling he understood very well.

“Well, Miss Chapman.” He took her hand and pulled her from her sitting position. “I believe you and I have a date.”

“I’ll just pop in and change. You can wait in the living room.” Almost as soon as Elaine closed the front door to her apartment someone knocked on it. She opened it to a woman with spiky pink hair and a man whose eyebrows were more immaculately groomed than her own. “Can I help you?”

“I’m not sure how to say this tactfully, so I won’t bother. You need some help if you’re going to look believable as my fiancée,” Marco said from behind her.

Elaine stared blankly at him, the realization of what his statement meant slowly dawning. “You’re giving me a makeover?”

“I’m not; they are.” He gestured to the two people still standing at the threshold.

Her ears were burning. A makeover! “I’m not your dress-up doll, De Luca. You can’t just mandate things like this!”

He sighed in exasperation. Why was he exasperated? She was pretty sure she ought to have the market on exasperation cornered at that moment.

“Why bother to fight me on this? You need it—trust me—and I’m going to get my way, so you might as well sit your cute little butt down.”

She gave an indignant squeak and stood facing him with her mouth open.

“What? No snappy comeback?” he mocked. “I think I should notify the press.”

She could not remember ever being so angry before. He was taking control from her bit by bit, and there was nothing that threw her off more than losing control.

She gave him a look that would have cowed most men. Leave it to her to get engaged to the one man who didn’t seem to find her the least bit intimidating. “The measure of a woman is not her looks.”

“Very nice sentiment. It’s also patently untrue.”

“It is not!” Great. Now he had reduced her to petty playground tactics.

“It most certainly is. And the same is true for a man. If you dress the part you’ll be more likely to get the part. If I showed up at a board meeting in swimming trunks I wouldn’t be taken seriously, and your feeble, stereotyped sense of style is hardly going to earn you any respect.”

Neither had dressing feminine, but she certainly wasn’t going to get into that with him. “Be that as it may,” she said crisply, “I’m not here to play trophy wife.”

He continued to smile for the benefit of the stylists, who were busy pretending to ignore the fight. She wasn’t fooled by the grin frozen on his face. It had hardened, and his jaw shifted, the muscles in his shoulders bunched tight. “You’re here to be whatever I ask you to be. And if I ask you to be my trophy then that’s what you’ll be. We do both want this marriage, don’t we…cara mia?” The threat was implicit.

Icy fingers wrapped around her heart. She couldn’t lose this deal. She had worked too hard. And she certainly wasn’t going to lose it over something as trivial as a hairtrim and a little lipgloss.

She sat in the chair that was moved for her, keeping her face carefully neutral.

The petite hairdresser talked animatedly while she worked, waving her scissors every now and then to emphasize her point. She put a row of foils on the top of Elaine’s hair, turning it a lighter, less brassy shade, and cut six inches off the length, bringing it up so that it just skimmed her collarbone, and added long layers to give it body and movement.

The man, Giorgio, was there for make-up and, Elaine wasn’t terribly surprised to hear, eyebrow waxing. Her face was scrubbed and peeled and waxed and finally painted.

Giorgio stepped back and examined her like an artist looking at his masterpiece.

“I’m brilliant,” he said as he handed her a mirror.

She barely recognized the woman looking back at her. She had fun, modern hair that looked full and healthy. Her face glowed, probably from the gold powder that Giorgio had brushed all over it, and her eyes looked larger and brighter with the expertly applied eyeshadow and her newly shaped brows. She hated so much to admit that it was an improvement. But it was.

Marco took her by the hand and pulled her up out of the chair, and dropped a light kiss on the tips of her fingers. Her legs wobbled.

“You look beautiful.”

A new knock on her door broke the moment, and Elaine wrenched her hand from his. “I assume you know who that is too?”

He nodded, and walked to the door and opened it, taking a garment bag and tipping whoever it was that had made the delivery. “Your dress for dinner.”

He placed the hanger in her hand, and she stared at it. He was changing everything about her, from her hair to her wardrobe, in order to make her look like his type. Either that or he was just trying to drive her insane.

She opened her mouth to offer up a sour comment, but the frosty look in his deep chocolate eyes stopped her cold. This was her end of the bargain—the part she had to keep in order to get what she wanted. She swallowed the comeback and went to her room, making her footsteps heavier than necessary, and unzipped the garment bag, revealing a filmy golden-brown dress with beaded spaghetti straps.

It fit her perfectly. Too perfectly. The gown clung to her curves like a second skin, showcasing her small waist and full bust, and revealing a little too much cleavage for her comfort.

Marco hadn’t even asked her size. He’d guessed. If there was a more potent reminder of just how much of a womanizer he was, she couldn’t think of it. And what was even worse was that she had a sneaking suspicion that the boiling feeling she got in her tummy when she thought about him with other women just might be jealousy. Which was a completely futile road to walk down. Men like Marco De Luca could have, and did have, any woman they wanted. And women like her were not exactly the women that men like him wanted.

She exited her bedroom, fighting the desperate urge to cover up her exposed figure. There had been a time when she might have liked the dress, might have felt beautiful. Not anymore. Now she just felt exposed. And the heated look Marco was giving her did not help. He evaluated her slowly, his chocolate eyes slowly caressing her curves. Heat flared in the depths of his eyes and it made her insides tighten. It felt as though someone had reached inside her and stolen the air from her lungs.

“Almost perfect,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a slender velvet case. “I went back to Tiffany’s today.” He opened the case and revealed the most beautiful necklace she’d ever seen.

The chain was made up of gossamer strands of white gold gathered together by delicate round-cut diamonds. The center pendant was a showcase of delicate craftsmanship, with intricate winding vines of platinum, and a large, perfectly cut emerald at the center.

He moved behind her and swept her hair to the side, his warm fingertips brushing her nape, sending a shimmer of sparks through her. “You’re a beautiful woman, Elaine. Truly beautiful.” She sucked in a breath when the cold jewelry touched her skin, the pendant settling between her breasts. “Your power is in your beauty. You should use it. Not hide it.”

Heat curled through her. Pleasure, she realized. She liked having him say she was beautiful. She liked feeling beautiful. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about discovering that weakness.

He put his hands on her bare shoulders and turned her to face him. “Now you look like my fiancée.”

It was one of Manhattan’s trendiest nightspots. A Latin-fusion restaurant decorated with old-world South American art, mingled with the clean, sleek lines of modern design. The hostess led them to his personal table, which was situated by the wall of slanted windows, overlooking the brightly lit city streets. But tonight he didn’t fully appreciate his surroundings.

His thoughts were completely occupied with the woman walking next to him. He had thought the makeover would be helpful, but he’d had no idea that she would be transformed into a supermodel. No, not a supermodel. There was nothing angular or androgynous about her. She was all soft, curvy woman. Her looks weren’t cookie cutter, or trendy. She was classic. Her perfect bone structure gave her the kind of beauty that not even age would diminish.

He’d thought she had a beautiful face when it wasn’t enhanced with make-up, but with the subtle colors playing up her eyes and making them sparkle, making her lips look fuller and more inviting, she was stunning. One of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

Her hair, which he’d only ever seen in that schoolmarm bun or hanging wet down her back, was styled into soft blond waves that fell down past her shoulders and ended right above the swell of her lush breasts. And that necklace fitted right in the dip of her cleavage, touching her where he wanted to touch her.

This was the woman he had heard about. The one who could drive a man to do something stupid and reckless and condemn the consequences to hell.

And she didn’t want to consummate their marriage.

He ran his hand down the length of her arm and moved it to the small of her back; he saw her pulse jump at the base of her neck. He fought the smug smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. So she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she wanted him to believe.

He pulled her chair out for her, and for once she simply accepted his offer.

She sat ramrod-straight, a strained look written across her delicate features. He reached across the table and took her hand, rubbing his thumb across the pulse of her wrist. “Do you ever relax?”

“No. Do you?” Her heart fluttered rapidly in her chest and a knot of excitement coiled in her stomach.

He leaned his head in so that his nose was nearly touching hers, and her fluttering heart stopped for a moment. “Only when I’m with a beautiful woman.”

The intimacy of the moment was shattered by a flashbulb that momentarily blinded her. She looked and saw a photographer sitting at the bar, trying to look nonchalant as he sat and drank his beer. “Is it always like this for you?”

He gave the photographer a sideways glance. “Not always, but being spotted together two days in a row is bound to have the paparazzi descending in droves. The prospect of me settling down has them chomping at the bit to get the scoop.”

“I guess it’s a good thing.” Another flashbulb went off. Elaine’s head whipped in the direction of the light. “We do want the word to get out.”

She tried to feign indifference at the constant flashes punctuating their conversation, but it was almost impossible when she felt as if she was an actor in a play. Being on show was getting tedious, and it had only just begun.

By the time dessert arrived they had engaged only in small talk, and made no mention at all about the impending nuptials. It was starting to make her nervous. She knew he hadn’t brought her here to discuss how well the Knicks were playing this season. Marco De Luca didn’t do anything without a purpose. She didn’t like feeling like this: unprepared, out of the loop. She had intended on retaining control of the deal, but he was wresting it away from her inch by inch.

Before she could take a bite of her tamarind white chocolate mousse, Marco stood and grasped her hand, then pulled her up so she was standing beside him. She had been afraid he was going to do something like this.

“Can I have everyone’s attention?”

Elaine’s heart rate kicked into overdrive. Oh, he was not doing what she thought he was doing.

“I have something I would like to ask this beautiful lady.”

Yes, he was.

The press started snapping pictures like mad. It was the reminder she needed to try and look happy. She didn’t need to try and look surprised.

“Elaine Chapman.” He turned and looked her in the eyes, covering both of her hands with his. “Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.