“To a successful partnership.”

She tilted her glass in a mocking salute. “So confident.”

“I don’t intend to lose, Quinn.”

“Then let the best candidate win.”

Her green gaze glittered as she lifted her glass and swirled its dark contents around the edge. She closed her eyes and breathed the wine in. Matteo found himself hypnotized by the way she gave herself over to the full sensual experience. Quinn Davis was definitely scorching hot on the inside. The type who would be more than a match for any man.

The question was, did she ever drop that rigid exterior and let herself go? Stretch out like a cat and let a man pleasure her until she screamed?

She opened her eyes. Looked directly into his. He was not nearly quick enough to wipe the curiosity off his face. A rosy hue stole over her golden skin; her gaze dropped away from his.

He could work with this.

JENNIFER HAYWARD has been a fan of romance and adventure since filching her sister’s Harlequin Mills & Boon® novels to escape her teenage angst.

Jennifer penned her first romance at nineteen. When it was rejected, she bristled at her mother’s suggestion that she needed more life experience. She went on to complete a journalism degree before settling into a career in public relations. Years of working alongside powerful, charismatic CEOs and travelling the world provided perfect fodder for the arrogant alpha males she loves to write about—and free research on some of the world’s most glamorous locales.

With a suitable amount of life experience under her belt, she sat down and conjured up the sexiest, most delicious Italian wine magnate she could imagine, had him make his biggest mistake and gave him a wife on the run. That story, THE DIVORCE PARTY, won her Harlequin’s So You Think You Can Write contest and a book contract. Turns out Mother knew best.

With the first item on her bucket list complete, Jennifer is working her way through the rest. She put #2 in the bag when she talked her way into the jumpseat of an Airbus for landing on a flight from San Jose to Toronto, complete with headphones and a flight plan. The only thing missing was a follow-up date with the Robert Redford lookalike pilot. Figuring that #3—walking the runway as an angel at the Victoria’s Secret Christmas fashion show—is not likely to happen, she’s concentrating on #4 and #5, which are touring Australia and building a dream beach house in Barbados.

A native of Canada’s gorgeous East coast, Jennifer now lives in Toronto with her Viking husband and their young Viking-in-training. She considers her ten-year-old-strong bookclub, comprised of some of the most amazing women she’s ever met, a sacrosanct date in her calendar. And some day they will have their monthly meeting at her fantasy beach house, waves lapping at their feet, wine glasses in hand.

You can find Jennifer on Facebook and Twitter.

Recent titles by the same author:

AN EXQUISITE CHALLENGE

THE DIVORCE PARTY

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Truth

About De Campo

Jennifer Hayward

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For two of my great inspirations:

My family—my anchor in this journey we call life.

And my bookclub girls who inspire me to write rum punch promises in the sand … and keep them!

RPP Forever.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Extract

CHAPTER ONE

UNLESS MATTEO DE CAMPO was mistaken, this conversation with his brother had all the hallmarks of a classic intervention.

It looked like it with Riccardo staring him down like a Spanish bullfighter with his eye on the unruly target. It sounded like it from his cautionary, bordering-on-aggressive tone. And it certainly felt like it with the De Campo CEO’s displeasure licking over his skin like a flame.

If the truth be known, it had always been that way. They were like night and day, he and his brother. Where Riccardo was dark and intense and bulldozed his way through life, Matteo preferred the subtle approach. Both in business and in bed. You could catch more flies with honey. Persuade more effectively with a sophisticated argument than a head-on tackle.

Entice a woman into bed with a carefully timed observation that showed you had been listening to her over that bottle of Chianti.

He brought his gaze back to his brother’s dark face. From the looks of it, Riccardo thought he was doing a bit too much of that these days.

Flicking an imaginary speck of dust off his suit, he lounged back against the floor-to-ceiling windows of his brother’s Wall Street office and cocked a brow. “So what you’re saying is your behavior was perfectly acceptable, but mine is not?”

“No,” Riccardo emitted coolly. “What I’m saying is I don’t know what in Cristo’s name is wrong with you. You’re treating the women of this planet like they’re your own personal wrecking yard.”

Matteo shrugged. “Maybe I’ve decided your way is the better way.”

Riccardo shot him an amused look. “You forget I’m a reformed man. Happily married and loving it.”

“Only because you met a goddess who’s willing to put up with you,” he muttered, digging his hands in his pockets and giving his head a restless shake. “Did you really ask me here to discuss my love life, Ric? Somehow I think you’re much too busy for that.”

“You’re the vice president of sales and marketing for De Campo, Matty. Your love life is my business when it starts disrupting things around here.”

“And how,” Matteo drawled, “do you figure it’s doing that?”

“Your antics in the tabloids are making it impossible for you or anyone else in this company to concentrate. Alex is tired of doing damage control, and frankly, I don’t blame her.”

Ebbene, so that stung. Matteo liked his sister-in-law. Didn’t like the thought of making more work for her when she already worked far too much. But he was too irritated by his brother’s rebuke not to strike back. “If I made the cover every week for the rest of the year I still wouldn’t beat your record.”

“Si, but I’m a better multitasker,” Riccardo taunted.

Matteo stiffened, straightening away from the windows and eating up the distance between him and his brother with long furious strides. “I am making a mockery of my predecessor’s numbers.”

“Exactly why I want you to straighten yourself out. Think what you can do with a clear head.”

Matteo could have told Riccardo he was definitely planning on doing that. That he’d sworn off women like an alcoholic swears off drink, potentially for the rest of his life given his recent spat of disastrous assignations. But he liked to yank Riccardo’s chain as much as his brother liked to yank his. “What are you going to do if I don’t?” he queried, leveling his gaze on his brother’s angular, unforgiving face. “Punish me? Send me off to sell wine to the devout?”

Riccardo’s coal-black eyes flashed. “As much as I would dearly love to have you out of the picture right now, I need you. And I think you need a challenge. Badly.”

Matteo couldn’t deny the truth of that statement. He’d almost doubled sales as head of De Campo’s European operations. Was killing it in his new role. But his brother continued to handcuff him, as if he was afraid to unleash him.

He sank his fingers into the knot of his tie and yanked it loose. “You don’t trust me.”

“I wouldn’t have given you the job if I didn’t trust you.”

“Then why the hand-holding?”

His brother’s gaze darkened. “You’ve been knee-jerk in the extreme the last six months, Matty. You’re like a cowboy with his guns drawn at all times.”

“I’m hungry,” Matteo growled. “Give me something to sink my teeth into and you will have my complete and utter focus.”

“Exactly my thinking.” Riccardo plucked a magazine from the surface of his immaculate desk and held it up. “Warren Davis just bought the Luxe Hotel chain.”

Matteo nodded. The purchase by the world’s third richest man, an investment genius revered around the world, had made headlines a few weeks back. The confirmation of a deal that had been in the works for months. “I looked into it a while ago,” he told Riccardo. “Patreus has it locked up for another three years.”

“Not any more they don’t.” Riccardo tossed the magazine on his desk. “Davis is reevaluating all suppliers.”

He frowned. “How do you know that?”

“I played poker with a close friend of his on Monday night. De Campo is now in the running for marquee wine partner.”

Matteo sucked in a breath. “That’s a six-or seven-million-dollar contract, minimum.”

“Ten.” The hungry light he knew so well flared in his brother’s eyes. Antonio De Campo, their father, had built De Campo into a global wine empire. Riccardo, with his endless thirst to make his mark, had driven it even higher with the restaurant division he was building. But for the core wine business, which was still all-important, this was huge. It would mean De Campo would be featured in every single one of Luxe’s legendary restaurants worldwide. The coveted locations where politicians, princes and A-list celebs dined...

Merda. This was massive. “What next then?”

“Davis has put his daughter, Quinn, in charge of restaurant operations. She will be the final decision-maker on the wine contract. The Davises are doing a chemistry test with the four short-listed companies next week in Chicago. From there they’ll pick the final two to pitch for the business.”

“A chemistry test? What in God’s name is that?”

“Warren Davis is all about the relationship aspect of business. Common ideals, common philosophies, he says, are the keys to creating a successful partnership. It’s not always about what looks best on paper for him. The four short-listed companies are all great candidates. It will be the chemistry we have with Davis and his daughter that will put us in the final two.”

Helpful then, that Matteo happened to be a master at persuading a female to do his bidding. “What form will this chemistry test take?”

“A cocktail party at the Davis residence.”

Matteo’s lip curled. “Like sharks circling one another...”

“Pretty much.” Riccardo rhymed off two of the largest spirit companies in the world who had swallowed up smaller regional winemakers and a niche producer out of southern Australia.

“Silver Kangaroo?”

Riccardo nodded. “They’ve been winning some big awards lately.”

“Yes, but odd. They are so niche.” He gave his head a shake. “Any idea which way they’re leaning?

“Quinn, apparently, has her eye on Silver Kangaroo. We are considered an outside shot.”

Against the odds. Exhilaration tightened his body, sent his blood coursing through his veins. Just the way he liked it. When was the last time he’d felt that rush? That elemental surge of adrenaline he needed to feel alive? If Quinn Davis preferred a pure wine player they had a shot. Now all he had to do was work his magic.

“Do we have any intel on Quinn Davis?”

“Tough, smart, Harvard-educated.” His brother handed him a folder. “It’s all in here.”

Matteo took it and lifted a shoulder. “She’ll be all right, then.”

Humor darkened his brother’s gaze. Riccardo had gone to Harvard, Matteo to Oxford. It was a standing debate between them which was superior.

Matteo leafed through the folder. “Quinn manages some of his companies for him, doesn’t she?”

“Si. Most recently Dairy Delight. Warren is hoping her experience in the food sector will help revive Luxe’s restaurants. They’ve been on a slow decline for years.”

“Dairy Delight? They sell ice cream and burgers. How’s that going to help bring Michelin three-star restaurants back to life?”

Riccardo shot him a warning look. “Do not underestimate her, Matty. Apparently she’s a chip off the old block.”

Yes, but she was a female. He’d never met one he couldn’t have. If he was on his game, she’d be in the palm of his hand before he’d finished his first cocktail. His mouth tightened. He intended to be more than on his game. All over his game was more like it. Which didn’t mean he would underestimate her. Women were like sleeping bears. All soft and cuddly until you awakened their inner beast. Which was precisely why you didn’t go there.

He closed the folder. “Who’s going?”

“You are.”

He did a double take. “With you and Gabe?”

“I need to be in San Francisco for the restaurant opening and Gabe is in way over his head with the harvest right now. I can’t pull him away.”

A surge of anticipation fired through him. Finally he was back in the game. The deal was his to win.

Riccardo kept his gaze steady on him. “This is the most important contract we’ve negotiated in the history of De Campo. We win this, we enter a different stratosphere. You need to bring it home, Matty.”

“Done.”

His brother’s eyes flickered at the belligerently confident note in his voice. Mistrust. It was still there.

His shoulders shot to his ears, blood pumped so rapidly into his head he thought it would explode. “Do not say it,” he bit out. “Do not say it.”

“What happened with Angelique Fontaine can’t happen again, Matty.”

The liquid fire burning in his head became an all-consuming force that blurred his vision. He swung away and sucked in a deep breath. Then another. Fisted his hands by his sides until they numbed into a lifeless mass. “How long,” he demanded hoarsely, “are you going to crucify me with that?”

“Bring me Luxe,” his brother said deliberately, “and we’re even.”

Matteo bowed his head. Flexed his frozen appendages until the blood streamed back into his fingers. When he looked up, he sought, demanded an honest answer from his brother. “Why me? You could make time for this, Riccardo.”

His brother rested that deadly sharp gaze of his on Matteo. “Because you are the only one who can win this. Quinn Davis is a man-hater. She will detest me on sight. Gabe could do it, but you are better. Not only do you have the charm but when you’re on, Matty, you light up a room. You are electric.”

He exhaled the breath lodged deep inside his chest. “Luxe is ours. I promise you that.”

Riccardo nodded. “Absorb what Paige has put together and let me know if you have any questions.”

Matteo tucked the file under his arm and headed for the door. His brain was already formulating his approach when Riccardo’s low drawl reached him. “Matty?” He turned around. “I meant what I said. You are not, under any circumstances, to sleep with Quinn Davis.”

All creativity fled. A muscle jumped in his jaw, his teeth clenching down so tight he thought they might shatter. “I heard you the first time. It can’t happen. It won’t happen. And I’m getting a little pissed you’d think I’d even go there.”

Riccardo shrugged. “You’re a complete wild card lately, Matty. They could announce the next shuttle expedition to the moon and I wouldn’t be surprised to see your name on the list.”

His insides tightened. “You know what I was going through. Why that happened with Angelique...”

His brother’s gaze hardened into impenetrable steel. “It was a seven-million-dollar deal, Matty.”

And he had brought it down like a house of cards.

He gritted his teeth. “I will win this deal for De Campo. That’s all you need to be sure about.”

His brother nodded.

Matteo stalked to the door. Sure he was going to charm Quinn Davis. Riccardo wanted to win. How did he think he was going to win? But sleep with her? Did his brother really think he wanted another two years in purgatory?

Damn. He needed a cold beer.

* * *

His mood hadn’t improved by the time he was home at his new Meatpacking District loft, a bottle of said cold beer in his hand on the patio. Kicking back in a lounge chair, he devoured the file Riccardo’s PA had compiled. Paige had been her usual ridiculously thorough self. It contained everything he ever needed to know about the Davis family and more. And photos. It did not escape him why his brother had warned him off Quinn Davis. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was knock-your-socks-off stunning.

The photo Paige had included, taken at a charity event, hit him right where it would any libido-endowed male. Petite, curvy in a lush “take me to bed” kind of way, she had silky, thick, long dark brown hair and the most haunting green eyes he’d ever seen.

Gorgeous. And, apparently, a man-hater. His mouth curved. He could work with that.

He took a swig of his beer. Paige’s notes were a gold mine of cocktail party intelligence. Quinn Davis had worked at Warren Davis’s investment firm since graduating from Harvard and had earned progressively more responsibility at a pace that would have made most people’s heads spin. It was clear from the opinion pieces that although many would have liked to think nepotism had played a role in her success, she had done it on her own. One business columnist commented she had an “eerily sharp brain like her father.” Another that she was an “instant study.” But the description that captured his attention was the one that branded her a “gladiator in the boardroom.”

This was getting more interesting by the minute.

He flicked to a profile piece on her personal life. Or lack thereof. She either didn’t have one or she was the most ultraprivate person he’d ever encountered. Twenty-seven years old, resided in Chicago, divorced from Boston blue blood lawyer, Julian Edwards, after one year of marriage. One year? He lifted a brow. What in God’s name had happened there? And a graduate-level Krav Maga? The instructors he knew had attained that level but none of his buddies had gotten past an orange belt despite years of practice.

Interesting was not the word. Fascinating was more like it. His mouth quirked. No wonder her marriage had fallen apart. Quinn Davis had probably emasculated her husband within the first three months of marriage.

He scoured the file from top to bottom, then threw it on the concrete beside him. Resting his beer on his thigh he looked up at the lone star in the Manhattan sky that never seemed to get truly black. An image of all three De Campo brothers—Riccardo, Gabriele, Matteo—walking into the boardroom of the second largest airline in Europe flashed through his head. That day in Paris had been their chance to make their mark on a company ruled for forty years by their despotic father, Antonio. It was Riccardo’s first high-profile deal as CEO. They had been pumped, sky-high with adrenaline, the seven-million-dollar deal to supply the airline with its house wines firmly within their grasp.

They’d nailed the presentation. Had gone out to celebrate that night at a local bar. But after the adrenaline had worn off, Matteo’s recent all-encompassing grief over the loss of his best friend, Giancarlo, had stormed back. Nothing had been enough to contain it—to make the guilt and pain go away. The effort to keep up a happy face with his brothers had been excruciating, ending with him seeking solace in the arms of a beautiful woman. Except that woman had been the daughter of Georges Fontaine, the CEO of the airline. She worked for Fontaine, had been on the executive team they’d pitched to. She’d also been throwing herself at Matteo the entire time they’d been in that boardroom.

He had reasoned Angelique Fontaine was a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. But when he’d made it clear the next morning he wasn’t interested in anything long-term, Angelique had gone straight to her father. And De Campo’s chance to put its wine on over half a million flights a year had gone with her.

Angelique had branded him a callous son of a bitch. Georges Fontaine had been furious. It had been the worst mistake in judgment in Matteo’s thirty-two-year-old life.

He shifted on the chair, the memory of his brothers’ faces when Georges Fontaine had called the deal off physically painful to remember. Burned so indelibly into his mind it was like a mental scar that never healed. Shock. Disbelief. Disappointment.

The disappointment had been the worst.

He set his beer down on the concrete with a jerky movement. He had been in pain. But Riccardo was right. It shouldn’t have mattered.

Resting his head against the back of the chair, that lone star blinking at him like a beacon—like his path to redemption—he knew this was his chance to finally put his demons to rest. To move on. He would win this deal if it was with the last breath he had. Despite the odds that were stacked against him.

Unfortunately, the stakes had never been higher.

CHAPTER TWO

WARREN DAVIS’S REDBRICK Georgian Revival home in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Chicago shone with a century-old elegance in the early evening light. It had been an unusually steamy summer day, climbing into the hundreds, the haze that had blanketed the city just starting to lift. Cooler night air whispered across the tops of the tall pine trees that stood like sentinels on either side of the mansion, wafting through the window of Quinn Davis’s room as she watched the heads of some of the world’s biggest spirit companies arrive for the cocktail meet and greet.

The air might be cooler now, but the focused, intent look on each megapowerful man’s face as he arrived promised a heated competition. Winning was all that mattered to men of this caliber. She’d lived with one her whole life—the most alpha of them all in Warren. And she couldn’t deny, she was their female equivalent. Except she had to be even tougher, stronger and more focused than all of them to survive. A female warrior in a male-dominated world.

She was fascinated to see how the men would play. How the testosterone party would unfold.

Every single one of them, as they arrived in everything from custom-made suits to cowboy hats, looked up at the American flag billowing from the porch, and undoubtedly, reminded himself again of its significance. Warren Davis was a national symbol of what made America great—a billionaire philanthropist who gave away more of his money than he kept. A patriot and financial genius who advised presidents on monetary policy and led social commentary. He was the man everyone wanted to know. The man people paid three and a half million to have lunch with at his charity auction date for the homeless, in the hopes they might pick up a miniscule amount of his brilliance.

He was also, as a stroke of fate would have it, the man who had chosen, along with his Irish wife, Sile, to adopt Quinn as a baby when her young Southern parents had been unable to care for her. Warren and Sile had barely brought their new baby home when Sile had miraculously fallen pregnant after years of unsuccessful fertility treatments and given Quinn her sister and best friend, Thea.

Thea, even now still primping herself in front of the mirror, fussing over yet another choice of hairstyle. Quinn grimaced and levered herself away from the window. “Please pick one and be done.”

Her sister squinted at herself and gave a dramatic sigh. “How am I supposed to choose with four of the world’s most powerful men coming for cocktails? This has to be daddy’s best idea ever. I mean, he has two single daughters right?”

Since her marriage to Julian had been a certified disaster, yes, that did put her squarely in that category. Not that she had any plans to ever repeat her mistake.

“Tonight is about getting to know potential partners,” she told her veterinarian sister, who knew as much about business as she knew about changing a tire. “Not speed dating.”

“Ha.” Thea shot her a rebellious look. “With a cattle and wine baron in the house, not to mention delicious Matteo De Campo.... You think I’m missing out on that opportunity?”

Quinn smiled. She wished, sometimes, she had just a little bit more of her younger sister’s boundless enthusiasm for life. For love. But she wasn’t sure she’d ever even had it to start with.

“Daniel Williams is beautiful,” Quinn drawled. “I’ll give you that.”

Thea tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder. “I fancy living on his ranch. I can take care of the animals while he tends to his vineyard. Although—” she put a finger to her mouth in a thoughtful gesture “—I’d gladly forget all about the animals if Matteo De Campo deemed me fit to give a second look. He is one real-life animal I wouldn’t mind taming.”

Quinn gave her a look from beneath perfectly manicured brows. “Matteo De Campo is a notorious playboy who couldn’t take a woman seriously if she were the only one left on the planet. And even then,” she declared, her lip curling, “he’d find it difficult to get past his love affair with himself.”

Thea threw out her hands. “Who cares? I hear a woman can’t be in the same room as him without throwing her panties at him. He’s that hot.”

“He’s not that good-looking.” Unless you went for the smoldering male à la perfume commercials who looked like he’d keep you up all night.

Her sister caught the gleam in her eye. “See? Undeniable. You need to throw off that ‘I was married and it sucked’ baggage and move on. Live a little.”

Quinn’s heart clamped into the hard little ball that seemed to be its permanent state since Julian had left. No one but her knew the truth of her marriage. The public line had been irreconcilable differences. What happened behind Davis doors was never revealed.

Better the truth of her marriage not be.

She forced a wry smile to her lips. “Don’t go throwing your panties at Matteo De Campo. Not only will he break your heart, but he’ll be mad when he loses the bid.”

Thea drew her brows together. “Have you already decided then?”

“No, but De Campo’s probably last on the list.” She wanted Danny William’s Silver Kangaroo. The small, award-winning Australian winery was the perfect eclectic fit for what she wanted to do with the Luxe brand.

“Daddy likes De Campo,” Thea said, following her to the door. “He said their new Napa wines are brilliant.”

“Daddy isn’t making the decision.”

Thea gave her a sideways look. “When are you going to stop trying to live up to this vision of perfection he expects? You could do that every day for the rest of your life and it’d still never be enough.”

Possibly true. But she was a little afraid she’d die trying. This was the biggest opportunity of her career and she intended to make her mark with it.

She did have to maintain some objectivity, she told herself as she and Thea made their way down the winding staircase, through the massive drawing room and out the French doors that led to the gardens where the cocktails were being served. It was only fair after all, even if she knew the choice she was going to make in the end.

The terrace in the middle of the immaculately landscaped gardens was buzzing as they arrived, the two CEOs of the larger spirit companies with their wives in attendance, while Daniel Williams and Matteo De Campo had obviously elected to fly solo, to Thea’s delight.

Surprising. Matteo’s Hollywood ex had been moaning in the tabloids about all of her ex-lover’s women, but not one was in sight tonight.

All eyes settled on her and her sister. Blonde Thea glowed with the prospect of meeting her Prince Charming while her dark-haired alter ego felt herself the instant target of four sets of male eyes. Not because she was beautiful, although she knew that she was. But because she was their ticket to massive international sales growth.

They were sizing her up. Waiting to see if she was as impressive as her track record. It sat on her shoulders with the almost oppressive weight that being Warren Davis’s daughter always had. She not only had to be better than the rest, she had to be ten times better.

It was exhausting.

Thea sucked in a breath. “I really may have to forgo my ranch-living plans. He is just unreal.”

Quinn didn’t have to ask which man her sister was talking about, because Matteo De Campo’s laserlike gaze was focused on her and it was like being in the path of an undeniable force of magnetism the likes of which she’d never experienced before. She’d met a lot of good-looking men. Her husband had been stunning...but he—he was something else. Unblinking, unashamedly approving of what he saw, his gaze took every inch of her in, right down to her toes. She swallowed hard. Shifted her weight so both designer-covered feet absorbed the impact.

“I hear he has a tattoo,” Thea whispered. “Hot, right?”

Quinn couldn’t help but wonder where on that tall, lean, muscular body it was. The dark suit that covered him was exquisite. The body better.

She found herself gaining a bit more respect for his legions of cast-offs as she returned his deliberate inspection. A woman might risk losing some self-respect over that. The photographs she’d seen of the youngest De Campo had been all about his lust for life, his freewheeling persona—the thick, unruly dark hair, the devil-may-care smile. But tonight, the hair was cropped close to his head so the sexy dark stubble that covered his square jaw showcased the perfection of his face. His expression was not the relaxed, indolent picture the tabloids loved to print. It was as intent as the night. Deliberate. Focused.

Damn. The “I am a sexy beast” stubble really worked for him.

She met his gaze, the amused half smile that curved his lips making her back stiffen. He was waiting for her to fall flat on her face. Waiting for her to fall all over him like every other woman did. She lifted her chin. He was so, so wrong on that. Julian had taught her well. The last thing any woman should trust was a pretty face in an expensive suit.

Summoning the cool, untouchable look she did so perfectly, she walked to her father’s side. He made the introductions, the two spirit company CEOs first, then the two younger men. All four were impressive, charismatic personalities who would stand out in a crowd from the pure power they exuded like a second skin. But even Daniel Williams, the golden-haired wine-and-cattle baron who looked like he’d just walked out of a cigarette commercial seemed to fade into the background with Matteo De Campo standing beside him. Silver-gray, she registered as she shook his hand. Matteo’s eyes were the exact color of the Chicago sky before a summer storm caused all hell to break loose.

Fitting then to feel that shiver slide up her spine.

“Quinn,” he murmured, keeping his gaze locked on hers as he folded his big, warm hand around her fingers. “A stunning name for a stunning woman.”

Her stomach did a funny roll as she retrieved her hand, the imprint of his fingers burning into hers. Is he for real?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. De Campo,” she murmured smoothly. “Although I feel as if I should already know you with all the tabloid attention you’ve been getting lately.”

He blinked, that one quick movement her only indication the gibe had landed. “Matteo, per favore,” he invited in a smooth, whiskey-soaked tone she was sure played a large part in how he slayed women. “And surely, Ms. Davis, you know better than to believe everything you read in the tabloids.”

“Where there’s smoke there’s usually fire, Mr. De Campo.”

A wry smile curved his lips. “A volte.”

She lifted a brow. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”

“Sometimes,” he drawled. “Sometimes there is, Ms. Davis.”

Her father flashed her a sharp look. Her head snapped back just like it had when she was ten and being rebuked at the dinner table for talking too much when the adults were conversing. Her shoulders came up and she summoned the exquisite manners the Davis family was legendary for. “Lovely to have you with us tonight.”

Matteo’s eyes glimmered as he held up the bottle he was carrying. “My brother Gabriele wanted you to have this. It’s the first bottle off the line of this year’s Malbec.”

The vintage that had the whole North American wine industry talking about it. The first bottle of the year at that. How very smooth. “I’m honored,” she murmured, wrapping her fingers around the bottle. “It’s a brilliant wine. Thank you.”

Score one for Matteo De Campo.

“And this,” he added, pulling two small silver-wrapped packages out of his jacket, “is a little taste of Tuscany for you both.”

He handed the tiny packages to her and Thea. Thea nearly fell over herself thanking him. Quinn thought it was a little over the top, but the look on the other men’s faces pronounced it an act of genius.

Two–nil.

Too bad she wasn’t a fan of doing the predictable thing. She took the gifts inside, then spent the evening soaking up the time with each prospective partner, doing as much reconnaissance as she could before she made her short list of two. Nothing surprised her about her conversations. In fact, she grew even more certain that Silver Kangaroo was the right choice. De Campo, in her mind, was too smug, too established a brand to fit with Luxe’s new direction. But she owed Matteo her time. He was the only one she hadn’t spoken to in depth, and although she’d like to tell herself she’d been too busy, she had the strange feeling she’d avoided him because he was a danger zone for her.

He was chatting with her father now, the two of them engulfed in a spirited debate about business issues. Her stern father had clearly fallen under the spell of Matteo’s legendary De Campo charm. Bizarre, really, when Warren usually saw right through people.

She skirted around them and headed for the house to use the ladies’ room. Her face ached from the polite smile she’d pasted on while the competitors plied her with information and assessed her comment by comment to find her hot spots, her weak spots. To see if she actually had a brain. Her feet burned in the stilettos that were her armor, as if a sharp heel could puncture the hurt she felt every time someone insinuated she’d gotten where she was because she was Warren’s daughter. Her head throbbed from a fourteen-hour work day.

Sometimes being Quinn Davis was just much too much.

She sliced a wry glance at Thea flirting with Daniel Williams on the porch. She’d do her due diligence with Matteo when she came back. Then she was calling it a night. Dirty look from Warren or not.

* * *

Matteo felt his blood boil as Quinn Davis walked by him yet again. From her frosty reception of the presents he’d racked his brain to come up with, to her complete avoidance of his attempts to snare her time, she had been sending a loud and clear message. Either she didn’t like him personally or De Campo didn’t stand a chance. Neither was desirable, but he’d prefer it was a personal thing. That he could work with. A dislike of De Campo, not so much.

He stared after her, distracted by the sway of her delectable hips in the conservative summer dress that still managed to look sexy on her with that hourglass figure, despite the fact she had about as much personality as a block of ice. His fingers tightened around his glass. Chemistry test. What chemistry test? This was a farce.

Warren excused himself with a frown and went after Quinn. He watched them exchange words, Quinn’s mouth tighten and her head incline. Then she continued on into the house. He clenched his teeth. What had he done to deserve this? That first moment they’d laid eyes on each other had been an intense, acknowledged male-female appreciation of each other’s assets. Unmistakable. Man-hater Quinn might not like it, but she was attracted to him. That much he was sure of. And maybe that was the problem. A woman like her hated to reveal any chink in her armor.

She was going to be an even tougher nut to crack than he’d anticipated.

Good then that he’d had enough, way more than enough.

Daniel Williams ambled over and gave him a sympathetic look. “Still waiting? She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

He would normally have agreed but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut around the competition. He inclined his head toward Warren, instead. “That hour-long chat would have cost me three and a half million in auction. I’m not complaining.”

The Australian’s mouth quirked. “Touché. But Warren isn’t making the decision, Quinn is.”

Yes, she is. Matteo crossed his arms over his chest, antagonism heating him like a thirty-year-old scotch. “I heard Quinn say she’s been out to visit you guys. How long have you been working this?”

“Since they started negotiating for Luxe. About six months now. And she hasn’t dropped the ice-queen act yet.” Williams flashed a conspiratorial grin. “No surprise she’s running an ice-cream company, eh?”

Matteo felt his insides combust. Six months? He’d been pursuing Quinn Davis’s contract for six months? What chance did De Campo have? Bloody chemistry test.

He kept his temper in check. Just. “Seems like you’re doing something right.”

Williams leaned in, his voice dropping. “I’ve got that filly tied up tighter than tight, De Campo. Hate to say it ’cause I like you guys and we wine folk have to stick together. But this is pretty much a lock for us. Hate to see you waste your time.”

He stiffened. “Wasting my time,” he said quietly, pinning his gaze on the Australian’s rough-hewn face, “would be competing in a game I can’t win, Williams. And I don’t see that happening.”

His competitor’s grin faded. “Best of luck, De Campo. I gotta tell you, you’re a long, long shot. Hope you know that.”

Matteo showed his teeth. “Just the way I like it.”

Quinn came out of the house. “Would you excuse me?” he murmured. “My number is up.”

Anger pressed ruthlessly down on him, burning brighter with every step he took toward the infuriating Quinn Davis. He could tolerate a lot of things, but people wasting his time was not one of them. Unfortunately this situation required him to be civil so he pasted a smile on his face and stopped in front of her. “Might I claim my time, do you think?”

Her long dark lashes came down to shield her expression. “Of course. I was just coming to find you. Warren said you wanted to see the koi pond.”

He wanted to dunk her in the koi pond. He nodded instead and spread his hands out in front of him. “Please.”

Quinn pressed her lips together as if this was the last thing she felt like doing and led the way. Her politely worded, disinterested questions as they made their way down the path into the rear of the gardens sent his temper to a whole new level. He pushed out his practiced spiel about De Campo’s history, how the Tuscan and Napa vineyards were flourishing and why he thought their one-hundred-year-old company was the best choice for Luxe. It sounded flat even to his own ears because she so clearly didn’t care. By the time they got to the koi pond, a beautiful little oasis that seemed to appear out of nowhere, he had blown a fuse.

She needed to throw him a scrap.

Quinn started spouting interesting nuggets about the pond. By the time she started telling him how they removed the tropical fish in the summer and took them inside, he’d had enough.

“I get the feeling you don’t like me very much, Ms. Davis.”

She blinked, then fixed him with that cool stare of hers. “It’s not you I dislike, Mr. De Campo. It’s your type.”

The tabloid comment. Cristo, those stories. He shoved his hands in his pockets and narrowed his gaze on her lush, beautiful face. “Maybe you can elaborate on what my type is because I’m not sure I know.”

“The global playboy,” she supplied dryly. “The man who thinks he can manipulate everyone with his charm.”

His gaze clashed with hers. “Funny thing is, I don’t actually think that.”

“‘A stunning name for a stunning woman’? Come on, Mr. De Campo. Do you really talk like that?”

His lips stretched in a thin smile. “That wasn’t a line, Ms. Davis. That was the truth.”

Her small, even white teeth sank into a full bottom lip more suited to a woman who was actually a flesh-and-blood human being than an icicle. Too bad all of those just right, “take me to bed” curves were even more deadly in person. As in “take me to bed right now.” Because Quinn Davis was the epitome of a five-letter word he didn’t normally care to use.

The smile faded from his lips. “Just how much of an underdog is De Campo?”

“Who said you were an underdog?”

“My position on your priority list,” he said roughly. “If I were to rank it, I’d say Silver Kangaroo is your first choice, followed by H Brands and Michael Collins.”

The flush that darkened her cheeks told him he was dead-on. He sliced his hand upward to push his hair out of his face, remembered he’d had it all chopped off and dropped it to his side. “Why are we even here if you aren’t going to give us a chance?”

“You do have a chance.” Her eyes flashed a taunting emerald. “Tell me why I should choose you, Mr. De Campo. I’m all ears. Wow me.”

He could think of a multitude of ways to wow this one, most of which could never be done in a boardroom...starting with shutting up that smart mouth of hers.

He bit his tongue and used reason instead. “You’re big on Silver Kangaroo. I get that they’re a hot brand, winning awards, but so are we. In fact, De Campo is doing things no one else is, as you know, with the Malbecs and Syrahs in Napa. Warren is big on made in the U.S.A. There’s your angle.”

She lifted a delicate shoulder. “I’m more interested in choosing the right brand. Made in the U.S.A. is nice to have.”

“Good,” he agreed. “Then I’m sure you know you’ll get more personal attention from us than the big brands. How much love and devotion will Michael Collins or H Brands give you?”

“A lot, they’ve promised.”

He lifted a brow. “You can see through a lie, can’t you, Ms. Davis? Ultimately, the reason you should choose us comes down to a partnership. We’re in the restaurant business. Our restaurants are hugely profitable. We can help you. Guide you.”

Her gaze glittered. “I run a national chain of restaurants. I’m sure you couldn’t have missed that fact.”

“Fast-food restaurants,” he qualified. “It’s a very different industry.”

The warning in her eyes intensified. “Not so different, Mr. De Campo. But you make a good point. You’re a competitor. Why should we fatten your pocketbook, open sesame on our trade secrets so you can kill us later?”

He shook his head. “De Campo isn’t interested in luxury dining. Our restaurants service the trendy, hip crowd. It would be synergy, not competition.”

“What’s to say you won’t expand? You’ve opened five restaurants this year.”

“It’s not in our plans. We know where our niche is. Allow us to partner with you, share what we’ve learned.”

Her gaze hardened to a chilly, wintry green. “I don’t want your advice, Mr. De Campo. I want your wine.”

Damn, but she was a pain in the butt. “Riccardo and I had dinner in your Park Avenue restaurant this week. We wrote down a list of ten crucial mistakes you’re making that would put you back in the black. You may want to hear them given our restaurants have a profit margin unheard of in the industry.”

Her gaze flickered. Bingo. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Go on.”

“Put us through to the next round and I will.”

Her brows tilted. “What if you don’t make it? You have an opportunity now to make your case.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Ah. A gambler too.”

“Always. Tell me something, Quinn. You don’t like being underestimated, do you?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Thought so. Funny then that Daniel Williams thinks he has you tied up tighter than tight.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think his exact words were ‘I’ve got that filly tied up tighter than tight, De Campo.’”

“Filly?” The full force of that green gaze sank into him. “He said that?”

“Just now, in fact. Ask him. And while you’re at it, you might want to find out where he’s staying. I could have sworn I saw him walk out of the hotel across from yours tonight. The one with the three-word name that is not the Luxe brand.”

Quinn’s mouth dropped open. She stood there gaping at him, then apparently realized what she was doing and slammed it shut. Matteo flashed her a grim smile. “Appearances are deceiving, aren’t they? You think I’m a playboy? You think I manipulate with my charm? Sure I do. I appreciate women. I appreciated you the moment I saw you and I know the feeling was mutual.” He lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “But the thing is, you aren’t my type, Quinn. I prefer the warm, affable ones over the ice queens. So perhaps you can tuck away your claws and play fair. Judge De Campo on our track record, not your misguided presumptions of who you think I am. Or this chemistry test is going to be a joke.”

He walked after that, afraid if he said anything else he would sink De Campo’s chances.

If he hadn’t already.

Quinn followed him back to the others. Gut churning, he grabbed a drink from the tray of a passing waiter. What in God’s name was wrong with him? Hot-headed was not an emotion he would normally have associated with himself. Reckless at times, yes. But that woman was impossible. And his career depended on her.

He watched her interact with the others, visibly cool with Daniel Williams now. At least he’d made her think twice. If he’d guessed right, the Silver Kangaroo CEO’s arrogant words would make a woman like her crazy. And maybe it would make her do exactly the opposite of what she’d been planning. Backed up by the sound reasoning he’d provided.

* * *

The thought he might have once again destroyed the biggest opportunity in De Campo’s history kept him awake for much of the night as the monogrammed Luxe Hotel sheets stared him in the face. Eventually he threw them aside with a curse and got out of bed for a 5:00 a.m. run before his flight.

It would be a couple of days before he learned the fallout of his actions. Quinn had said they’d be informed the beginning of next week.

The only thing he knew for sure right now, he thought, grimacing and picking up his pace into a flat-out run through the park, was that he, the master of charm, had not only failed to ace the chemistry test, it had been an adjunct failure of epic proportions. Quinn Davis might actually hate him after last night.

CHAPTER THREE

MATTEO HAD JUST stepped into his loft after his flight back to New York when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Riccardo no doubt, looking for the full debrief.

He dropped his bag on the entryway floor, pulled out his phone and checked the caller ID.

Quinn.

His chest tightened like a vice. Fast. Too fast?

“Quinn.”

“Congratulations, Mr. De Campo.” Her tone was brisk, businesslike. “De Campo has made Luxe’s short list of two.”

He let out his breath in a long, slow exhale. Relief mixed with the sweet taste of victory, a heady cocktail that made his blood surge in his veins. “No doubt it was my sparkling personality,” he offered dryly.

“No doubt.”

The wry undertone in her naturally husky voice made him smile. He leaned back against the foyer wall and ran his palm over the stubble covering his jaw. “I am thrilled, of course, that you picked us. Grazie.”

“Thank my new head sommelier for swinging the vote. One taste of Gabriele’s Malbec and she was onside.”

“Remind me to thank her.”

“I think the better route would be to keep you well away from her.”

He lifted a brow. “Why would you say that?”

“She isn’t as jaded about men as I am. I’d prefer not to have a train wreck on my team.”

“I think you overestimate my allure, Ms. Davis.”

“I think I don’t. Thank you for the perfume, by the way. You didn’t need to do that.”

“I thought a little piece of Tuscany was apt. You like jasmine then?”

“I do.”

“Good. It’s one of the world’s great scents.”

“I assume this is one of your techniques? Plying women with expensive perfume?”

“One of the more rudimentary ones, yes,” he admitted. “I also know my way around a kitchen. You’d be amazed how impressed women are by a man who can cook.”

“I can only imagine.” There was a pause. “I have no doubt about your...capabilities in any department you choose to apply yourself in, Mr. De Campo. Would next week suit to visit your Tuscan operations? I’d like to do that first, then show you two of our Caribbean properties we’re reopening in St. Lucia so you can get a feel as to where Luxe is headed before we do the pitch in early August.”

“Of course. Will cowboy Jack be along for the ride to the Caribbean?”

“If you’re referring to Daniel Williams, then yes, he is the other half of the final two.”

“Perfetto,” he drawled, sarcasm lacing his tone. He was sure he could find a way for the Australian to stick his mouth in it again. It would be his pleasure. “We can do Tuscany whenever you like. Name the time.”

“How about Friday? That way I don’t miss the working week.”

His lips twisted. God forbid the workaholic miss a day churning out money for Davis Investments. “Shall I send the De Campo jet for you?”

“Thank you but I’m mandated by Davis rules to fly commercial. Demonstrates good corporate governance.”

He shrugged. “The offer’s there.”

“Thank you.”

“I do have one, nonnegotiable condition to us moving forward.”

A pause. “Which is?”

“You need to start calling me Matteo.”

He could have sworn he heard her smile. “I want your top-ten list, Matteo.”

The Chagall he’d recently purchased at auction drew his eye, a vivid splash of color against the cream entryway wall. “Over a bottle of Brunello in Tuscany, Quinn. Bring a sweater for the castello. It gets chilly at night.”

“Have you forgotten?” Her low, sardonic tone dripped across the phone line. “I’m already ice-cold.”

Low laughter escaped him. “Why, Quinn Davis, I think you have a sense of humor.”

“Don’t go imagining things.... I’ll have our admins connect on the details.”

She disconnected the call. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and shook his head. As far as standoffish women went, it was his theory that some were cold and uninviting at their core, while others just pretended to be so for a whole variety of reasons. The latter category had always fascinated him. Often proved the biggest challenge and the sweetest reward. He’d bet his Chagall Quinn was one of them.

Too bad that particular challenge was off-limits. If his vow to swear off women wasn’t enough of a reason to put Quinn in that category, his ten-million-dollar one was.

He settled in and called Riccardo, an intense feeling of exhilaration moving through him. They had made it to the pitch. That’s all he needed. No one could beat him in a room. No one.

His cold beer on the patio that night tasted very sweet indeed.

* * *

I should have taken the De Campo jet. Quinn embarked her commercial flight in Florence stiff, sleep deprived and wanting to strangle the man who’d sat beside her on the London to Italy leg, humming incessantly in her ear. She could have used the luxury of Matteo’s flying spa to actually get some work done considering she was too much of a control freak to sleep on planes. Instead, she’d done an excellent impersonation of a Quinn sandwich lodged between two overweight men on the seven-hour overseas flight, unable to move and completely unproductive. Then had come the humming.

She pulled up the handle on her carry-on and wheeled it through to the arrivals area of the tiny airport. Unproductive was the sore point here with the amount of work she had on her plate. Luxe was in far worse condition than she and Warren had ever imagined. When they’d started peeling back the layers and taken a hard look at the real financials—it was clear Luxe’s former parent company had been hiding a multitude of sins, including the fact that the restaurant wing of the chain was bleeding money at light speed. The rosy glow of Luxe’s heyday had long since passed and things were definitely on a downward spiral.

Enter Quinn Davis. Miracle worker.

She sighed and sat down on a bench to wait for her suitcase. She could do this. One step at a time, her mother had always told her when she was a little girl, fretting over some issue or another. Even at six, Quinn had been the girl waiting for the hammer to drop. Waiting for the pin to prick the bubble of her happy existence. The only girl in her first-grade class who had refused to get a dog because it might get run over by a car like her friend Sally’s had.

As if, despite all of Warren’s and Sile’s efforts, she’d known at the core of her she was different. That her life wasn’t destined to be the gilded storybook it had been presented as.

She closed her eyes against the pressure starting to build in her head. Hadn’t she proven time and time again in her short career she could do the impossible? She just needed to get this whirlwind two-day trip to Italy over with and move on to solving her real headaches. Like the handful of her restaurants that were literally falling apart because they hadn’t been renovated in so long. The local strikes that were paralyzing her Mediterranean locations. Completely incompetent management in others.

Luxe had seen better days. Her dream assignment was turning into a nightmare. Fast.

The baggage belt finally coughed to life and spit out her suitcase. Pulling up the handle she wheeled it and her carry-on through the barely there customs checkpoint and out into the Tuscan sunshine. The heat of the summer day burned down on her head and shoulders. She stopped, stripped off her cardigan and wrapped it around her waist, pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and searched for a sign with her name on it. She found Matteo instead, leaning against an atrociously expensive-looking sports car. Dressed in an Oxford University T-shirt and jeans that molded his long legs into a work of art, he looked cool, elegant and very Italian. Also scorching, singe-yourself-on-him hot.

Quinn’s hand flew to her head and the French twist she hadn’t straightened since...when? London? She must look a sight. Her slacks were creased, her shirt had a coffee stain on it from where one of the men from her personal sandwich had dumped it on her and she was pretty sure she’d forgotten to wipe the breakfast cream cheese off her face. She reached up and swiped a palm across her mouth. What was it about the Italians that made you feel incredibly gauche just from your pure lack of style?

She had not expected her ride to be him.

He strolled toward her, his relaxed, indolent stride catching the eye of about twenty women around her. Her gaze dropped to the black lettering stretching across his biceps. The tattoo. Damn if it didn’t give the whole package some serious edge.

Exactly what it didn’t need. Her husband had been a pretty boy, the Ivy League son of a high-powered lawyer Warren had admired. Not Quinn’s choice. His ego had required the kind of massive stroking it was impossible for one woman to administer. Unlike Matteo De Campo. He had it all built in. She doubted he’d had an uncertain day in his entire life.

The glitter in his gray eyes as he stopped in front of her said he hadn’t missed her lustful look. She yanked in a breath of the fragrant, rose-scented Tuscan air. She needed to squash the physical attraction between them like a bug. Fast.

“You didn’t need to come yourself,” she murmured, caught off guard when he bent and pressed his lips first to one cheek, then the other. It was like being branded by a force she had no ability to cope with.

He drew back, his mocking glance sliding across her flushed face. “You’re in Italy now, Quinn. We don’t shake hands. We kiss.”

She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance. It’s been a long day. I’m a mess.”

“If that’s a bad day,” he murmured, his lazy gaze taking her in, “most women would kill to have more of them.”

Her breath jammed in her throat. “You just can’t help it, can you?”

“No,” he agreed, smoky eyes laughing at her. “That’s what playboys do, Quinn. Play. However,” he drawled, picking up her bags and tossing them into the pitifully small backseat of the car, “I will endeavor to keep it to a bare minimum, just for you.”

“You are too kind.”

He held his hands up in a typically Italian gesture, then opened the passenger door for her. She slid in, absorbing the butter-soft interior of the car. “Fits the bad-boy image don’t you think?”

The exotic car growled as he brought it roaring to life. She had to agree as he gunned it and they sped out of the airport that yes, it was sexy and so was the tattoo, which close-up, she could now see was in Latin, the beautifully scripted symbols set in a perfectly straight line across the hard muscles of his biceps. Unfortunately the Latin was mumbo jumbo to her. She was about to ask him what it meant when she clamped her jaw shut. Deciphering Matteo De Campo’s tattoo was an activity better left for those actresses and models who were happy to let themselves fall for that type of meaningless charisma. She, on the other hand, knew better.

Matteo flicked her a sideways glance. “The castello is about an hour’s drive. Feel free to relax and nap on the way. You look tired.”

She grimaced. “I don’t sleep on planes.”

His mouth curved. “Don’t tell me, you’d prefer to be flying it?”

“However did you know?”

“Just a wild guess. If you aren’t going to sleep I’ll pick your brain.”

Pick her brain he did during the drive along the windy autostrada toward Siena. Commanding the powerful car along the highway’s twists and turns with a fearless abandon that made her heart pound, he asked a series of excellent questions about Luxe’s operations and mandate while at the same time managing to act as tour guide. His multitasking, expressive hand movements and excessive speed had Quinn grabbing for the door handle more than once.

“Any chance you can slow down?” she muttered after one particularly terrifying turn. “Or is that too much to ask of your playboy persona?”

His smile flashed white against his olive skin. “Too much. Driving in Italy is a blood sport. You’d be asking me to emasculate myself.”

Not a chance, she thought grimly. It wasn’t possible. Not with those mouthwateringly muscled thighs flexing beside her, drawing her attention every time he shifted gears. Or his big, beautifully tapered hands that looked as if they’d be masterful at any activity he pursued.... He was the type of ultradangerous male you wouldn’t know you were in trouble with until you were way, way gone.

She lifted her gaze to the road, to the vibrant red poppies dotting a sea of green on its edge. That was enough of that.

Quinn focused on the information Matteo was imparting about Montalcino, the town where the castello was located. It had a bloodthirsty history, warred over for decades by its powerful foreign neighbors and even her own neighboring city-states back in the days before Italy had become a nation. The castello was actually a fortress, he relayed. It had played a strategic role in the struggles between the Sienese and the invading powers.

“The cellar is actually the old dungeon where the prisoners of war were held. It’s quite a showpiece. We think it gives it great atmosphere.”

That was one way of putting it. “They actually locked people up down there?”

“Si. Some of them died.” He laughed at her horrified expression. “When my grandfather bought the castello and we renovated, we found two old skulls we keep on display.”

She recoiled. “How very macabre.”

He shrugged. “Wars happen. Have since the beginning of time.”

They swept around a turn and a magnificent stone building came into view, perched on the top of a hillside, towering over the mountainous forests that surrounded it. Quinn gasped. “Is that it?”

He nodded. “The Castello De Campo. Dates back to the Middle Ages.”

She took in the sprawling brawn of the imposing burnt-orange structure, its square turrets and tall watchtower like something out of a movie. “It’s incredible.”

Matteo pointed toward the terraced vineyards that extended from the top of the mountain to the bottom. “The De Campo estate is actually a constellation of vineyards. The different slopes and elevations of the mountain offer each varietal the optimum growing conditions. Some of the whites such as the Chardonnay, for instance, are planted further above sea level, where the nights are cool and the ripening season long, whereas the Brunellos, the king of our reds, thrive at a lower level.”

“Margarite is obsessed with your Brunello.”

“Who?”

“My head sommelier.”

“So she should be,” he murmured cockily. “We’ll have one tonight.”

She was so exhausted she might fall flat on her face if she drank anything. But Margarite would kill her if she passed up the opportunity to try the famous, lusty De Campo red.

“The scale is breathtaking,” she said to him. “How many varietals do you produce?”

“Fifteen.” He flicked her a glance. “Do you ride? I thought we would do the tour by horseback tomorrow.”

“Not well,” she admitted. She was suspicious of horses. They were big, heavy, unpredictable animals. Kind of like men. She didn’t need either of them in her life.

It was impossible not to think how much more history De Campo had than Silver Kangaroo as Matteo parked the car in front of the magnificent castello and carried her bags inside. It was everywhere. In the century-old, mature vineyards surrounding the castle, in the family crest on the building as they came in, in the third generation of winemakers producing the glorious vintages here. Silver Kangaroo was only twenty years old. Although there was something to be said for such a young winery winning so many awards in such a short amount of time, it couldn’t compare to De Campo in lineage.

Matteo led her into the magnificent tiled hallway of the west wing which was the personal residence of the De Campo family. With its cathedral ceiling and stunning frescos it was truly amazing. Like she’d walked into the home of royalty.

Matteo introduced her to Maria, the Italian housekeeper who had run the De Campo household since he was a boy, then led her up a winding staircase to a turret bedroom that took her breath away. The exposed brick walls of the castello extended into a double-arched stone wall that separated a sitting room with a fireplace from the bedroom and its huge canopied bed. The beautiful, rich fabrics covering the room cast everything in a golden, luxurious hue that might have been a royal princess’s bedroom.

It evoked a strange feeling in Quinn. She’d spent much of her life feeling like the imposter princess. Her birth father, a factory worker in Mississippi, even now worked two jobs to make ends meet for his family. She knew because she’d hired a private detective to find them and learned the real truth about her adoption. Unlike the story she’d been fed by a well-meaning Warren and Sile, it hadn’t been as simple as her mother having an affair with a married man and giving her up because of the complications of their relationship. Her mother had gone on to marry her father and they’d had another girl. Her sister.

To replace the girl they’d given away.

“Quinn?” Matteo was looking at her with a raised brow. “Everything okay?”

She blinked. “It’s stunning, thank you. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up in a castle.”

“I have stories.” A wry smile tipped his mouth. “You can imagine the hiding spots three industrious boys found.”

She smiled. “Some impossible to find ones, I’ll bet. Will I get to meet your parents tonight?”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Antonio serves on the boards of a couple of major corporations. He’s in London right now for meetings and my mother is in Florence where she prefers to stay.”

Interesting arrangement. While her mother was alive, Warren would fly all night to get home to her. They hadn’t spent a night apart that wasn’t business. Her stomach twisted. In many ways, Sile’s tragic death at a far-too-early age had turned her father into a different man. Taken the small amount of softness Warren possessed with her, his anger at her death so raw and all-consuming.

“Does seven suit for dinner?” Matteo asked. “If you sleep after that you should be able to get into the time.”

“That’s perfect, thank you.”

“Fino a stasera. Until tonight...”

And why did even that sound sexy? She closed the door behind him and blamed it on the accent. Accents were always sexy on a man. His, particularly so.

She looked longingly at the bed. Just a couple more hours, she told herself, intending on showering first and catching up on email. But her eyelids burned from fatigue and she felt as if her body had been pummeled in a boxing match. Maybe a few minutes with her eyes closed on the high canopy bed in the beautiful, fairy-tale-ish room would refresh her enough to make it through dinner.

Help her figure out exactly how she was going to avoid the inescapable attraction she felt toward her host. Her reaction to him, she decided, curling up on the satin comforter, was probably due to the fact she hadn’t looked at a man since Julian had left. Had buried herself in work lest the humiliation of it all become simply too much to bear. She hugged the pillow to her. Quinn never intended to feel that kind of humiliation ever again. From any man. So she was missing the gene that allowed her to be truly intimate with another person.... The way she’d survived in this world, the way she’d survived as a Davis was to shield her heart. To not let herself feel.

It was easier that way. To not need anyone. And she wasn’t changing her strategy now.

* * *

Matteo knocked on the heavy wooden door of Quinn’s suite just after seven, his game plan firmly in place. Ply her with an incomparable Brunello, impress her with the history and atmosphere of De Campo over dinner in the cellar and, most importantly, find out why she’d ranked them fourth on her list.

A piece of cake, as the Americans would say.

When there was no response to his knock, he rapped again, harder. Nothing. Strange. Quinn seemed like the overly punctual type. He was knocking on the two-inch-thick door a third time when it flew open and she stood before him, bleary-eyed, dark hair flowing over her shoulders in a jumbled mass of curls.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I fell asleep.”

He wasn’t. She had the face of an angel when she wasn’t frowning. Her big green eyes had a sleepy, muted golden edge to them, an intense vulnerability he couldn’t tear his gaze from. He had the feeling this was the real Quinn Davis. The softness behind the hard edge she liked to present to the world. Unfiltered.

His gaze drifted down over the flushed, rosy skin of her cheeks, her full, pouty lips that were the kind a man imagined wrapped around a certain part of his anatomy...

Matteo’s body temperature soared. Quinn cleared her throat. The flicker of sexual awareness that replaced the vulnerability in her eyes slammed into him with the force of a hammer. Merda. Where had he ever gotten the impression this woman was cold? Or maybe it was just that she was a perfect combination of fire and ice?

Quinn dropped her gaze to somewhere around his shoulder and waved a hand at him. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready.”

He nodded. The click of the door brought back his sanity. Bringing Quinn Davis to her knees in that particular fashion might have been the natural order of things for him—but, regrettably, he needed to use his brain on this one, not his body.

Unfortunate. But not nearly as unfortunate as the consequences of not playing this one by the book.

Quinn emerged in a navy dress that made the most of her voluptuous curves in her usual, conservative fashion. Her ultracomposed, cool demeanor was firmly back in place.

“I hope this is okay?” She smoothed her hands over her hips. “You didn’t specify.”

“Perfetto.” He nodded. “I’m sorry, I should have mentioned it was just the two of us dining in the cellar. Anything goes.”

A wary look crossed her face. His lips curved. “I promise my best behavior, Quinn. We can recite every last statistic on De Campo over dinner. I’ll even tell you what we polish the floors with.”

“Ha, ha,” she murmured, long lashes coming down to veil her expression. “I wasn’t worried.”

Si, you were. He wasn’t the only one having a hard time handling the chemistry between them, but he instinctively knew Quinn Davis had to feel in control of a situation for him to accomplish anything tonight, so he let it go.

Fortunately, he was an expert at the slow, insidious penetration of a woman’s defenses.

He took her on a tour of the west wing, showing her the centuries-old library, the opulent, chandelier-encrusted ballroom and the music room with the grand piano. When she had a suitably glazed-over look at the pure scale of things, he took her through the stone hallways to the east wing where the restaurant was just starting to fill up with locals and tourists. She was unfailingly polite and charming to his chef, making Guerino Pisani smile broadly and insist she come back after dinner to let him know how she liked it. Was it just him, the playboy, she disliked then?

His ego slightly dented, Matteo led Quinn down the dark, winding stone stairwell to the cellar. “You weren’t kidding,” she murmured, craning her neck to take in the two ancient skulls that sat backlit in one of the alcoves. “Do you know who they belonged to?”

“We assume someone unfit for a Christian burial. Spaniards, the French, the forces of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, they were all imprisoned down here. Also the Aldobrandeschi and the Guelphs of Florence—powerful families at war with the Sienese.”

She followed him down the hallway to the cellar. The stone walls on either side of them were thick slabs of rock that would have made escape impossible. Collections of medieval weapons—swords, pikes, helmets and breastplates—were lit on either side of them.

“It all seems so brutal,” Quinn said, giving them a long look.

“It was. It was hand-to-hand combat in its most savage form.”

That feeling of brutality remained in the majestic cellar Matteo’s grandfather Alfonso De Campo had built. The exposed brick walls rose thirty feet, tiny bar-encased windows the only natural light entering the room. The muted lighting hinted at a history of darkness. But it was the feeling that souls had suffered here that got into your bones. Even with all the elegant touches Alfonso had included—the dark walnut shelving that rose fifteen feet high to house De Campo’s most precious vintages and the elegant, hand-turned showpiece of a bar.

“It’s breathtaking,” Quinn murmured, wide-eyed. “Did they execute prisoners down here?”

His mouth tilted. “From what I’ve been told, most died from existing injuries.”

She didn’t look so reassured by the response. He held a chair out for her at the candlelit table for two the serving staff had set in the middle of the room. Then he sat down opposite her and swept his hand toward the bottle of wine breathing in the middle of the table. “You’ll have some?”

She scanned the label. The Brunello he’d chosen was the highest-ranking bottle in De Campo’s one-hundred-year-old history. Apparently, its significance wasn’t lost on Quinn, a wry smile curving her mouth. “Refuse the 1970 De Campo Brunello? I think not.”

He poured the rich dark red, almost brown liquid into their glasses and held his own up. “To a successful partnership.”

She tilted her glass in a mocking salute. “So confident.”

“I don’t intend to lose, Quinn.”

“Then let the best candidate win.” Her green gaze glittered as she lifted her glass and swirled its dark contents around the edge. She closed her eyes and breathed the wine in. He found himself hypnotized by the way she gave herself over to the full sensual experience. Quinn Davis was definitely scorching hot on the inside. The type who would be more than a match for any man. The question was, did she ever drop that rigid exterior and let herself go?

Stretch out like a cat and let a man pleasure her until she screamed?

She opened her eyes. Looked directly into his. He was not nearly quick enough to wipe the curiosity off his face. A rosy hue stole over her golden skin, her gaze dropping away from his.

He could work with this.

“So,” she murmured huskily, after their food had been served, “give me your list.”

He sat back in his chair and balanced the Brunello on his knee. “The wine list in your Park Avenue property is far too big. You’re giving people too much choice. Distracting them. You need to allow your sommelier to do his job and sell the wines.”

She frowned. “People like choice. I like choice. I hate it when I go to a place that tries to tell me what I want to drink.”

“Si, but you have too much choice. The night Riccardo and I were there, a couple at the table beside us were all set to splurge on an expensive bottle, but by the time they got through your monstrosity of a list, they gave up and ordered a midend vintage they were familiar with. Your sommelier,” he drawled, “never made it to their table that night.”

“We’re short-staffed there,” she said defensively.

“It was a Tuesday night at six. There were empty tables.”

She was silent. Pursed her lips. “Go on...”

“You need more beautiful women working the bar.”

She lifted a brow. “So men can go ogle them and spend their money? This is a high-end restaurant I’m running, Matteo, not a strip joint.”

“Precisely. Seventy-five percent of the patrons at the bar that night were men—financial power players having a drink after work. Those types are all about the eye candy. You put a beautiful woman in front of them, they’ll stay longer, drink more and I guarantee, they’ll keep coming back.”

“I suppose I should have them in short skirts, too?”

“Sex sells, Quinn.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Sometimes I think life would be so much easier if I were a man. You are such simple creatures.”

He smiled at that. “If you mean honest and straightforward about how we feel without a hundred pounds of analysis spread on top of it, then si, it’s true.”

“But in being that way, you miss many of the subtleties of life.”

“Care to give an example?”

“I’d prefer you finish your list.”

* * *

By the time he had and they’d eaten dinner, Quinn had the glaring feeling she’d vastly underestimated how valuable De Campo could be in helping her dig Luxe out of the mess it was in. Matteo was clearly a brilliant businessman and a marketing genius. De Campo was making scads of money at its übertrendy wine bar locations on the East and West Coasts. She’d done the research.

“You make some very good points,” she conceded, pushing her empty plate away. “But there still remains the fact you are competition for us in the restaurant space.”

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