Hired:The Italian's Bride

“Mari,” she corrected coolly.

He frowned. Usually that soft tone worked on women. There was more to her than frosty order and sensible shoes, he could sense it. But as her eyes blazed at him, refusing to let him use her full name, he knew that this was one time his charm was going to fail him. With it came the unholy urge to laugh, along with grudging respect.

Who would have thought a trip to Canada would turn out to be so intriguing?

He had the most incredible desire to reach out and rest his fingers on her belligerent cheek. Even sitting on the stool, she was several inches below his face. So petite and feminine, even when she was standing her ground. What would she do if he tried such a thing? Blush? He didn’t think so. Some of the women he knew would slap his face in a bout of indignant passion, but he didn’t think Mari was the type for that, either.

No, an icy diatribe was more her style and he almost did it just to see what would happen. To see the sparks ignite, and flare.

Something held him back.

That wasn’t why he was here. He was away from Italy, away from the constant demands and in a place where he alone could call the shots. He’d let himself be distracted before and it hadn’t been pretty. It had cost him. Not quite so much as it had cost his father when his mother had walked out on them, but it had been adequately messy. He’d let Ellie make a fool of him. He’d risked his heart and had lost. No, his initial instinct was right. He would enjoy himself, but not take it any further than that.

He was here to make the Bow Valley Inn into the Fiori Cascade and in order to do that he had to work with Mariella Ross.

He stepped back. “Show me the rest, Mariella. And we’ll see about taking the Fiori Cascade to a whole new level of opulence.”

Luca stared at the papers once more, leaning back against the plush sofa and crossing his ankles on the coffee table. There was nothing really wrong with the hotel, not really. It was a nice establishment, comfortable, good service.

But good wasn’t Fiori. His father had taught him that.

The new manager was something else, too. Mariella. Right now it appeared the only thing she shared with his grandmother was her name. She’d let down her guard for a few moments, but she was a woman bound up in rules and boundaries, that much was crystal clear. All through the tour she’d mentioned how profitable or efficient their amenities were. Which was all well and good—he wanted to make a profit. But it wasn’t the be all and end all. There was more to the Fiori brand than a balance sheet. It was what set Fiori apart from the rest.

He put the papers down and wandered over to his balcony. He slid open the door, crossing his arms against the chill of mountain fall air. Listening, he caught the whispered rustle of the wind through the gold-coin leaves of the trees below. He hadn’t missed the way she kept putting distance between them, either. After that preliminary handshake, it had been like there was an invisible shield around her. The woman was a big contradiction. A sexy woman wrapped up in bubble-wrap. He wondered why.

And he really had to stop thinking about her.

He leaned against the railing, looking out over the white-capped range before him. He liked the gray stone exterior of the hotel, the way it mimicked the slate color of the peaks surrounding them. It reminded him of a small castle, a retreat tucked into the side of a mountain. A fortress.

A knock at the door shook him from his musings and he went back inside to answer it.

Mari had to struggle to keep her mouth from falling open when he opened the door. She completely forgot about the file in her hand or her reason for going to the suite as soon as she saw him. Gone was the suit of earlier. Instead he wore jeans, old ones. The hem was slightly frayed, the thighs faded. And he’d changed into a sweater, a ribbed tan pullover that accentuated his lean build and complemented his dark coloring. He looked completely approachable. Delicious.

This was ridiculous. She was staring at a virtual stranger like he was a piece of the chef’s sachertorte. Good looks were just that. Good looks. They said nothing about the man, nothing at all. A man could hide behind his good looks. An all too familiar ache spread through her chest.

“Mari. Come in.”

He’d acquiesced and used the shortened version of her name. She should have been grateful, but the way he said it, the way the simple syllables rolled off his tongue, sent flutters over her skin.

He reached out and took her hand and the skitters fled, replaced by an automatic reaction. She pulled her hand back, couching it along her side, and took a step away from him.

His brows furrowed in the middle. Of course he wouldn’t understand.

Handshakes were a matter of business etiquette and she tolerated it, but that was the extent of the personal contact she could tolerate. Taking her hand probably meant nothing to him. But to her it meant taking a huge personal liberty. She couldn’t help her reaction any more than she could change the past. She couldn’t stop the fear, even when it was irrational as it was now. It didn’t matter how much time went by, it was impossible to stop the instinctive reactions. He’d done nothing to make her believe he’d hurt her, but it didn’t matter. The trigger was the same.