Hired:The Italian's Bride
“A working dinner.”
“Of course.”
There was no polite way out of it. He was here, all the way from Italy, he was her boss and he was calling the shots. Like it or not. She’d pushed him as far as she’d dared just now and her victory was thin. If they were to work together for the next several weeks, months even…her heart quivered at the thought…then somehow they needed to reach an amicable status quo. She swallowed. He had to know she was not afraid. He had to know she put the hotel and its employees first.
“One dinner, that’s all. And we discuss work.”
“Naturally.”
Mari took a few sidesteps, thankful the door was within reach. “I’ll meet you in the Panorama Room at six.”
“Perfect.”
When he walked toward her she pulled open the door, a little too quickly to be poised. His hand gripped the door frame above her shoulder and she felt the heat from his body. Too close. She wasn’t sure if the tripping of her pulse was fear or exhilaration. She slid out the opening as fast as she possibly could, clinging to whatever grace she could muster.
“I’ll see you then,” Luca said softly.
She fled for the elevator without looking back.
It was 5:57 when Mari stopped before the entrance of the dining room and smoothed her dress.
She paused in the door, scanning the room, but he wasn’t there. Relief warred with annoyance. She didn’t have to worry about making an entrance this way, but at least he could be on time. She wanted to get this over with. It was irritating to have her initial impressions of him confirmed so accurately. Luca was unfocused, cavalier about the whole thing. He was every bit the playboy she’d read about. Sexy and smooth. Working together was going to drive her crazy.
She was shown to the best table in the room. She took her seat with surprise, looked outside at the mountains and trees being thrown into shadow by twilight. She hadn’t asked for this particular table; it was one usually reserved for guests requesting something “special.” It would be very wrong of them to monopolize the table when there was likely a paying guest waiting for it.
She sipped her drink and waited. By ten past six her toes had joined her nails, tapping with impatience. Only to stop abruptly when he stepped in the room.
God, he was beautiful. She could admit it when he was a room away from her and they weren’t embroiled in business. He was safe there. Safe and devastatingly sexy in black trousers and a white shirt. She shook her head, sighing. It was one of those tailored shirts that was meant to be untucked, emphasizing his narrow waist and moving up to broad shoulders. One hand slid casually into his pocket in a gesture she somehow already knew intimately. He said something to the hostess at the front, and the two of them laughed.
Luca Fiori was every woman’s dream. Everyone’s but hers. Dreams like that simply didn’t last. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate the package. It was a lovely package. And for a very quick moment, she wished. Wishing wasn’t a luxury she afforded herself. But looking at Luca, with his bronzed skin and easy smile, she wished she knew how to be that free. To be able to accept, and to give.
He approached the table with an easy stride. “I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught up in e-mails my father sent and lost track of time.”
She pursed her lips, determined not to let him off easily, but he leaned over and pressed an informal kiss of greeting to her cheek.
She froze.
Seemingly unaware of her reaction, Luca took the chair across from her. “You look beautiful. Have you ordered?”
Beautiful? Her? She’d gone home to change and feed Tommy and then he’d drooled over the front of her outfit, causing a wardrobe change. Gone was the tailored charcoal trouser suit she’d picked and in its place was her generic little black dress—simply cut, black velvet with long fitted sleeves and with a hem ending just above the knee.
It wasn’t as businesslike as she’d have preferred, but it worked and while classy there wasn’t much sexy about it. It seemed compliments rolled off his tongue as easily as assurances.
“Thank you, and no, I was enjoying a drink and the music.” Mari struggled to make her voice sound less strangled than she felt.
A recent jazz CD played over the speakers. She hadn’t paid it a whit of attention but needed to cover. It was becoming clear that Luca was a toucher. He was comfortable with easy, physical gestures like polite kisses and hand clasps. It should help, knowing they were impersonal, but Mari knew she could never be that tactile with people. It was simply too difficult. Yet to explain was unthinkable. She’d just have to muddle through.