Resisting the Sicilian Playboy

One dark eyebrow rose, mocking her. ‘Were you thinking about this particular situation, or are there other criminal acts you’ve committed tonight?’

Criminal? Dara felt hot panic rise in her chest. ‘Mr Valente, I can assure you I was not attempting to commit a crime.’

‘Relax. I won’t call in the hounds just yet. But you failed to notice the security camera watching your every move.’ He pointed to a tiny blinking red light above her head. ‘My team was halfway up here when I told them to wait.’

‘Why did you do that?’ The question was out before she could stop herself.

He shrugged one shoulder. ‘I was bored. You looked interesting.’

She thought for a moment, but could not come up with a single response to that comment. Perhaps if he found her so interesting she could captivate him long enough to make her proposal.

She cleared her throat. ‘Just so we’re clear: I’m not a criminal. I’m a wedding planner.’ She watched as his eyes narrowed.

‘Same thing, in my opinion.’ He smirked. ‘I liked my naughty secretary theory much better.’

And just like that Dara found herself the subject of Leonardo Valente’s infamous smouldering gaze. She cleared her throat, trying to think of something—anything—to break the tension. The air was beginning to feel very thin up here on this darkened terrace, and it had nothing to do with the altitude.

‘Your theory is incorrect. I’m not here for anything like...like that.’

‘Such a pity. Nonetheless, you have my attention.’ He turned abruptly to go inside, pausing when she didn’t immediately follow behind him. ‘Unless you plan on going back down that ladder again, I suggest you follow me.’

With that he was gone, leaving Dara with no choice but to obey.

The room on the other side of the glass was twice the size of her entire apartment. She saw him press a few buttons in a panel on the wall and suddenly soft light illuminated the room. It was not an office, but nor was it an apartment. It reminded her of the lobby of a very exclusive hotel, with modern cubic seating and an impressive glass fireplace.

Exactly why a nightclub needed a room like this she wasn’t sure—maybe he used it to entertain private guests. That thought made her clutch her handbag a little tighter in front of her, and feeling the outline of her computer reminded hers of why she was there.

He pressed another button on the panel and the clever door slid silently back into place behind him. She could see that it was indeed one-way glass, and her ears burned at the thought of him watching her for all that time.

He turned around to face her and for the first time she noticed the vivid colour of his eyes. They weren’t dark, as she had thought from his photographs, but a unique shade of deep forest-green. Dara shook her head. Why was she even looking at his eyes, for goodness’ sake? This was a business meeting, not a school dance.

‘So, do you have a name—or will I just call you Spiderwoman?’ That smirk was still firmly in place as he took a couple of steps towards her.

Her inner professional was sharp enough to see a perfect moment. ‘I actually have my card in here somewhere...if you’d just give me a second...’ She began fishing in her bag—maybe she should launch into the entire presentation now, before he had a chance to shoot her down.

Without warning he was in front of her, taking the bag from her hand and placing it gently on the floor. ‘I did not ask for a card. I asked for your name—from your lips, preferably.’

His gaze travelled down to her mouth and she felt her stomach flutter in response. She ignored the sensation, straightening her chin and meeting his gaze head-on. ‘It’s Dara Devlin.’

He nodded, as though she had answered correctly.

‘So...Dara the wedding planner...’ His deep voice purred her name, as though he was tasting it on his tongue. ‘What gives me the pleasure of your company this evening?’

‘I’m not here for pleasure.’ She took a step back, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. ‘What I mean is, I came here to find you. To talk business.’

He raised one dark brow. ‘Who comes to a nightclub to talk business?’

‘Well, you do,’ she said confidently. That earned her a puzzled look. ‘I’m here to discuss a possible deal between you and a very high-profile client of mine. All I’m asking is just five minutes of your time.’

‘I have a swarm of media vultures downstairs in the club. Every one of them is waiting for “just five minutes”. Why should you get to skip the queue?’