fine. I was having a beer with my brother.” Lazzero whisked her past Santo just as his brother’s clients walked in. Chiara cocked her head to the side. “You’re not going to introduce us?”
“Not now, no.”
“Because I’m a barista?” A spark of fire flared in her green eyes.
“Because my brother likes to ask too many questions,” he came back evenly. “Not to mention the fact that we don’t have our story straight yet.”
“Oh.” The heat in her eyes dissipated. “That’s true.”
“Just for the record,” he murmured, pressing a palm to the small of her back to guide her through the crowd, “Santo and I started Supersonic from nothing. We had nothing. There is no judgment here about what you do.”
Her long dark lashes swept down, dusting her cheeks like miniature black fans. “Is it true what Samara Jones said about you and your brother masterminding your business from here?”
His mouth twisted. “It’s become a bit of an urban myth, but yes, we brainstormed the idea for Supersonic at a table near the back when we were students at Columbia. We kept the table for posterity’s sake when we bought the place a few years later.” He arched a brow at her. “Would you like to sit there? It’s nothing special,” he warned.
“Yes.” She surprised him by answering in the affirmative. “I’ll need to know these things about you to make this believable.”
“Perhaps,” he suggested, his palm nearly spanning her delicate spine as he directed her around a group of people, “you’ll discover other things that surprise you. Why did you say yes, by the way?”
“Because my father needs the money. I couldn’t afford to say no.”
Direct. To the point. Just like the woman who felt so soft and feminine beneath his hand, but undoubtedly had a spine of steel. He was certain she was up to the challenge he was about to hand her.
Seating her at the old, scarred table located in a quiet alcove off the main traffic of the bar, he pushed her chair in and sat opposite her. His long legs brushed hers as he arranged them to get comfortable. Chiara shifted away as if burned. He smothered a smile at her prickly demeanor. That they would have to solve if they were going to make this believable.
She traced a finger over the deep indentation carved into the thick mahogany wood, a rough impersonation of the Supersonic logo. “Who did this?”
“I did.” A wry smile curved his mouth. “I nearly got us kicked out of here for good that night. But we were so high on the idea we had, we didn’t care.”
She sat back in her chair, a curious look on her face. “How did you make it happen, then, if you started with nothing?”
“Santo and I put ourselves through university on sports scholarships. We knew a lot of people in the industry, knew what athletes wanted in a product. Supersonic became a ‘by athletes, for athletes’ line.” He lifted a shoulder. “A solid business plan brought our godfather on board for an initial investment, some athletes we went to school with made up the rest.”
A smile played at her mouth. “And then you parlayed it into one of the world’s most successful athletic-wear companies. Impressive.”
“With some detours along the way,” he amended. “It’s a bitterly competitive industry. But we had a vision. It worked.”
“Will Santo be in Milan?”
He nodded. “He’s the chairman of the event. He’ll have his hands full massaging all of our relationships. When he isn’t busy doing that with his posse of women,” he qualified drily.
“Clearly runs in the family,” Chiara murmured.
Lazzero set a considering gaze on her. “I think you would be surprised by the actual number of relationships I engage in versus what the tabloids print. I do need some time to run a Fortune 500 company, after all.”
“So actually,” Chiara suggested, “you are a choir boy.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
* * *
Chiara expelled a breath as a pretty waitress arrived to take their order. In dark jeans and a navy T-shirt, Lazzero was elementally attractive in a way few men could ever hope to emulate. When he smiled, however, he was devastating. It lit up the rugged, aggressive lines of his face, highlighting his beautiful bone structure and the sensual line of his mouth. Made him beautiful in a jaw-dropping kind of way. And that was before you got to his intense black stare that seemed to dissect you into your various assorted parts.
Which was clearly having its effect on their waitress. Dressed in a gray Di Fiore’s T-shirt and tight black pants, she flashed Lazzero a high-wattage smile and babbled out the nightly specials. Without asking Chiara’s preference, Lazzero rattled off a request for a bottle of Italian red, spring water and an appetizer for them to share.
She eyed him as the waitress disappeared. “Are you always this...domineering?”
“Sì,” he murmured, eyes on hers. “Most women like it when I take control. It makes them feel feminine and cared for. They don’t have to think—they just sit back and...enjoy.”
A wave of heat stained her cheeks, her pulse doing a wicked little jump. “I am not most women. And I like to think.”
“I’m beginning to get that impression,” he said drily. “The ‘not like most women’ part.”
“What happens,” she countered provocatively, “when you turn this hopelessly addicted contingent of yours back out into the wild? Isn’t that exactly the problem you’re facing with Carolina Casale?”
He shrugged. “Carolina knew the rules.”
“Which are?”
“It lasts as long as she keeps it interesting.”
Her jaw dropped. His arrogance was astounding. Carolina, however, had likely believed she was different—her cardinal mistake. As had been hers.
“She married Gianni on the rebound from you,” she guessed.
“Perhaps.”
She felt a stab of sympathy for Carolina Casale. She knew how raw those dashed hopes felt. Antonio had married within months of their breakup. Because that was what transactionally motivated men like Antonio and Lazzero did. They used people for their own purposes without thought for the consequences. It didn’t matter who got hurt in the process.
The waitress returned and poured their wine. Chiara put the conversation firmly back on a business footing after she’d left. “Shall we talk details, then?”
“Yes.” Lazzero sat back in his chair, glass in hand. “La Coppa Estiva is a ten-day-long event. It begins next Wednesday with the opening party, continues with the tournament, then wraps up on the following Saturday with the final game and closing party. We will need to leave New York on Tuesday night to fly overnight to Milan.”
Her stomach lurched. She was actually doing this.
“That’s fine,” she said. “There’s a girl at work who’s looking for extra shifts. I can trade them off.”
“Good.” He inclined his head. “Have you ever been to Milan?”
She shook her head. “We have family there, but I’ve never been.”
“The game,” he elaborated, “is held at the stadium in San Siro, on the outskirts of the city. We’ll be staying at my friend Filippo Giordano’s luxury hotel in Milan.”
Her stomach curled at the thought of sharing a hotel suite with Lazzero. But of course, they were supposedly together and they would be expected to share a room. Which got her wondering. “How do you expect us to act together?