Resisting the Sicilian Playboy. Amanda Cinelli
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think you overestimate my ability to empathise.’ He had heard the same argument before countless times.
‘Maybe so, but a high-profile wedding like this would bring a lot of opportunity to a struggling town like Monterocca.’
Leo felt the skin behind his neck prickle at her mention of the name. There was no reason for him to feel anything for that place. The people of his home town meant nothing to him. And yet he felt an uncomfortable pull in his stomach at her words.
‘It would bring a storm of paparazzi,’ he countered.
‘Naturally. But from what I hear that might not be such a bad thing.’
He raised a brow in surprise. ‘Have you been reading the tabloids, Dara?’
‘I have been told that you have something of a bad reputation among the people of Sicily.’
‘My father’s reputation. Not mine,’ he corrected.
‘Yes, but his reputation has stood in your way in the past. It doesn’t go unnoticed that you don’t own a single club in your native region.’
Leo fought the urge to snarl. That was a particular sore spot of his. Opting instead for a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder, he leaned in. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you cared.’
She straightened immediately, her guard firmly in place. ‘Thankfully we both know that caring isn’t high on the agenda here.’ She gestured to the empty tables around them. ‘So, this is the big exclusive launch party?’
‘It’s just a pre-launch. The lower floors are open to a select few guests. Tomorrow is the official event.’ Leo looked down to where the floor below was filled with a swarm of people.
She followed him over to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the entire club.
‘Do you only mingle with the little people at official events?’ she asked.
‘Well, I have been kept busy up here by a very persistent blonde security breach, it seems.’
She ignored that comment, her delicate features taking on a focused edge. ‘Did you know that those water features are blocking off the lounge area from the rest of the club?’ she asked.
Leo blinked, following her gaze to take in the scene below them.
She continued. ‘Also, the spotlights are a little too strong on the dance floor. Softer red-hued lighting would soften the transition into the seated areas.’
He followed her gaze with interest. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to point out?’
She opened her mouth briefly, then stopped as if rethinking her actions.
‘Oh come now, you’ve already begun—don’t hold back on my account.’ He raised a brow in challenge, noting the delicate glow on her cheekbones as she nipped at the skin of her lower lip.
‘It’s just...your staff’s uniforms. They don’t fit the image at all. They’re quite...sparkly and frivolous.’
‘Platinum is the signature colour,’ he argued ‘They don’t sparkle—they shine.’
She shrugged. ‘They look sparkly to me. I wasn’t trying to insult your style.’
‘I thought you were all about honesty?’ he scolded, frowning.
‘I’m just trying to prove to you that I know what I’m talking about. No matter what kind of event you’re throwing, the principle is always the same. Make it memorable, and make a statement. You’re dealing with an exclusive clientele here—people who expect one-of-a-kind events every time. And that just happens to be my area of expertise.’
‘You could see all of that from up here?’
‘I have a keen eye for detail. I may not be the star guest of the party, but I make it my business to know how to plan one.’
‘And my club does not fit your usual standard?’
‘I don’t have a “usual standard”. In my world there is perfection or failure.’
‘Ah, so this would be a failure?’ He waited patiently for her answer.
Dara remained silent.
He let out a low bark of laughter. ‘I’ve honestly never had someone insult me in order to convince me to sign a contract.’
‘I believe in honesty. And if you choose Devlin Events to represent the castello, honesty is what you will get.’
He looked down at the crowd for a moment. ‘So your plan is to throw a fancy wedding and fix my public image all in one go, is it? I’d say you’re a little out of your league.’
‘My résumé speaks for itself. I’ve personally forged contracts with some of the major resort chains around the island—Santo, Lucchesi and Ottanta.’
‘You’ve worked for the Lucchesi Group?’
‘I’m a freelance consultant. They hired me on a few occasions. The most notable being Umberto and Gloria’s golden wedding anniversary. It was just a small garden party at their family home, but—’
Leo’s business mind perked up at that. ‘You are on first-name terms with Umberto Lucchesi?’
‘Yes. He did offer me a job, which I politely refused. I prefer to be my own boss.’
Leo walked to the glass wall and looked down across the packed club below the mezzanine. Well, this had just gone from interesting to downright serendipitous. He wondered if she realised the significance of what she had just divulged. Maybe it was all a fabrication—she had researched him, after all.
But he knew there was no record of his history with Lucchesi...their recent disagreements. Business was a private affair among Sicilian men, and while he hadn’t set foot on Sicilian soil in more than eighteen years he was still siciliano through and through.
He cursed as his phone rang, and the call took less than ten seconds before he ended it.
‘I’m needed downstairs. Certain guests are getting impatient.’
Her eyes fell, and defeat was evident in the droop of her shoulders. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Valente.’ She held her hand out to him.
He ignored it. ‘It’s Leo. And you misunderstand me. This conversation isn’t over.’
‘It’s not?’
‘Not by a long shot.’ He smiled. ‘One hour. We’ll discuss this further then.’
She moved uneasily. ‘Shall I stay up here?’
‘You deserve to relax after your little stunt tonight, Dara. Come down to the dark side—drink, dance. Practise using the stairs, perhaps.’ He began walking away, back towards his private elevator.
‘But how will I know where to meet you?’ she called.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find you.’
Leo smiled to himself as the elevator doors closed slowly, her shapely silhouette disappearing from view. He would finish this interesting interlude, and that was a promise.
LEATHER BARSTOOLS REALLY were a girl’s worst enemy.
Dara sighed and adjusted the hem of her pencil skirt for what felt like the hundredth time. Glamorous socialites and powerful businessmen lined the dance floor, each designer dress more chic than the last. She felt hopelessly mismatched in her black skirt suit. She tapped the e-mail app on her phone, even though it had barely been five minutes since the last check.
With a dull flicker, her e-mails vanished before her eyes. The screen turned completely blank.
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