Italian Bachelors: Unforgotten Lovers: The Change in Di Navarra's Plan / Bound by the Italian's Contract / Visconti's Forgotten Heir. Elizabeth Power
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Whether or not that made her a good perfumer was an entirely different matter.
“Tell me what you expected when you came to New York last year.”
Her eyes widened. And then narrowed again, as if she were trying to figure out the trick.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said carefully.
Her eyes dropped and a current of irritation sizzled into him. “Are you not? You had a case of perfume samples. You pretended to be a model. What was your intent? What did you think would happen once you had my undivided attention?”
She colored, her eyes flashing hot. He didn’t know why, but that slice of temper intrigued him. “Because I had intent, right? You never gave me a chance to explain that morning, if I recall. It was a misunderstanding, but you didn’t stay for that part.”
He sipped the wine. “How did I misunderstand you, cara? You were not mute. You spent the entire evening with me. Not only that, but you stood in front of the cameras for two hours and never corrected the impression you were there to model.”
Her color remained high. She closed her eyes for a moment. A second later, she was looking straight at him, her eyes shiny and big in her pale face. “I know. I should have. But you assumed I was a model, and I was too scared to say otherwise. Scared I’d lose my chance to talk to you.”
“You had my undivided attention all evening,” he bit out.
“Hardly undivided,” she threw back at him. “You took a dozen phone calls at least. How anyone could have a conversation with you under those circumstances is beyond me.”
“Ah, so this is your excuse. What about later, cara?”
He didn’t think it possible, but her color heightened. Her cheeks were blazing now. She picked up her untouched glass of water and took a deep draft. Drago almost wanted to laugh, but he was too irritated. Still, her blushes made him think of how inexperienced she’d been—and how eager at the same time.
Basta, no. Not a good thing to think about.
“We were, um, busy later. I didn’t think it was appropriate.” Her head came up then and her eyes glittered. “Haven’t you ever stopped to wonder how I could have possibly known you needed a model that day? How I just happened to be sitting there in your waiting room? It wasn’t planned, Drago. I had an appointment.” She cleared her throat. “Or I thought I did. A university friend of the mayor’s wife said she knew you and could arrange a brief meeting. I was told the day and time and that I would have ten minutes. So I went.”
It could be true, certainly. He had no recollection. But that did not change what she’d done. How she’d lied. “And yet you took advantage of the situation when I mistook you for the model.”
She let out an exasperated breath. “I did. I admit it! But you ordered me to go with you and you didn’t give me a chance to explain. I made a decision that it was best to go along with you until I could.”
Drago studied her for a long moment. Did he really believe Holly Craig had masterminded the entire situation?
No, he didn’t. But she had taken advantage of it. Of him. And that was unforgivable.
“It’s possible you were on the schedule. But that was a bad day, as I recall. All the models were wrong. I told my secretary to reschedule the meetings.”
She looked unhappy. “Since I didn’t schedule it, it wasn’t my contact information she would have had. Besides, I’d already come all that way. I couldn’t go back without talking to you.”
Yes, and she’d been sitting there in his waiting room, looking so fresh and out of place at the same time. He still remembered the black suit and the pink heels with the price tag. A twinge of something sliced into him, but he didn’t want to examine it. And he definitely wasn’t revisiting what had happened next. It might have been a mistake, but she’d had ample opportunity to tell him the truth.
Instead, she’d seen a way to gain advantage—and she’d taken it. Then she’d kept the pretense going until she’d thought she had him right where she wanted him. He could still see her face that morning, still see how pleased she’d been with herself when he’d questioned her about the case.
His reaction had been inevitable. He’d experienced all those old feelings of despair and fear and loneliness he’d had as a boy, and he’d hated her for doing that to him. For making him remember what he’d worked hard to bury. He’d had no choice but to walk out.
Because she’d blindsided him and he hadn’t seen it coming. He’d thought she was someone she wasn’t, and he’d felt something with her that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He had almost—almost, but not quite—let himself relax with her. She’d been so guileless, unlike the women he usually dated. His fault for always choosing sophisticates, but until he’d experienced someone like Holly Craig, he’d not realized he might enjoy less artifice.
That she’d fooled him, that she’d been as scheming as the most seasoned gold digger, still rankled. He did not regret throwing her out.
But he did regret that he’d let her escape without first seeing the photos. He’d thought about tracking her down once she was gone, but he’d ultimately decided it was best if he did not.
“And what did you hope to gain from a meeting with me? A job?”
She shook her head. “I had hoped you would want Colette.”
“Colette?”
“It’s named after my grandmother. It’s the last fragrance we created together. The finest, I might add. I had hoped you would buy it and market it.”
“Surely you know this is not how huge companies work.” He slid his fingers along the stem of his wineglass. “At Navarra, we employ several perfumers. We brainstorm concepts and give directions. The perfumers work to create something that meets our expectations. Sometimes, we create fragrances in tandem with celebrities. We do not, however, buy fragrances from individuals.”
Her chin lifted. “Yes, but this one is good enough you might have. And I had to try.”
He could almost admire her determination. Almost. “Why?”
She turned her head and put her fingers to her lips. He wondered if she was thinking about her answer, but when she turned back to him, he could see the sheen of moisture in her eyes. “Because my gran was gone and I didn’t want to lose her house. I wanted to honor her memory and save my childhood home at the same time.”
Inside, a tiny flicker of unease reared its head. “And did you lose the house?” He knew the answer because of how he’d found her. If she’d still had her childhood home, would she have been a cocktail waitress in a casino? Especially with a baby?
There were two fresh spots of color in her cheeks. “I did. I couldn’t make the payments against the debt, so it was sold. A nice couple lives there now.”
He hadn’t had a childhood home. The thought made him feel raw inside. But he’d wanted one. He’d been eleven when his uncle had finally wrested him from his mother’s capricious grip. Eleven when he’d first entered the Di Navarra estate in Tuscany. It was as close to a childhood home as he had.
Except, he had no memories of a mother’s love or of warmth and belonging in a place. His uncle had been good to him, and he was grateful, but he’d spent a lot of time alone—or with tutors—because Uncle Paolo had spent so much time working.
“Where are your parents?” he asked her.
“I never knew them. My father is a mystery man, and my mother died when I was a baby.” She said it so unemotionally, but he knew it had to hurt. He’d never known his father, though of course he knew his identity. He hadn’t been that lucky with his mother. She had left her imprint deep. He was still trying to cover the scars of what she’d done to him.
“And