CHAPTER ONE

      THURSDAY NIGHT DRINKS at Di Fiore’s had been a weekly ritual for Lazzero Di Fiore and his brothers ever since Lazzero and his younger brother, Santo, had parlayed a dream of creating the world’s hottest athletic wear into a reality at a tiny table near the back as students at Columbia University.

      The jagged slash of red fire, the logo they had scratched into the thick mahogany tabletop to represent the high-octane Supersonic brand, now graced the finely tuned bodies of some of the world’s highest paid athletes, a visibility which had, in turn, made the brand a household name.

      Unfortunately, Lazzero conceded blackly as he wound his way through the crowd in the packed, buzzing, European-style sports bar he and Santo ran in midtown Manhattan, success had also meant their personal lives had become public fodder. A fact of life he normally took in stride. The breech of his inner sanctum, however, had been the final straw.

      He absorbed the show of feminine leg on display on what was supposed to be Triple-Play Thursdays—a ritual for Manhattan baseball fans. Inhaled the cloud of expensive perfume in the air, thick enough to take down a lesser man. This was all her doing. He’d like to strangle her.

      “This is turning into a three-ring circus,” he muttered, sliding into a chair at the table already occupied by his brothers, Santo and Nico.

      “Because the city’s most talked-about gossip columnist chose to make us number two on her most-wanted bachelor list?” Santo, elegant in black Hugo Boss, cocked a brow. “If we sue, it’d have to be for finishing behind Barnaby Alexander. He puts his dates to sleep recounting his billions. I find it highly insulting.”

      “Old money,” Nico supplied helpfully. “She had to mix it up a bit.”

      Lazzero eyed his elder brother, who was probably thanking his lucky stars he’d taken himself off the market with his recent engagement to Chloe, with whom he ran Evolution—one of the world’s most successful cosmetic companies. “I’m glad you’re finding this amusing,” he growled.

      Nico shrugged. “You would too if you were in the middle of my three-ring circus. Why I ever agreed to a Christmas wedding is beyond me.”

      Lazzero couldn’t muster an ounce of sympathy, because the entire concept of marriage was insanity to him.

      “Show it to me,” he demanded, glaring at Santo.

      Santo slid the offending magazine across the table, his attention captured by a glamorous-looking blonde staring unashamedly at him from the bar. Loosening his tie, he sat back in his chair and gave her a thorough once-over. “Not bad at all.”

      Utterly Santo’s type. She looked ready for anything.

      Lazzero fixed his smoldering attention on the list of New York’s most eligible bachelors as selected by Samara Jones of Entertainment Buzz. A follow-up to her earlier piece that had declared the “Summer Lover” the year’s hottest trend, the article, cheekily entitled “The Summer Shag” in a nod to Jones’s British heritage, featured her top twenty bachelors with which to fulfill that seasonal pursuit.

      Lazzero scanned the list, his perusal sliding to a halt at entry number two:

      Since they’re gorgeous and run the most popular athletic-wear company on the planet—Lazzero and Santo Di Fiore clock in at number two. Young, rich and powerful, they are without a doubt the most delicious double dose of testosterone in Manhattan. Find them at Di Fiore’s on Thursday nights, where they still run their weekly strategy sessions from the corner table where it all started.

      Lazzero threw the magazine on the table, a look of disgust claiming his face. “You do realize that this,” he said, waving a hand around them, “is never going to be ours again?”

      “Relax,” Santo drawled, eyes now locked with the sophisticated blonde who couldn’t take her eyes off his equally glamorous profile. “Give it a few weeks and it’ll die down.”

      “Or not.”

      Santo shifted his attention back to the table. “What’s got you so twisted in a knot?” he queried. “It can’t be that,” he said, inclining his head toward the magazine. “You’ve been off for weeks.”

      Lazzero blew out a breath and sat back in his chair. “Gianni Casale,” he said flatly. “I had a call with him this afternoon. He isn’t biting on the licensing deal. He’s mired in red ink, knows his brand has lost its luster, knows we’re eating his lunch, and still he won’t admit he needs this partnership.”

      Which was a problem given Lazzero had forecast Supersonic would be the number two sportswear company in the world by the end of the following year, a promise his influential backers were banking on. Which meant acquiring Gianni Casale’s legendary Fiammata running shoe technology, Volare, was his top priority.

      Santo pointed his glass at him. “Let’s be honest here. The real problem with Casale is that he hates your guts.”

      Lazzero blinked. “Hate is a strong word.”

      “Not when you used to date his wife. Everyone knows Carolina married Gianni on the rebound from you, his bank balance a salve for her wounded heart. She makes it clear every time you’re in a room together. She’s still in love with you, Laz, her marriage is on the rocks and Casale is afraid he can’t hold her. That’s our problem.”

      Guilt gnawed at his insides. He’d told Carolina he would never commit—that he just didn’t have it in him. The truth, given his parents’ disastrous, toxic wreck of a marriage he’d sworn never to repeat. And she’d been fine with it, until all of a sudden, a couple of months into their relationship, she’d grown far too comfortable with his penthouse key, showing up uninvited to cook him dinner after a trip to Asia—a skill he hadn’t even known she’d possessed.

      Maybe he’d ignored one too many warning signs, had been so wrapped up in his work and insane travel schedule he hadn’t called it off soon enough, but he’d made it a clean break when he had.

      “Gianni cannot possibly be making this personal,” he grated. “This is a fifty-million-dollar deal. It would be the height of stupidity.”

      “He wouldn’t be the first man to let his pride get in his way,” Santo observed drily. He arched a brow. “You want to solve your problem? Come play in La Coppa Estiva next week. Gianni is playing. Bring a beautiful woman with you to convince him you are off the market and use the unfettered access to him to talk him straight.”

      Lazzero considered his jam-packed schedule. “I don’t have time to come to Milan,” he dismissed. “While you’re off gallivanting around Italy, wooing your celebrities, someone needs to steer the ship.”

      Santo eyed him. “Gallivanting? Do you have any idea how much work it is to coordinate a charity game at this level? I want to shoot myself by the end of it.”

      Lazzero held up a hand. “Okay, I take it back. You are brilliant, you know you are.”

      La Coppa Estiva, a charity soccer game played in football-crazy Milan, was sponsored by a handful of the most popular brands in the world, including both Supersonic and Fiammata. The biggest names in the business played in the game as well as sponsors and their partners, which made for a logistical nightmare of huge egos and impossible demands. It was only because of his skill managing such a circus that Santo had been named chairman for the second year in a row.

      Lazzero exhaled. Took a pull of his beer. Santo was right—he should go. La Coppa Estiva was the only event in the foreseeable future he would get any access to Gianni. “I’ll