The Italian Proposal. Maisey Yates
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she’d touched make-up. But it was desperately needed now.
Even without the raccoon eyes she would feel inadequate enough on the arm of a man who looked like Marco De Luca.
He was the perfect example of how it was different for men and women in the workplace. Where his looks were an asset to him, hers made men treat her like their own personal Barbie doll and made women treat her as if she was the enemy.
In the beginning she hadn’t disguised her body. She hadn’t felt she was at a disadvantage being female. But she had learned very quickly. It had only taken one incident to have her blacklisted from every decent real estate firm in the city; one tiny rumor that everyone had believed without so much as a photo to confirm it.
Even the man involved in the incident had denied it, but that hadn’t made a difference to any of the city’s gossipmongers. In the end the man had been allowed to keep his job, and at the age of twenty she had learned exactly where she stood in the male-dominated corporate world.
She applied the bare minimum of make-up needed to cover up the dark circles, and put on a little blush, mascara and lipgloss to play up her features as subtly as possible. She was reasonably satisfied with the results. She wouldn’t be winning any beauty pageants, but the make-up highlighted her features nicely, made them look softer.
She checked her bedside clock. She had five minutes. She raced to her dresser and sifted through her massive collection of underwear, pulling out a pale yellow lace bra and thong. Her affinity for girlie bras and panties was her one concession to femininity. And it was safe, because no one knew about it.
The doorbell rang, and the sound put an uncomfortable jittery sensation low in her belly. She clamped a hand to her stomach in an attempt the squelch the feeling. The last thing she needed was to start acting like a silly teenage girl with a crush. She hadn’t acted like a silly teenage girl when she’d been a teenager. No reason to start now that she was nearly at the halfway mark of her twenties.
“Coming!” she shouted, still trying to clasp her bra.
She gave herself one last glance as she raced by the bedroom mirror, and grimaced. Her hair was starting to curl, and in no time it would turn into frizz. Normally she didn’t dare let her hair dry naturally, but at the moment she didn’t have time to worry about it.
She slipped the dress over her head as she hurried out of her bedroom. It was shorter than she remembered, ending above her knees, and the scoop neck showed a lot more cleavage than she remembered too. The last time she’d worn it had probably been her sophomore year of high school. But it was too late to change now.
She swung open the door and her heart slammed against her ribcage. If he’d been handsome yesterday in his suit, he was devastating today in dark blue jeans and white button-up shirt. The color of the shirt enhanced his golden-brown skin, and he had the sleeves scrunched up to his elbows revealing his muscled forearms.
That tightening sensation was back, winding through her midsection and sending electric pulses through her bloodstream. Muscled forearms were something else she liked, apparently.
She was staring. Oh, no. She was staring and she couldn’t stop. Thankfully, he didn’t notice. Or maybe he pretended not to. Or he was just so used to women gawping at him that he took it as his due.
“You’re ready,” he said, in a tone she wasn’t certain was complimentary. He assessed her slowly, his brown eyes taking a leisurely tour of her body. She had to fight the urge to try and cover up. “Typical female behavior demands that you keep me waiting for at least half an hour.”
“I haven’t picked up my copy of The Rules lately, so I must be out of the loop,” she said waspishly.
He chose to ignore her biting retort and let his eyes roam over her body again. “Don’t you think it’s a little chilly out for a dress that skimpy?” The dress ended well above her knees, showing off killer legs she’d done a great job of camouflaging with her baggy pants.
“Skimpy?” She tugged at the hem, as if trying to add length to it. “It’s perfectly decent. Besides, it’s all I had that was appropriately feminine for you.” She said it sweetly, but he could feel her barely contained annoyance radiating off her in waves.
Fine. That made two of them. The last thing he wanted to do was take a woman shopping. Much less take a woman shopping for a ring. Commitment, and anything resembling it, had been something he’d always endeavored to avoid. He’d spent too much of his life looking out for the needs of others, being the stable influence. As soon as his younger brother had turned eighteen Marco had taken his life back, and he wasn’t about to forfeit it again by thrusting into the claws of some greedy female.
Usually if he was going to buy a woman jewelry, or some other gift, he had his PA sort it out. Anything else was much too personal and might convey intent that was most definitely not there.
But this was a necessary evil. It would call attention to them. Give the press a bone to gnaw on. Which was exactly what he wanted.
“It’s fine,” he said, trying not to give away just how fine he thought the dress was. “Just get a jacket.”
“Well, as long as it meets with your approval, Mr. De Luca.” She grabbed a light jacket and swept out the door.
Marco walked behind her, trying not to pay too close attention to the sway of her hips and the flare of that dangerously short dress. He felt his body tighten and he nearly groaned out loud. Who knew that Elaine Chapman had been hiding legs that could bring a man to his knees? And that image brought to mind a host of interesting possibilities.
He pulled his keys out of his pocket and pressed a remote unlock button, making the headlights of a low-slung black Ferrari flash.
“I expected it to be red,” she mused.
He chuckled. “I hate to be too obvious.”
She had to bite back a laugh. Marco was completely obvious in every way. His clothing screamed wealth, from his custom-made suit jackets to his handcrafted Italian leather shoes. And his body screamed sex, from his broad shoulders to his bold swagger.
He wore his confidence with the ease of a second skin, and it made her envious. She doubted he did anything based on the approval or disapproval of others. He simply succeeded. He lived to please himself. She wanted that.
He opened the passenger door and gestured for her to get in. She stopped in her tracks and gave him a look that could have melted ice.
He quirked a dark eyebrow at her. “You don’t allow men to open doors for you?”
“I can open my own doors.” She was being pigheaded, and she knew it. She let men open doors for her all the time if they offered.
She saw a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. Something exciting. “Yes, I’m sure that you can. But as of today you are my woman. And that means that I will treat you as I would treat a lover, bella mia.” He purred the endearment, and she felt it vibrate all the way down to her toes.
Her knees wobbled slightly and she gave in and sank into the car’s plush leather seats to avoid giving herself away.
An arrogant grin lit his handsome features. “Now, let’s go find you a ring. Something to show the world that you are mine.”
* * *
When they entered Tiffany & Co. a thousand childhood dreams that she’d never actually had converged on her, and a wave of emotion swamped her. The sophisticated surroundings and the man standing next to her made for an intoxicating romantic fantasy.
“We have an appointment,” he whispered, and placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her past tall, elegant glass display cases filled with rows of sparkling, exquisitely designed jewels.
She could barely concentrate on the jewelry. All her concentration had gone to the spot where Marco’s hand rested, low on her back. Other than the handshake, and when he’d tortured her with that soft, sensual