The Italian Proposal. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Always. But you will agree to be my best man? It’s the only chance you’ll have.”
“Of course I will. No one else would do it.”
Marco barked out a laugh. “That’s probably true. Now, let me get back to work, little brother. Some of us work for a living.”
Marco turned back to his computer and tried to get on with his work day. The phone rang again.
* * *
The phone in Elaine’s workspace rang for what seemed like the twentieth time since she’d come back from lunch.
She looked at it dubiously. It was either a reporter or, worse, her father again. He’d called her at work early this morning, beside himself with glee that Elaine had managed to snare herself such a rich husband, and even happier that Elaine was finally settling down. Probably because her marriage, especially such a suitable one, would go a long way in blotting out that “unfortunate incident” from a few years back.
Thankfully he didn’t seem suspicious about her marrying the man who’d just bought his company. He was too busy congratulating himself for raising a daughter who had finally wised up to the fact that a woman’s place was in the home, not behind an executive’s desk. And probably too confident in his skills as a businessman to even begin to think that his daughter could have seen a loophole that he hadn’t.
She had ended the conversation with her father feeling renewed determination. That was exactly the reminder she’d needed for why this was necessary.
She picked up the phone. “Hello?” she said curtly.
It was another reporter, rattling off questions at lightning speed that were both personal and degrading. She hung up on the man mid-sentence, and rested her forehead on the cool veneer surface of her desk.
Her head popped up when she heard a knock on her office door—or, to be more accurate, her cubicle wall.
Marco’s handsome face appeared around the corner, followed by the rest of him. Her mouth went dry at the sight of him. Her memories of how gorgeous he was didn’t do him justice. And it had barely been twenty-four hours since she’d last seen him.
“Have the press been hounding you?”
She blew out a breath. “Yes. My phone has been ringing all day.”
“The cost of doing business.”
“So it seems.” She sighed. “You know, I’m not putting myself through this just because I feel some sort of sense of entitlement—like I deserve it because I’m my father’s daughter.” It seemed important somehow that she tell him the details to make sure he understood what she’d accomplished and why she felt the way she did. She shouldn’t care what he thought, but even as she reminded herself of that, she did care. “Four years ago Chapman’s nearly declared bankruptcy. I identified a flaw in the system and helped my father rework the way products were shipped. It shaved four points off the cost and brought the company back into the black. I proved myself. I saved the company. My family’s company. And still he’d rather let your corporation absorb what he built up from nothing than give it to me. All because I’m a woman. Do you see why I feel the way I do?”
“If everything goes according to plan, you should be getting exactly what you’re entitled to.” Truth be told, Marco wasn’t the most modern guy. He was of the opinion that in general women should stay home and take care of their kids. But he could understand why she wanted to claim what was rightfully hers. It was a feeling he understood very well.
“Well, Miss Chapman.” He took her hand and pulled her from her sitting position. “I believe you and I have a date.”
* * *
“I’ll just pop in and change. You can wait in the living room.” Almost as soon as Elaine closed the front door to her apartment someone knocked on it. She opened it to a woman with spiky pink hair and a man whose eyebrows were more immaculately groomed than her own. “Can I help you?”
“I’m not sure how to say this tactfully, so I won’t bother. You need some help if you’re going to look believable as my fiancée,” Marco said from behind her.
Elaine stared blankly at him, the realization of what his statement meant slowly dawning. “You’re giving me a makeover?”
“I’m not; they are.” He gestured to the two people still standing at the threshold.
Her ears were burning. A makeover! “I’m not your dress-up doll, De Luca. You can’t just mandate things like this!”
He sighed in exasperation. Why was he exasperated? She was pretty sure she ought to have the market on exasperation cornered at that moment.
“Why bother to fight me on this? You need it—trust me—and I’m going to get my way, so you might as well sit your cute little butt down.”
She gave an indignant squeak and stood facing him with her mouth open.
“What? No snappy comeback?” he mocked. “I think I should notify the press.”
She could not remember ever being so angry before. He was taking control from her bit by bit, and there was nothing that threw her off more than losing control.
She gave him a look that would have cowed most men. Leave it to her to get engaged to the one man who didn’t seem to find her the least bit intimidating. “The measure of a woman is not her looks.”
“Very nice sentiment. It’s also patently untrue.”
“It is not!” Great. Now he had reduced her to petty playground tactics.
“It most certainly is. And the same is true for a man. If you dress the part you’ll be more likely to get the part. If I showed up at a board meeting in swimming trunks I wouldn’t be taken seriously, and your feeble, stereotyped sense of style is hardly going to earn you any respect.”
Neither had dressing feminine, but she certainly wasn’t going to get into that with him. “Be that as it may,” she said crisply, “I’m not here to play trophy wife.”
He continued to smile for the benefit of the stylists, who were busy pretending to ignore the fight. She wasn’t fooled by the grin frozen on his face. It had hardened, and his jaw shifted, the muscles in his shoulders bunched tight. “You’re here to be whatever I ask you to be. And if I ask you to be my trophy then that’s what you’ll be. We do both want this marriage, don’t we…cara mia?” The threat was implicit.
Icy fingers wrapped around her heart. She couldn’t lose this deal. She had worked too hard. And she certainly wasn’t going to lose it over something as trivial as a hair-trim and a little lipgloss.
She sat in the chair that was moved for her, keeping her face carefully neutral.
The petite hairdresser talked animatedly while she worked, waving her scissors every now and then to emphasize her point. She put a row of foils on the top of Elaine’s hair, turning it a lighter, less brassy shade, and cut six inches off the length, bringing it up so that it just skimmed her collarbone, and added long layers to give it body and movement.
The man, Giorgio, was there for make-up and, Elaine wasn’t terribly surprised to hear, eyebrow waxing. Her face was scrubbed and peeled and waxed and finally painted.
Giorgio stepped back and examined her like an artist looking at his masterpiece.
“I’m brilliant,” he said as he handed her a mirror.
She barely recognized the woman looking back at her. She had fun, modern hair that looked full and healthy. Her face glowed, probably from the gold powder that Giorgio had brushed all over it, and her eyes looked larger and brighter with the expertly applied eyeshadow and her newly shaped brows. She hated so much to admit that it was an improvement. But it was.
Marco took her by the hand and pulled her up out of