Married For His One-Night Heir. Дженнифер ХейвордЧитать онлайн книгу.
ego, which had taken such a hit with Franco, she wasn’t sure the wounds were ever going to heal.
Relaxing into the vibe, the alcohol warming the blood in her veins, she cast an idle glance over the crowd, surveying the new arrivals. A tall, fair-haired male that Sophie, the hotel’s glamorous publicity director, was chatting up claimed her attention. Muscular and well-built, he was undeniably commanding in his white shirt and dark pants that showed off every rippling, well-honed inch of him. But it was when her gaze rose to his elegant profile that her breath caught in her throat.
It could not be. Not here. Not now.
But it was.
Her heart stuttered an erratic rhythm in her chest, its jagged beat reverberating in her head. Frozen to the spot, her companion’s words faded to the background as she absorbed Santo Di Fiore’s formidable, charismatic presence. Six foot two inches of lean, hard male, he had the perfectly hewn face and golden hair of an angel. A woman could drown herself in those velvety dark eyes.
And for a night, she had done just that. One kiss—one perfect passionate kiss on a stormy evening in Manhattan four years ago—had changed everything. An attempt to escape her fate had dissolved into a fire neither of them could extinguish—a hunger that had been almost a decade in the making.
She went hot and cold all at the same time, desperately wishing he was an illusion, because Santo Di Fiore had been her biggest mistake. Her most unforgettable, costly mistake—the repercussions of which had set into motion a chain of events she could never have foreseen. But he had also given her the most precious thing she possessed.
Santo looked up and cast a lazy glance over the crowd. Every muscle in her body seized tight as his gaze came to rest on her, a hint of male interest flickering through his dark eyes, followed by a frown that marred his brow.
Shock descended into fear—a bitter layer of it that coated her mouth. She turned away before he could focus on her, her purse clutched to her chest. She looked different. There was a chance he hadn’t recognized her, but she doubted that luck would hold. She needed to get out of here now.
Spinning on her heel, she headed through the crowd. But before she could make an exit, Delilah descended upon her with one of the investors who’d purchased two of the private residences that morning and her escape route was blocked.
She pasted a smile on her face and tried desperately to pretend that her world wasn’t crashing in on her.
* * *
He should be on a plane back to New York, stickhandling the most important launch in Supersonic’s history, dispensing with the hundreds of emails that had piled up in his inbox while he’d spent the weekend playing in a charitable golf tournament alongside his brother, Lazzero. Instead, Santo Di Fiore was on a tropical island being schmoozed by the current queen of the luxury-hotel market.
Really, he’d had no time. But given he and Lazzero had bet the bank on Elevate—the new running shoe they’d promised investors would set the world on fire—gaining access to Delilah’s exclusive clientele list wasn’t an opportunity he’d been able to pass up. So after a tour of her impressive flagship property that afternoon, where the hotel maven had expressed her desire to house a half a dozen of his Supersonic boutiques in her hotels, he and Lazzero had been invited to soak up the local atmosphere before flying out in the morning.
He brought his glass to his lips and tipped back a mouthful of Scotch. Under normal circumstances, the delectable redhead, who’d been all over him in far more than a business sense ever since the tour, would have been adequate compensation for the expenditure of time. Instead, he was consumed by ghosts—ghosts he’d thought long ago put to bed. Because surely the sophisticated blonde across the crowd couldn’t have been Giovanna. She had beautiful raven-dark hair she’d always worn long and wavy, swearing she’d never cut it short.
He brushed his wayward thoughts aside with an irritated twist of his lips. Giovanna Castiglione had married another man. They were over. End of story. That her husband had been taken out in a targeted hit, that she hadn’t been present at any of the functions where their social circles might have overlapped since, that she was a widow, available now, was inconsequential to him. The Giovanna he’d fallen in love with had been an illusion. She’d never existed.
So why the hell couldn’t he get her out of his head?
Lazzero, who’d finished his conversation with a slick-suited real-estate developer, joined him at the bar. “So what do you think of Delilah’s offer?” he prompted.
“If we could get the pop-up retail in place in time for Elevate, it could offer us an entrée into a whole different clientele.”
“Not a problem.” Lazzero dismissed the if. “Our retail teams have done it in a month. So we scale—we make it happen. My only question,” he allowed, tipping his glass at Santo, “is whose hotel chain do we like more for this? Stefano Castiglione’s or Delilah’s? They are two entirely different propositions.”
A bitter taste filled Santo’s mouth. Once he hadn’t been good enough for Giovanna—Stefano Castiglione, her father, had made that very clear. Now, Stefano wanted to partner with him because he ran the most buzzed-about athletic-wear brand on the planet, because the famous personalities representing his clothing would make a huge splash at his casinos? Hell would freeze over before he did business with the man who had put those emotional bruises in Gia’s eyes.
“Castiglione has a bigger reach,” Lazzero pointed out. “Don’t let your personal feelings about this cloud your professional judgment.”
“What personal feelings?” Santo responded curtly. “The man is a criminal. Just because he’s bought half of Washington and Hollywood with his money and influence doesn’t mean I want to do business with him.”
Lazzero had grown up around the corner from the powerful Castiglione family, just as he had. Knew that along with being one of the most powerful real estate and gambling czars in the United States, his empire reaching from New York to Las Vegas, Stefano Castiglione was reputed to carry darker connections beneath that smooth, charismatic facade of his as the head of an international crime syndicate.
“We aren’t doing business with him, Laz.” He dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. “End of story.”
His brother hiked a lazy shoulder. “I wasn’t actually suggesting we do business with him,” he drawled. “I was merely yanking your chain to see how you would react. Which was predictable.” His brother narrowed his gaze on him. “You’re still hung up on her.”
“Who?”
“Gia.” Lazzero waved a hand at him. “You’ve gone on a tear through half the women on the planet since her, but you’re not even remotely interested in any of them. Take tonight, for instance. You could have had that redhead—the publicity girl. What’s her name... Sylvie? Sophie? Instead, you are completely distracted.”
“Because I should be back at the office working.”
“Says the man who likes to socialize more than he likes to breathe.” His brother rolled the Scotch around his tumbler, the amber liquid flickering in the torch light. “So if I were to tell you that Gia is standing behind you it would be of no interest to you?”
He turned to stone. Fingers locking around his glass, he swiveled, his scan of the crowd pinpointing the woman he’d spotted earlier talking with Delilah and another guest. His heart stalled in his chest as he took her in. Confirmed what he’d instinctively known. It was Gia.
Clad in a vibrant coral dress that hugged every inch of her curvaceous figure, she was thinner than he remembered, her gorgeous long, dark hair cut into a sophisticated blond bob that gave her a completely different look. Her cheeks were gaunt under her perfect, dramatic bone structure, her eyes deep, dark pools of green that seemed to vibrate emotion.
Exactly as they had that night four years ago when she’d given him her innocence, then walked away, as if what they’d shared had