Lynn Harris – Italian Bachelors: Unforgotten Lovers: The Change in Di Navarra's Plan / Bound by the Italian's Contract / Visconti's Forgotten Heir (страница 2)

“Come on, girl, I don’t have all day,” he said, his tones sophisticated and clipped. And Italian, she realized. He had an accent that wasn’t thick. Rather, it was refined and smooth, like fine wine. Or fine perfume.

Holly clutched her case—a secondhand case that wasn’t even real leather—to her chest and shifted on the couch. “I—I’m not sure you have the right—”

He snapped his fingers. “You are here to see me, yes?”

Holly swallowed. “You are Mr. Di Navarra?”

He looked irritated. “Indeed.”

Holly jumped up, her heart thrumming a quick tempo. Her skin flushed with embarrassment. She should have known this man was the powerful head of Navarra Cosmetics. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a photo of the man who might just hold her entire future in his hands. Everyone knew who Drago di Navarra was.

Everyone except her, it would seem. This meeting was so important, and already she’d got off on the wrong foot. Easy, ma belle, her grandmother would have said. You can do this.

Holly stuck her hand out. “Mr. Di Navarra, yes, I’m Holly—”

He waved a hand, cutting her off. “Who you are isn’t important.” His gaze narrowed, dropped down over her. She’d worn her best suit today, but it was at least five years out of season. Still, it was black and serviceable. And it was all she had. She lifted her chin, confused by the strange meeting thus far, but not yet willing to ruin it by calling him on his rudeness.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

Holly’s cheeks flamed. But she did it, slowly turning in a circle until she faced him again.

“Yes,” he said to an assistant who hovered nearby. “I think this one will do. Let them know we’re coming.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman said, her manner cool and efficient as she turned and strode back toward the office they’d both emerged from.

“Let’s go,” Drago said. Holly could only stand and watch him stride away from her, bewilderment muddling her head and gluing her feet to the floor.

He seemed to realize she wasn’t with him, because he stopped and turned around. He looked impatient rather than angry, though she suspected angry was next on the agenda.

“Are you coming or not?”

Holly had a choice. She could say no, she wasn’t coming. She could tell him he was rude and appalling and she’d come here for an appointment, and not to be talked down to, scrutinized and ordered around.

Or she could go, figure out what his strange manner was all about and get her chance to pitch him her ideas. The case in her hands was warm, fragrant with the samples she’d tucked inside. It reminded her of home, of her grandmother and the many hours they’d spent together dreaming about taking their perfumes to the next level, instead of only blending them for the friends and townspeople who purchased their custom combinations.

She’d come a long way to see this man. She’d spent every bit of savings she had getting here, with only enough for her lodging and the return trip home again. If she lost this opportunity, she lost far more than money. She lost her dream. She lost Gran’s dream. She’d have to go home and start over again.

Because Gran was dead and the house would soon be gone. She couldn’t afford to keep it any longer. Unless she convinced Drago di Navarra that she had something worth investing in. Something worth taking a chance on.

And she would do whatever it took to get that opportunity.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I’m coming.”

* * *

Drago could feel her eyes upon him. It was nothing he wasn’t accustomed to. Women often stared. It was not something he felt was an inconvenience. No, it was an advantage, especially for a man in the business he was in.

In the business of making people more beautiful, it did not hurt to be attractive yourself. If much of that was genetics, well, it was not his fault.

He still used Navarra products—soap, cologne, skin care, shampoo—and he would always maintain, to whoever would listen, that they benefited him greatly.

Now he sat in the back of the limousine with his projections and printouts, and studied the focus-group information for the newest line of products NC was bringing out this fall. He was pleased with what he saw. Very pleased.

He was not, it should be noted, pleased with the agency that had sent this girl over. She was the fourth model he’d seen this morning, and though they’d finally got it right, he was angry that it had taken four attempts to get the correct combination of innocence and sex appeal that he’d desired for this ad campaign.

He was selling freshness and beauty, not a prepackaged look that many of the models he’d seen recently came with. They had a hard edge about them, something that looked out from their eyes and said that, while they might appear innocent, they had actually left innocence in the rearview mirror a thousand miles ago.

This girl, however...

He looked up, met her gaze boldly, appraisingly. She dropped her eyes quickly, a pink stain spreading over her cheeks. A sharp feeling knifed into him, stunning him. He had a visceral reaction to that display of sweetness, his body hardening in a way it hadn’t in quite some time. Oh, he’d had sex—plenty of it—but it had become more of a box to check off in his day rather than an escape or a way to relax.

His reaction just now interested him. His gaze slipped over her again, appraised what he saw, as he had the first time. She was dressed in a cheap suit, though it fit her well. Her shoes were tall, pink suede—and brand-new, he realized, looking at the sole of one where she’d turned her legs to the side. The price tag was still on the shoe. He tilted his head.

$49.99

Not Jimmy Choo shoes or Manolo Blahnik shoes, certainly. He didn’t expect her to be wearing thousand-dollar shoes, or even the latest designer fashions, but he had rather expected she would be more...polished.

Which was odd, considering that polish was precisely what he did not want. Still, she was a model with a highly respected New York City firm. He’d have thought she might be a bit more prepared. On the other hand, perhaps she was fresh from the farm and they’d sent her over straightaway in desperation.

“How many of these jobs have you done before?” he asked.

She looked up again. Blinked. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was the most extraordinary shade of strawberry-blond, and a smattering of light freckles dotted her pale skin. He would have to tell the photographer not to erase those later. They added to her fresh look.

“Jobs?”

Drago suppressed a stab of impatience. “Modeling jobs, cara.”

She blinked again. “Oh, I, um...”

“I’m not going to send you away if this is your first time,” he snapped. “So long as the camera loves you, I couldn’t care less if you’ve just come up from the family farm.”

Her skin flushed again. This time, her chin came up. Her eyes flashed cool fire, and he found himself intrigued at the play of emotions across her face. It was almost as if she were arguing with herself.

“There’s no need to be rude, you know,” she snapped back. “Manners are still important, whether you’ve got a billion dollars or only one.”

Drago had a sudden urge to laugh. It was as if a kitten had suddenly hissed and swatted him. And it had the effect of making some of his tension drain away.

“Then I apologize for being rude,” he said, amused.

She folded her arms over her breasts and tried to look stern. “Well, then. Thank you.”

He set the papers down on the seat beside him. “Is this your first time to New York?”

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip. A slice of sensation knifed into his groin. “Yes,” she said.

“And where are you from?”

“Louisiana.”

He leaned forward then, suddenly quite certain he needed to make her feel comfortable if he was going to get what he wanted out of this shoot. “You’ll do a fine job,” he said. “Just be yourself in front of the camera. Don’t try to act glamorous.”

She dropped her gaze away and slid her fingers along the hem of her jacket. “Mr. Di Navarra—”

“Drago,” he said.

She looked up again. Her blue eyes were worried. He had a sudden urge to kiss her, to wipe away that worried look and put a different kind of look there. He gave himself a mental shake. Highly uncharacteristic of him. Not that he didn’t date the models—he did sometimes—but this one wasn’t his usual type. He liked the tall, elegant ones. The ones who looked as if ice cubes wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

The ones who didn’t make him think of wide-eyed idealists who chased after dreams—and kept chasing them even when they led down self-destructive paths. Women like this one were so easily corruptible in the wrong hands. His protective instincts came to the fore, made him want to send her back to Louisiana before she even stepped in front of the camera.

He wanted her to go home, to stop chasing after New York dreams of fame and fortune. This world would only disappoint her. In a few months, she’d be shooting drugs, drinking alcohol and throwing up her food in order to lose that extra pound some idiotic industry type had told her made her look fat.

Before he could say anything of what he was thinking, the car came to a halt. The door swung open immediately. “Sir, thank goodness,” the location manager said. “The girl isn’t here and—”