The Italian's Deal for I Do(53)

Where was his head?

A glittering jewel he couldn’t resist... That was how Giovanni had described Tatum. And her daughter was that for him. His weakness.

It was what Renzo had been warning him about. About allowing his concentration to slip when he needed it most.

His mind took him back to that bottle of Scotch he and Giovanni had shared one summer evening at the villa as the sun set over the mountains. It had started out as a celebration of his new job as CEO, then devolved into a long, meandering discussion of life, one in which his grandfather had opened up like never before.

“Your father,” he had stated baldly, “had much of you in him. Same razor-sharp brain, same instinct for business... But he has a weak streak a mile wide, and he allowed himself to be ruled by it.”

Giovanni had turned his dark, wise gaze on Rocco, the younger man still shaking in his shoes at the responsibility he now carried. “He was my biggest shame, my biggest disappointment.”

And that had been the last Giovanni had ever spoken of his son’s failures. Rocco had gone on to be what his father hadn’t, but always with the latent fear buried deep inside of him he might carry his father’s flawed gene.

The antagonism that gripped him now was stark, clutched at his insides with insistent, grasping hands. Showing weakness like he did toward Olivia was a slippery slope down the path his father had traveled. Not only did she get to him like no other woman had, but her instability had the power to take him down with her.

He returned his gaze to the vibrant Monet. Somehow, some way, he had to stabilize the situation. Help Olivia help herself. And take back control with her while he was at it.

He picked up the tickets to the Fashion Week gala and headed for the studios. There would be more press there tonight. More opportunities for Olivia to go sideways. And frankly, he couldn’t put her through it. Couldn’t put himself through it watching her.

He found her in the studios with Mario and a group of young women seated around one of the large design tables. Ten sets of eyes planted on him in unison. The mentoring program. Olivia had mentioned to him on the drive in this morning it was starting today.

She caught his gaze and held up five fingers. He nodded and melted into the background, watching her from the sidelines. Her cheeks were flushed with an excitement he hadn’t seen in weeks. Her joie de vivre, that brilliant smile of hers when she was in her element like this, made his breath constrict in his throat.

This was what she should be doing. Not walking a runway or posing for a camera, although she was amazing at that, too. She should be waking up with that smile on her face every morning instead of dreading the day.

He turned away and walked to the window facing the courtyard. That kind of thinking was ludicrous. He couldn’t give Olivia what she needed on any level. Her name was turning Mondelli into a hot commodity, making the industry focus on her, and not the loss of Giovanni.

It was out of his control.

* * *

Olivia smiled and waved as the last of the women left the room, delaying the confrontation with her fiancé as long as she could. Brooding and unapproachable, he appeared to be in a filthy mood. Wonderful, since they had to spend the evening together making small talk.

Mario wandered off to talk to another designer. Rocco handed him something on the way out. Olivia studied his stormy gaze. “I can be dressed in five minutes. Where’s your tux?”

“We aren’t going.”

“Really?” She tried to temper the excitement in her voice.

“Sì.”

“Why?”

“Because neither of us are up to it, and you need some sleep.”

“I can do it,” she protested. “I’m fine. Did something happen today?”

“Niente. I just think you need some rest. All anyone cares about is seeing you walk for Mondelli in Italy for the first time anyway, which will happen tomorrow. It’s not necessary.”

The familiar noose around her neck tightened. Never mind that her appearance in London had been flawless. The press were out for blood... How long could she keep running before she cracked?

She swallowed her nerves back. “You aren’t going to pepper me with wedding stuff, are you? The gala might be preferable.” They were marrying in three and a half weeks after Paris Fashion Week, the last event of the season. Half the world was attending, and ever-in-control Rocco had it all under his thumb along with that efficient wedding planner of his.

Rocco gave her an even look. “Have you worked out your dress with Mario?”

“Yes.” It was exquisite. The very dress she would have picked if she’d been marrying him for love. Which she was. But he didn’t love her and it wasn’t a real marriage, so more the fool for her for wasting her dream dress on a sham wedding.