The Truth About De Campo(62)
He lifted a brow. “And what would you have me do? Give it to you now?”
Her lips curved. “Yes.”
“You really want to ruin the proposal I had planned?”
“Yes.” Definitively yes.
All the blood seemed to rush from her head as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a box. And there on Michigan Avenue, one of Chicago’s busiest streets, with people streaming by in all directions, he got down on one knee.
A woman walked by, openly ogling the beautiful, charismatic man at her feet, and yes, he was that; yes, he was gorgeous and one of the world’s most notorious playboys, but he was so much more than that. He was brilliant in so many different ways he made Quinn’s head spin. He was also deep, a philosopher beyond his years and he’d shown her who she truly was.
She was not Quinn the ice queen. She was a woman capable of loving this man with everything she had.
Her heart tattooed itself across her chest, beating a frantic dance as he opened the box to reveal a jaw-droppingly beautiful square-cut emerald surrounded by a band of sparkling white diamonds.
“Your eyes,” he said simply. “When they’re spitting fire at me, they’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
A little old lady and her husband started to skirt around them. Then she pulled to a halt, her eyes widening. “Look, he’s proposing.”
Her husband tugged on her arm. “So let him. They don’t need an audience.”
“They’re standing on Michigan Avenue, aren’t they?” The blue-haired old lady stood to the side and crossed her arms over her chest. “You just keep going.” She nodded to Matteo. “Don’t mind us.”
Matteo grimaced up at Quinn. “Nice idea of yours, this one.”
“Just spit it out,” she returned, a smile stretching her lips. “You’re used to an audience aren’t you?”
“You,” he murmured meaningfully, as more people stopped and joined the old couple, “will pay for that later.”
Her smile grew even bigger. He took her hand in his. Her eyes widened. Mr. Cool and Collected, who had just put in a rock solid performance under immense pressure the likes of which most men would have buckled underneath, was nervous. The tremor in his strong hand holding hers was enough to make her want to melt to the pavement.
His gaze held hers. “I had no idea what I was looking for until I met you,” he said quietly. “I was so lost I didn’t know how to find my way back. And you—you have given me clarity in a way I never thought possible, Quinn Davis. You’ve made me see the man I want to be. How the mistakes I’ve made have shaped me into who I am.” His fingers tightened around hers. “So no matter what happens with this pitch, I have already won the biggest prize.”
Her need for air came out as a sob.
“Marry me,” he murmured. “Marry me so we can spend the rest of our lives together.”
Another sob filled the air, this time from an anonymous woman burying her head in a hankie.
Quinn focused on Matteo. “You make me believe I can do anything. That anything is possible. You make me so much better than I am.”
“That’s impossible,” he said softly, “because you are perfect to me.”
A lone tear blazed a trail of fire down her cheek. “I love you.”
His gray eyes darkened. “Me, too, tesoro. Now give me an answer before this turns into any more of a public spectacle.”
“Yes.” The word came out more as a croak than an answer, but he got the message and slid the ring on her finger.
“You see,” the old lady murmured, “that’s how it’s done.”
The crowd broke out into applause, whistling their approval as Matteo stood and pulled her into his arms.
“I suppose she wants a Hollywood-style kiss,” he murmured.
“Undoubtedly.” Quinn shot a sideways look at the local news photographer who’d arrived just in time to capture the action. “But after this you’re announcing your official magazine-cover retirement.”
“I’m good with that.” He took her mouth in a kiss that was front-page-worthy and then some. Then he whisked her off on the De Campo jet for the champagne celebration Lilly had planned in New York—the one part of his proposal Quinn hadn’t managed to upend.
Lilly and Alex whisked Quinn off when they arrived in the garden, lit with lanterns on a sultry New York summer evening. Riccardo poured the men a scotch. “You know I hate this stuff,” Matteo muttered, wrapping his fingers around the glass.
“Be a man,” Riccardo taunted. “Walter Driscoll just called. Said he’d been trying to reach you.”