Return of the Italian Tycoon. Jennifer Faye

You aren’t done with this project. I want you to dig into those memories and write out some ideas—”

      “But don’t you have a creative team for this account?” She wanted to kick herself for blurting out her thoughts.

      Mr. Amatucci sent her a narrowed look. His cool, professional tone remained unchanged. “Are you saying you aren’t interested in working on the project?”

      Before she could find the words to express her enthusiasm, his phone rang and he turned away. She struggled to contain her excitement. This was her big opening and she fully intended to make the most of it.

       This was going to work out perfectly.

      A smile tugged at Kayla lips. She’d finally made it. Though people thought she’d made a big mistake by taking a step backward to assume a temporary position as Mr. Amatucci’s PA, it was actually working out just as she’d envisioned.

      She’d gone after what she wanted and she’d gotten it. Well, not exactly, but she was well on her way to making her dreams a reality. With a little more patience and a lot of hard work, she’d become an account executive on New York’s famous Madison Avenue in the exclusive advertising agency of Amatucci & Associates.

      Her fingers glided over the keyboard of her computer as she completed the email to the creative department about another of their Christmas campaigns. Sure it was only March, but in the marketing world, they were working months into the future. And with a late-season snowstorm swirling about outside, it seemed sort of fitting to be working on a holiday project.

      She glanced off to the side of her computer monitor, noticing her boss holding the phone to his ear as he faced a wall of windows overlooking downtown Manhattan. Being on the twenty-third floor, they normally had a great view of the city, but not today. What she wouldn’t give to be someplace sunny—far, far away from the snow. After months of frigid temperatures and icy sidewalks, she was most definitely ready for springtime.

      “Have you started that list?” Mr. Amatucci’s piercing brown gaze met hers.

      Um—she’d been lost in her thoughts and hadn’t even realized he’d wrapped up his phone call. Her gaze moved from his tanned face to her monitor. “Not yet. I need to finish one more email. It shouldn’t take me long. I think your ideas for the account are spot-on. Just wait until the client lays her eyes on the mock-ups.”

      Then, realizing she was rambling, she pressed her lips firmly together. There was just something about being around him that filled her with nervous energy. And his long stretches of silence had her rushing to fill in the silent gaps.

      Mr. Amatucci looked as though he was about to say something, but his phone rang again. All eyes moved to his desk. The ringtone was different. It must be his private line. In all the time she’d been working for him, it had never rung.

      It rang again and yet all he did was stare at the phone.

      “Do you want me to get it?” Kayla offered, not sure what the problem was or why Mr. Amatucci was hesitant. “I really don’t mind.”

      “I’ve got it.” He reached over and snatched up the receiver. “Nico, what’s the matter?”

      Well, that was certainly a strange greeting. Who picked up the phone expecting something to be wrong? Then, realizing that she was staring—not to mention eavesdropping—she turned her attention back to the notes she’d been rewording into an email. She glanced up to see Mr. Amatucci had turned his back to her. He once again faced the windows and spoke softly. Though the words were no longer distinguishable, the steely edge of his voice was still obvious.

      She looked at the paper on her desk, her gaze darting over it to find where she’d left off. She didn’t want to sit here with her hands idle. No, that definitely wouldn’t look good for her.

      She was sending along some of Mr. Amatucci’s thoughts about the mock-up of an ad campaign for a new client—a very demanding client. The account was huge. It would go global—like most of the other accounts her boss personally handled. Each of his clients expected Mr. Amatucci’s world to revolve around them and their accounts. He took their calls, no matter the time—day or night. Through it all, he maintained his cool. To say Angelo was a workaholic was being modest.

      As a result, he ran the most sought-after advertising agency in the country—if not the world. Stepping off the elevator, clients and staff were immediately greeted by local artists’ work and fresh flowers. The receptionist was bright and cheerful without being annoying. Appointments were kept timely. The quality of the work was exemplary. All of it culminated in Amatucci & Associates being so popular that they had to turn away business.

      “Cosa! Nico, no!” Mr. Amatucci’s hand waved about as he talked.

      Her boss’s agitated voice rose with each word uttered. Kayla’s fingers paused as her attention zeroed in on the man who never raised his voice—until now. He was practically yelling. But she could only make out bits and pieces. His words were a mix of English and Italian with a thick accent.

      “Nico, are you sure?”

      Had someone died? And who was Nico? She hadn’t heard Mr. Amatucci mention anyone with that name, but then again, this call was on his private line. It was highly doubtful that it had anything to do with business. And she knew exactly nothing about his personal life—sometimes she wondered if he even had one.

      “Marianna can’t be pregnant!” The shouts spiraled off into Italian.

      Pregnant? Was he the father? The questions came hard and fast. There was a little voice in the back of her mind that told her she should excuse herself and give him some privacy, but she was riveted to her chair. No one would ever believe that this smooth, icy-cool man was capable of such heated volatility. She blinked, making sure she hadn’t fallen asleep and was having some bizarre dream. But when her eyes opened, her boss was standing across the room with his hand slicing through the air as he spoke Italian.

      The paramount question was: Who was Marianna?

      * * *

      Angelo Amatucci tightened his grip on the phone until his fingers hurt. This had to be some sort of nightmare and soon he’d wake up. Could it be he’d been working a bit too much lately? Perhaps he should listen to the hints from his business associates to take a break from the frantic pace. That would explain why just moments ago when he’d been examining Ms. Hill’s perfume—a scent he found quite inviting—that he’d been tempted to smooth his thumb along the silky skin of her wrist—

      “Angelo, are you listening to me?” Tones of blatant concern laced Nico’s voice, demanding Angelo’s full attention. “What are we going to do?”

      Nico was his younger brother by four years, and though their opinions differed on almost everything, the one area where they presented a unified front was their little sister, Marianna—who wasn’t so little anymore.

      “There has to be another answer to this. You must have misunderstood. Marianna can’t be pregnant. She’s not even in a serious relationship.”

      “I know what I heard.”

      “Tell me again.”

      “I wanted her to taste the wine from the vineyard. I think it’s the best we’ve ever produced. Just wait until you try some—”

      “Nico, tell me about Marianna.”

      “Yes, well, she has looked awfully pale and out of sorts since she returned home after her year of traveling. I thought she’d done too much partying—”

      “Accidenti! She wasn’t supposed to waste the year partying.” Unable to stand still a moment longer, Angelo started to pace again. When his gaze met the wide-eyed stare of Ms. Hill, she glanced down at her desk. He made a point of turning his back to her and lowering his voice. “She was sent to Australia to work on the vineyards there and get more experience in order to help you. If I’d have known she planned for it to be a year of partying, I’d