Italian Bachelors: Unforgotten Lovers. Lynn Raye Harris

her luck ran out, but she was caught in an infinite loop of her own making. There was no scenario in which she could envision telling him and it not exploding in her face.

      Once she signed the contract, she would tell him. Once she had the guarantee that she’d have money to take care of her baby, she could admit the truth. And then, even if he threw her out again when it was over, it would be fine. Everything would be fine.

      But she couldn’t quite make herself believe it.

      When Holly finally emerged from her room a couple of hours later, it was because she was hungry and couldn’t stay hidden any longer. She hoped that Drago would have gone out for the evening, so she didn’t have to face him right now, but of course nothing ever went the way she hoped.

      He looked up as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Her stomach slid down to the marble floor and stayed there.

      “I was just looking for something to eat,” she said casually.

      “There’s Chinese takeout,” he said. “It’s in the warming drawer.”

      She couldn’t help but look at him in surprise. “You eat Chinese takeout?”

      He shrugged. “Doesn’t everyone?”

      Not billionaires, she thought. She expected they ate lofty meals in the kinds of restaurants he’d taken her to the last time she was in New York. Or meals prepared at home by their personal chefs. Which he did happen to have.

      “I figured that would be too, um, basic for you.”

      He laughed and a trickle of warmth stirred inside her. She loved that laugh more than she should. He was sitting at the expansive kitchen island with papers arrayed around him and an open laptop off to one side. Just a tycoon and his paperwork. Quite a different picture from the one she usually made at her worn Formica table every month, trying to make too little money stretch too far.

      Chinese takeout had been a luxury. And Gabi was usually the one who’d bought it, against Holly’s protests.

      Save your money, Gabi. Don’t waste it on me.

      It’s not a waste. Eat.

      The memory of her and Gabi perched on the sofa in front of the television, eating from containers, made her feel wistful. And lonely.

      “Holly, I’m a man like any other,” Drago said. “I like lobster and champagne, I like Kobe beef, I like truffles—but I also like Chinese takeout, hotdogs from a cart and gyros sliced fresh at a street fair.”

      She very much doubted he was like other men. But the idea of him eating a hot dog he’d bought from one of the carts lining the city streets fanned the warmth inside her into a glow.

      “Next you’ll be telling me you like funnel cakes and deep-fried candy bars.”

      “Funnel cakes, yes. Candy bars, no.”

      She pictured him tearing off bites of funnel cake, powdered sugar dusting his lips, and fresh butterflies swirled low in her belly. “Will wonders never cease?”

      He grinned and then stood and walked over to the warming drawer. He wore faded jeans and a dark T-shirt, and his feet were bare. It was entirely too intimate and sexy, especially since the sky was dark and the city lights sparkled like diamonds tossed across the horizon.

      She didn’t know why that made it more intimate, but it did.

      Drago pulled open the drawer and took out several containers of food. “There’s a variety here. Mu shu pork, sweet-and-sour chicken, Mongolian beef, kung pao shrimp, black-pepper fish, lo mein, fried rice...”

      Holly could only gape at him. “Gracious, was there a party tonight and I missed it?”

      He shrugged, completely unselfconscious. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered several different things.”

      He set the containers on the counter, and Holly walked over to peer at the contents. Her stomach rumbled. It all looked—and smelled—wonderful. Drago set a plate and some wooden chopsticks on the counter.

      “Thank you,” she said softly. And then, though it embarrassed her, “But I’ll need a fork.”

      He pulled open a drawer and took out a variety of silverware—forks and spoons so she could dip out the food—and set them down without a word about her inability to use chopsticks. It was a silly thing, but she was ridiculously grateful that he didn’t tease her about it.

      He walked back to his seat at the island, and Holly started to fill her plate. She thought about retreating to her room with the food, but he’d been so nice to order it all and she didn’t want to be rude.

      Holly turned and set the plate on the island. But instead of sitting, she stood and dug her fork into the kung pao shrimp. The flavors exploded on her tongue—spice and tang and freshness. Far better than anything she’d ever had from the lone Chinese restaurant in New Hope, where everything was either hidden under too much breading or soaked in sauce.

      “I have your contract here,” Drago said softly, and her belly clenched. “When you’re done, we’ll go over it.”

      She wanted to shove the food away and see it now, but she forced herself to keep chewing. She’d been unable to eat breakfast or lunch and now she was starving. If she didn’t eat now, she didn’t know if she would be able to. Her nerves swirled and popped like ice dropped on a hot grill. She was so close to having security for her baby. So close.

      She put the fork down. “I have to see it now,” she said. “I’ll never be able to wait.”

      Drago frowned. “Only if you promise to keep eating,” he said, picking up a sheaf of papers from the pile next to him.

      “I will.”

      He came over and stood beside her, and her body was suddenly made of rubber. She wanted to lean into him, into his heat, and rest there while he explained what was in the papers. But she didn’t. She forced herself to remain stiff, forced herself to keep forking food into her mouth while Drago pulled up the top sheet and laid it down.

      “This is a basic contract,” he said. “You’ll appear in the ads, if all goes well with the test shots, for the next year. You’ll be available for appearances to promote the perfume—industry functions, parties, etc.—and for more shoots as necessary. In exchange, you’ll receive five hundred thousand dollars—”

      Holly nearly choked on a bite of Mongolian beef. Drago glanced down at her, one brow lifted curiously.

      “Sorry,” she said a few moments later, after she’d gulped water from her glass and coughed enough to embarrass herself thoroughly.

      “If the test shots aren’t good,” Drago continued while she mentally reeled over the sum he’d just named, “if we decide you aren’t right after all, you’ll receive a fifty-thousand-dollar severance fee and all your expenses for returning home.”

      Fifty thousand was still a lot of money. She could do something with fifty thousand. She could find a decent job, afford a better apartment. But half a million? Heavens above.

      It was far more than she’d hoped—and yet a part of her was oddly disappointed. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her future. She wanted to work for a top company like Navarra Cosmetics. But she didn’t want to stand in front of a camera and be the face of a fragrance. She wanted to create the fragrance.

      But she had no choice. Since Nicky had come into her life, her desires took a backseat.

      “What about my perfume?” she asked.

      He flipped a couple of pages and tapped his finger on a line. “It’s here. You get a half-hour appointment. Nothing more, and there are no guarantees.”

      “Do I get the appointment even if you decide not to keep me for the campaign?”

      “Yes.”

      Her heart took up residence in her throat.