Resisting The Sicilian Playboy. Amanda Cinelli

it had barely been five minutes since the last check.

      With a dull flicker, her emails vanished before her eyes. The screen turned completely blank.

      Of course—a dead battery. She stuffed the useless device back into her bag. Was there anything that hadn’t gone wrong tonight?

      She was not an impatient person, but the music in here was too loud and it was about a million degrees too warm. Add that to the fact that an extremely rude group of models had commented on her appearance the moment she’d sat down. Her designer suit might as well have been rags next to their glamorous cocktail dresses.

      At events like this she was the one who usually stood on the sidelines, barking into her headset at her team. Sitting idly at a bar just made her feel on edge.

      Out of habit she scanned the room, noticing details about the layout and decor. For such an elite event, the organisation was nowhere near as fine-tuned as she would expect. And, as she’d told Leo Valente, the staff’s uniforms were nothing short of theatrical—gauche, shiny silver tunics intended to represent the brand name: Platinum.

      The sooner she wrapped up this meeting, the better. She was restless when she wasn’t doing something productive. Winter was low season, mostly taken up with administrative tasks. She already missed the hectic schedule of her summer wedding list.

      She huffed out an agitated breath and craned her neck to scan the crowd for the object of her thoughts once more. Her stomach lurched as she spotted him.

      He stood on the opposite side of the dance floor, surrounded by members of the media. From her vantage point she could see that he stood head and shoulders above the other men, his broad shoulders fitting his tailored suit jacket to perfection.

      She shouldn’t be noticing his shoulders. She should be furious that he seemed to have forgotten about his promise. That ‘one hour’ had been up twenty minutes ago.

      She fanned herself with a beer mat and looked up just in time to see a silver-clad bartender place an elaborate drink in front of her.

      ‘Sorry, I didn’t order this.’ She pushed it slowly back towards him, only for him to slide it right back.

      ‘Compliments of Signor Valente. For his beautiful blonde companion.’ He smiled politely.

      Apparently he hadn’t forgotten her after all, she thought. Maybe this was his apology for leaving her waiting? She stared at the drink. It was a frothy cream-coloured cocktail that smelled of rich liqueur.

      ‘What is it?’ she asked as she took a small sip.

      The young bartender smirked, leaning in closer. ‘I believe in English it is called a Screaming Orgasm.’

      A screaming what?

      Her breath fought with an unfortunate sip of the offending cocktail, making her splutter her outrage noisily onto the counter.

      Dara felt her face turn bright red. The bartender moved away, but not before she caught a glimpse of him laughing to himself. Of all the most blatant disregards for propriety, this was just outrageous.

      She looked around and sure enough the group of models were now eyeing her even more intently. One of them commented loudly that clearly Valente’s standards must be dropping.

      Dara felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Was this why he’d asked her to stay here? Did Leo Valente expect her to sleep with him in order to get her contract? The thought sent a shiver of something suspiciously close to excitement down her spine.

      She shook the foreign sensation off with a frown. She needed his help—that was true. But not at the expense of her pride. She had been a fool to promise Castello Bellamo to Portia Palmer without researching its owner first. Her choice was to sit here and act as a billionaire’s plaything for the night or leave and face the consequences.

      Her business reputation might be salvaged, but her pride...that was another matter entirely.

      Making her decision, she grabbed her bag and pushed her way through the crowd towards the exit. Her heels ached with each step and the music seemed to be getting louder and louder. When she finally emerged out into the cool night air she felt as if she had just escaped hell itself.

      Damn Leo Valente and his perfect unobtainable castle. Standing out in the chilly October air, she remembered that her phone was dead. She stalked her way back towards the club and asked the hostess to call her a cab. The dark-haired woman looked as if she might refuse for a moment, but thankfully nodded and disappeared inside.

      Dara stood at the edge of the pavement and hugged her blazer tighter around her shoulders. Was she overreacting here? Maybe she should go back inside and give it one last try. The alternative was admitting to Portia Palmer that she had lied about being able to make her dream wedding in Monterocca a reality. The actress famously blacklisted anyone who got on her bad side.

      Promising a location that everyone had tried to get for years and then taking it away most definitely qualified as bad.

      She didn’t know what on earth had possessed her to make such a ridiculous claim. She usually played by the rules, and she always came out on top. Why couldn’t she have got landed with a kindly old man to convince rather than a hot-blooded Sicilian with a cruel sense of humour?

      The door of the club slammed and jolted her out of her reverie. Dara spun round and came face-to-face with the object of her thoughts.

      ‘Do you always run away from business meetings or am I just an exception?’ he said, coming to a stop in front of her on the pavement. He was breathing heavily, as though he had just run through the entire club.

      ‘I would hardly call being sat at a bar and plied with obscenely named alcohol a business meeting.’ She folded her arms across her chest.

      ‘You looked like you needed to laugh. Perhaps it was in bad taste.’ He shrugged.

      ‘You really do have a twisted sense of humour.’ Dara huffed out a breath. ‘I’m not prepared to...to play any games in order to get what I want here.’

      He raised a brow, obviously understanding her meaning. ‘Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not in the habit of coercing women into my bed.’

      Dara’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. ‘Either way, I would be waiting until hell freezes over for you to hire out your castle. You practically said it yourself.’

      ‘Castello Bellamo is my bargaining chip. Prove yourself to me and I will consider the contract.’

      ‘Prove myself to you how, exactly?’

      ‘The grand launch event tomorrow night will be very high profile. You seem to have a lot of opinions—I’d like to see you in action.’

      Dara frowned. ‘I don’t understand...are you trying to offer me a job?’

      ‘I’m offering you an audition to convince me of why I should trust you. A temporary consulting position, of sorts. Impress me and I’ll go through your proposal. It’s more than anyone else has ever gotten.’

      She ignored the silky tone in his voice. ‘But why offer me a chance in the first place? What’s your game?’

      He made a clucking sound. ‘So untrusting, Dara. I’m curious to see if you’re as ruthlessly ambitious as you say you are.’

      ‘So if I pass the test, then you’ll trust me?’

      ‘Perhaps... But what kind of a businessman would I be if I trusted every beautiful blonde who offered me a deal?’ He extended a hand towards her. ‘So, Dara Devlin, are you prepared to risk your perfect reputation for a crumbling old castle?’

      ‘“Risk” implies that I stand to fail.’

      She accepted his hand and felt a frisson of electricity as his gaze intensified. The heat of his body seemed to flow up her veins. All of a sudden he was closer, his scent bombarding her senses as he leaned his body towards her. He pressed his lips to one cheek, then