Giuseppe yapped on and on about creative and innovative ways to increase Romeo’s online presence, but Romeo’s mind wandered. A year ago, the buzz about his company had reached an all-time high. Thanks to his team, his carefully cultivated image had not only added to his insane popularity in Italy, it attracted women like a sale sign in a boutique window. In the hopes of meeting him, socialites and heiresses had flocked to his office in droves, and once there, he had convinced them to invest with his company. A favorite of gossip bloggers, there was a time when Romeo enjoyed the spotlight. The more brazen he was, the more the public seemed to love him, especially the opposite sex.
Slowing down to allow a jaywalker to cross the street, he reflected on the highs and lows of his life in Milan. He’d done it all—partied too hard, drunk too much and spent money recklessly—but after his hospital stay he’d turned over a new leaf. Quit drinking, smoking cigars and eating like a college frat boy. At thirty-two, hooking up with a different woman every night of the week had lost its appeal, and although he had a life most men would kill for, Romeo felt empty inside, lonely now that his closest friends had wives and children. One by one, his brothers and cousins had found love, and they were all ridiculously happy. Romeo wondered if he was missing out on something. Everyone around him was moving forward, and he was stuck in neutral. For months, he’d been playing it safe, doing everything right and following his doctor’s orders, but Christmas was right around the corner and he wanted to enjoy the holidays without stressing out about his health. Or his bitter ex-fiancée.
“Handle it, Giuseppe. I don’t want this story hanging over my head during the holidays. Make it go away, now.”
“Nessun problema. Leave everything to me. I know just what to do.”
“You better,” he said in a stern voice. “Or you’re fired.”
Giuseppe chuckled. “You wouldn’t survive a day without me, and you know it.”
A grin overwhelmed his mouth. It was true. Giuseppe wasn’t just his publicist, he was also a confidante and a trusted friend. If not for Giuseppe, Romeo wouldn’t be alive. “Are you on your way to the office or are you having breakfast with Bellisa again?”
“Bellisa is my breakfast,” he said with a throaty laugh. “I’ll give you a ring in the afternoon, but promise me you’ll give some thought to what I said about Lizabeth.”
“There’s nothing to think about.” Switching lanes, Romeo punched the gas. “I’m not giving her a damn thing.”
“A million euros is chump change to you.”
“Dammit, Giuseppe, it’s not about the money.”
Making a right turn, Romeo heard something hit the passenger-side door and slammed on the brakes. Frowning, he peered in the rearview mirror. His heart stopped. His cell phone fell from his hands and dropped to his feet. Fearing the worst, Romeo took off his seat belt, threw open his car door and ran around the trunk.
Romeo surveyed the scene. A purple mountain bike lay in a tangled heap on the road along with the contents of a handbag. A woman of Caribbean descent with caramel-brown skin, delicate facial features and waist-length black braids sat on the sidewalk, shaking uncontrollably. Filled with concern, he moved toward her, speaking in a quiet tone of voice.
“Miss, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Romeo tried to help her to her feet, but she pushed his hands away. Standing, she straightened her short sleeveless dress and brushed the dirt off the hem. Watching her every move, he admired everything about her—her almond-shaped eyes, the beauty mark above her lips, the diamond hoop earrings that grazed her shoulders and her womanly physique. He guessed she was in her early twenties, around the same age as his kid sister, Francesca, and suspected she was an exchange student.
Glaring at him, it was obvious she was pissed, and Romeo didn’t blame her. He should have been paying attention to the road instead of arguing with Giuseppe about his ex. He’d messed up, and now because of his mistake the cyclist was staring at him with tears in her eyes.
Romeo swallowed hard. Feeling like a specimen under a microspore, his throat dried, and sweat drenched his suit jacket. If looks could kill, he’d be dead, and the coroner would be notifying his next of kin. For the first time in Romeo’s life he was tongue-tied, in such a state of shock he couldn’t speak. And not just because he’d accidentally struck a cyclist with his car; he was transfixed by the woman’s natural beauty. There weren’t a lot of people of color in Milan, and she was such a knockout that Romeo couldn’t stop staring at her. Her full, sensuous lips and her Lord-have-mercy curves were captivating, instantly seizing his attention.
Romeo was intrigued by her, wanted to know her story. Where was she from? And most importantly, was she single? The woman was off-the-charts hot, and if they’d met under different circumstances he definitely would have asked her out. But since Romeo didn’t want her to think he was an insensitive jerk, he quit lusting and wore an apologetic smile. “Miss, I feel horrible about what happened.”
Drawn to her, he stepped forward, eager to make amends for what he’d done. Romeo felt like an ass. Guilt-ridden, he opened his mouth to apologize again, but her strident voice filled the air.
“Are you blind?” she shouted. “You could have killed me with your stupid sports car!”
A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered around them, and Romeo wished everyone—except the dark-skinned beauty with the American accent—would disappear. Well-traveled, with vacation homes and real estate properties all across the United States, he guessed she was visiting from New York and wondered how long she’d be in Milan.
The woman gestured to the road, an incredulous expression on her flawless oval face. “I had the right of way, but you turned right into me. What’s wrong with you? You couldn’t wait ten seconds for me to cross the street?”
“Miss, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you—”
“Of course you didn’t see me,” she shot back. “You were too busy on your cell phone.”
“You’re right,” Romeo conceded. “I should have been paying more attention to the road.”
“Jerk,” she mumbled, shaking her head in disgust. “You should lose your license.”
Gasps and whispers ripped through the well-dressed Milanese crowd. A camera flashed in Romeo’s face, then another one, and he knew it was just a matter of time before everyone in the city knew about his morning traffic accident. Great, he thought, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black, suit pants. That’s all I need. More bad press.
Horns blared, and pedestrians complained as they maneuvered their way around the accident scene. An irate driver in a gleaming white Porsche stuck his head out the window and yelled in Italian about the traffic jam. Romeo’s car was blocking the intersection, but the street was so narrow that there was nowhere for him to move it. “The accident was my fault, and I take full responsibility for it,” he said, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’ll pay to replace your bike, your dress and all of the contents in your purse as well—”
“How benevolent of you, Mr. Morretti, but I don’t want anything from you.”
His mouth fell open, and seconds passed before he spoke. “You know who I am?”
“Of course I know who you are. I haven’t been living under a rock the last two years.”
“You live here? In Milan?” Romeo asked. “Where?”
A bearded man holding a leather satchel made his way through the crowd. “My name is Lucan Bianchi and I’m an emergency room doctor at Milan General