Yeah, those blue eyes were panty-droppers, and that body looked fairly chiseled from clay.
And Nico was Dubai rich, as Daphne liked to call it.
But I couldn’t find any information on anything useful or worthwhile that he might’ve been associated with.
No philanthropy.
No peace work.
No good deeds on record.
However, I did find some paparazzi photos of Nico doing body shots off the belly of a hot-bodied coed during spring break at Lake Havasu.
Yep. I took another bite. Total douchebag. Life was so unfair. How did guys like Nico always get ahead when hardworking people, like myself, had to struggle and scrape for every dime?
I wallowed in a moment of self-pity before sighing and printing out the relevant information I would need for my fluff article.
“I love my job,” I murmured to myself. “I love my job.” To ground my motivation more firmly, I glanced at the picture of my son on my desk. Grady’s gap-toothed smile was all the motivation I needed to shut my mouth, put my head down and get the job done.
Houston Beaumont was a useless human being, but our son was the light of my life and I couldn’t regret deciding to cancel the adoption paperwork.
Grady wasn’t planned—hell, my relationship, if you can call it that, with Houston hadn’t been planned either—but I’d do anything for that cute little dirty-blond imp who called me Mama.
And I thanked my lucky stars every day that Houston hadn’t tried to sue for custody. He’d been more than happy to forget all about me and his son.
I didn’t mind being a single mom if it meant knowing that Grady didn’t have to be shuttled between two different worlds—mine and his father’s.
Drawing a deep breath, I nodded to myself, girding my loins, so to speak, so I could swallow my dignity without choking.
I could do this. No sweat.
At least one thing was for certain—there was no way Donato was going to charm the pants off me—a fact he would discover right away if he was dumb enough to try.
Nico
“NICE TO MEET YOU, Mr. Donato. Lauren Hughes, Luxe magazine.”
The tall brunette thrust her hand toward me as if she were a man—strong, no-nonsense, obligatory—her deep brown eyes the only feature worth noting if I were to go off first impressions.
The handshake lasted all of two seconds, no lingering, and then she was sitting primly at the farthest point on the sofa in my living room, recorder in hand, expression blandly expectant, as if preparing to mentally vacate as soon as I started talking.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hughes,” I said, my gaze quickly taking in the shape-swallowing shift dress that completely obscured her figure and the functional flats that finished off the wretched ensemble. I think my maid dressed better than this woman. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too heavy.”
“Dealing with traffic is just one of those things you get used to when you live in New York,” she said with a brief smile. The look in her eyes told me she wasn’t one for small talk, which suited me fine because I hated it, too—but I was definitely not quite sure what to make of this stiff-as-a-board reporter.
Definitely not what I was expecting, and I was fucking disappointed. Where was the hot chick in the curve-hugging pencil skirt, glasses sitting demurely on the bridge of her nose, hair upswept in a delicate yet artfully messy bun? Not sitting on my sofa, that’s for sure.
“Have you always been a New Yorker?” she asked with a direct stare. No makeup that I could tell. Not even a hint of mascara to brighten up her eyes. A pity. Those dark eyes with a little assistance might even be pretty. “My editor tells me that your family is from Italy, originally.”
“Yes, so the legend says,” I answered, trying for a little wry humor. When she didn’t so much as offer a polite chuckle, I cleared my throat and followed with, “Tuscany, actually, but we’ve been in New York for two generations now. Our Italian roots are fairly weak at this point. All I inherited from my Italian ancestors is a love of fine women, wine and pasta.”
“Ah.”
“Your skin tone is beautiful. Are you Latina?” Was she Latina? Or perhaps Native American? Maybe even Creole?
“A hodgepodge of nationalities,” she answered, adjusting herself on the sofa. “Just lucked out in the skin department, I guess. So, tell me, how does it feel to be named one of New York’s most eligible bachelors?”
“Well, you know the saying, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,” I said with a wink. “But it should be interesting to see what crawls out of the woodwork once the magazine hits the stands. I’m always down for an adventure.”
“If you’re not interested in finding love, you could’ve turned down the interview,” she said, again with that brief smile that I was beginning to suspect was patronizing. “I’m sure we could’ve found someone who was more aligned with the purpose of the spread.”
“Who said I’m not looking for love?”
“Well, I mean, it was kind of implied by your earlier statement. To call the women who might be interested as things that ‘crawl out of the woodwork’ sounds insulting, don’t you think?”
Annoyance threatened to color my tone as I admitted, “That was a poor choice of words. Maybe I’m more embarrassed by the attention than I like to let on. The truth is, I’ve never considered myself interesting enough for an entire magazine spread, and I’m not quite sure how I was selected.”
False humility was always good for a few grace points, but I think Lauren saw right through my attempt, which, in itself, threw off my game.
Hell, everything about this woman threw me.
I’d thought Luxe might’ve sent one of their show ponies to interview me. Maybe an intern with a tight body, perky tits and an ass that would put a gymnast to shame; or, a more sophisticated staffer with legs for days and long blond hair, perfect for a man’s fist to wrap around to guide a hot mouth onto a ready cock.
I bit back my growing disappointment. No nubile intern; no savvy staffer. Luxe had sent her.
The dour killjoy.
Was that a coffee stain on her dress?
And that austere bun squatting on top of her head was tight enough to give her a poor man’s face-lift.
“So...you work at Luxe?” I asked, sinking into the sofa, regarding her curiously. Perhaps she was a freelance writer...
“Three years now,” Lauren answered with a short smile before moving on. “I can appreciate how busy you are, so thank you for agreeing to this interview. My editor, Patrice, was excited to have one of the hottest bachelors in the city as the center feature.”
Funny how her words said one thing but her tone said something completely different. This was starting off as the weirdest interview I’d ever granted. Didn’t she realize I was a catch? That there were scores of women who wanted to be on this sofa with me? Beneath me, specifically. Frankly, on a hotness scale of one to ten, she was reaching for a four; she ought to be the one excited to be interviewing me.
But she didn’t look tickled or impressed. Or even happy to be there. Was that a tick of boredom in those chocolate eyes?
My male pride demanded a better response. I couldn’t have a four turning her nose up at