‘Platinum is the signature colour,’ he argued. ‘They don’t sparkle—they shine.’
She shrugged. ‘They look sparkly to me. I wasn’t trying to insult your style.’
‘I thought you were all about honesty?’ he scolded, frowning.
‘I’m just trying to prove to you that I know what I’m talking about. No matter what kind of event you’re throwing, the principle is always the same. Make it memorable, and make a statement. You’re dealing with an exclusive clientele here—people who expect one-of-a-kind events every time. And that just happens to be my area of expertise.’
‘You could see all of that from up here?’
‘I have a keen eye for detail. I may not be the star guest of the party, but I make it my business to know how to plan one.’
‘And my club does not fit your usual standard?’
‘I don’t have a “usual standard”. In my world there is perfection or failure.’
‘Ah, so this would be a failure?’ He waited patiently for her answer.
Dara remained silent.
He let out a low bark of laughter. ‘I’ve honestly never had someone insult me in order to convince me to sign a contract.’
‘I believe in honesty. And if you choose Devlin Events to represent the castello, honesty is what you will get.’
He looked down at the crowd for a moment. ‘So your plan is to throw a fancy wedding and fix my public image all in one go, is it? I’d say you’re a little out of your league.’
‘My résumé speaks for itself. I’ve personally forged contracts with some of the major resort chains around the island—Santo, Lucchesi and Ottanta.’
‘You’ve worked for the Lucchesi Group?’
‘I’m a freelance consultant. They hired me on a few occasions. The most notable being Umberto and Gloria’s golden wedding anniversary. It was just a small garden party at their family home, but—’
Leo’s business mind perked up at that. ‘You are on first-name terms with Umberto Lucchesi?’
‘Yes. He did offer me a job, which I politely refused. I prefer to be my own boss.’
Leo walked to the glass wall and looked down across the packed club below the mezzanine. Well, this had just gone from interesting to downright serendipitous. He wondered if she realised the significance of what she had just divulged. Maybe it was all a fabrication—she had researched him, after all.
But he knew there was no record of his history with Lucchesi...their recent disagreements. Business was a private affair among Sicilian men, and while he hadn’t set foot on Sicilian soil in more than eighteen years he was still siciliano through and through.
He cursed as his phone rang, and the call took less than ten seconds before he ended it.
‘I’m needed downstairs. Certain guests are getting impatient.’
Her eyes fell, and defeat was evident in the droop of her shoulders. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Valente.’ She held her hand out to him.
He ignored it. ‘It’s Leo. And you misunderstand me. This conversation isn’t over.’
‘It’s not?’
‘Not by a long shot.’ He smiled. ‘One hour. We’ll discuss this further then.’
She moved uneasily. ‘Shall I stay up here?’
‘You deserve to relax after your little stunt tonight, Dara. Come down to the dark side—drink, dance. Practise using the stairs, perhaps.’ He began walking away, back towards his private elevator.
‘But how will I know where to meet you?’ she called.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find you.’
Leo smiled to himself as the elevator doors closed slowly, her shapely silhouette disappearing from view. He would finish this interesting interlude, and that was a promise.
LEATHER BARSTOOLS REALLY were a girl’s worst enemy.
Dara sighed and adjusted the hem of her pencil skirt for what felt like the hundredth time. Glamorous socialites and powerful businessmen lined the dance floor, each designer dress more chic than the last. She felt hopelessly mismatched in her black skirt suit. She tapped the email app on her phone, even though 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