“I like what I’m wearing now!”
Maximo leaned back against his sofa, confident and comfortable in his pressed Italian trousers, his bespoke black shirt, his immaculate black shoes. Quirking an eyebrow, he allowed his eyes to deliberately trace her ratty sweatshirt, her old jeans.
Her pale cheeks became as scarlet as roses.
Good. So she knew. At least that was a start.
“You always want the truth,” he said. “Bene. The truth is that you have the worst fashion sense I’ve ever seen. My conglomerate comprises ten luxury brands, including the world’s most expensive champagne, accessories and haute couture. You are wearing clothes that barely look fit for dogs to sleep in. No one will ever believe that I am in love with you. From now on, you will wear what I give you.”
Her pink mouth, so luscious and full even without lipstick, fell open. Then her expressive eyes narrowed as she snatched up her glasses. “Like hell I will!”
Paola discreetly disappeared to the back cabin of the plane, but Lucy barely noticed. “You can’t tell me what to wear!”
He calmly opened a copy of the Chicago Tribune to the business page. “Until you learn how to properly dress yourself, I can and I will.”
Scowling, she ripped open the garment bag, staring at the supershort purple silk trapeze dress, fishnet stockings and black patent leather boots he’d selected for her. Her jaw dropped.
“You want me to look like a stripper?” she said accusingly.
“It is the highest fashion.”
“Not for me, it isn’t!”
“Do you truly consider yourself to be an arbiter of style?”
She ground her teeth. “This sweatshirt belonged to my mother!”
“Your mother?” he mused, turning his attention back to the business headlines. “Impossible.”
“You didn’t even know her!”
Abruptly remembering who she was talking about, he put down the newspaper. “Lucia—”
“Call me Lucy!”
“Lucia, you don’t seem to realize your new position. My company sets the fashion trends of the world. For the months you are my wife, I expect you to dress with some self-respect.”
“Self-respect?” she cried. “Clothes have nothing to do with self-respect! What difference does it make what I wear—except to snobby rich people like you?”
“Ma-ma-ma?” Jabbering as she woke, Chloe stretched in her arms, reaching for her mother’s face. In spite of her anger Lucia’s face instantly softened as she looked down at her daughter. “Good morning, my baby,” she said tenderly, kissing her plump, rosy cheeks. “Did you sleep well?”
Then she straightened in her seat, giving Maximo a hard glare—as if he were an outsider, an interloper, some stronzo who would cruelly force a woman to wear designer clothes against her will.
He sighed. Tenting his hands, he leaned forward. “Lucia, per favore—”
“No!” Childishly she turned her face away, dropping the purple silk to the floor like discarded rubbish.
He realized he’d hurt her feelings.
Maledizione, he swore to himself. This would require more care than he’d thought.
Leaning forward, he spoke quietly.
“You’re a beautiful woman, cara. All I want is for the whole world to esteem you as I do. Presenting la bella figura will show all of Europe what I already know—that you are a woman unlike any other. A good heart, a fine mind, great strength of will, you are…bellissima.”
She slowly turned toward him. She wouldn’t meet his eyes as she repeated—as if afraid to ask the question, “Bellissima?”
“Look at me.”