Page 17 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis (In The Heart of A Valentine #17)

Chapter

Eleven

CHRISTIAN

My walk-in closet felt smaller than usual as I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the white tie that refused to cooperate. Dahlia’s voice floated through the speaker of my cell phone, perched on the mahogany dresser between my cologne bottles and watch collection.

“Thursday the twenty-sixth, you have the Williams follow-up meeting at two. Friday is clear except for the partnership review at four-thirty. And Saturday the twenty-eighth...” Her voice paused, and I could hear her typing against a keyboard.

“The Children’s Hospital benefit gala. It’s a black-tie event with seven o’clock cocktails, and dinner at eight. ”

I yanked the tie loose and started over, irritated by my own restlessness. “Right. The gala.”

“You’ll need a date for that one. You could pull it off alone because, well, you’re Christian Valentine. But having a date will strengthen your overall appearance. If you need me, I’m there,” she continued. “I’ve got a stunning gown that would photograph beautifully next to your tux.”

My hands stilled on the silk. Dahlia’s tone had shifted, giving off a hint of availability a kin to what she’d been dropping for months. It was professional enough to maintain plausible deniability, but personal enough to make her interest clear.

I cleared my throat, choosing my words carefully. Dahlia was brilliant at her job, and gorgeous. The problem was, the last thing on my mind was wanting her outside of a professional relationship.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Thank you, though.”

Silence stretched between us. “Of course. Just let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will. Is there anything else on the schedule?”

“Nothing urgent. I’ll have the Henderson contracts ready for your review Monday morning.”

A thought crossed my mind. “Dahlia, clear my entire Friday this week.”

“Yes sir.”

“Perfect. Have a good evening, Dahlia.”

“You too, Christian.”

The line went dead, leaving me alone with my reflection.

Saturday, the twenty-eighth was one of our Saturdays—mine and Naomi’s.

We had our rhythm. Two Wednesdays and one Saturday each month, as reliable as rent payments and just as necessary to my sanity.

But I had a reckless desire to interrupt our status quo before that time came, and so, I went with it.

Secondly, the gala falling on our day changed everything. It gave me a reason to ask her for more than our usual arrangement. It was a legitimate excuse to want her beside me in public, but I wanted to warm her up to the idea first.

I finished knotting my tie and reached for my phone, scrolling to her number before I could talk myself out of it. The phone rang twice when her voice filled the space.

“Christian.”

Just my name, but the allure in her voice sent heat covering my entire body. Like she was tasting it, rolling it around on her tongue before letting it go.

“Hey, beautiful. You got a minute?”

“For you? I sure do.”

The words came so easily from her, and I wondered if she realized how they sounded like a promise instead of politeness.

“I’ve got an event coming up. Three weeks from Saturday. It’s a gala—black tie, the whole nine yards. I could use some company.”

Silence. Long enough for me to start questioning whether I’d overstepped, whether asking her to accompany me in public violated our arrangement.

“Christian...”

Her tone had shifted, and I knew what was coming before she said it.

“I’m not available that Saturday.”

I frowned. “Are you sure? It’s the twenty-eighth. Our Saturday.”

“I know what Saturday it is. And I’m sorry, but I have other commitments.”

“Right. Of course. I’ll make other arrangements then.”

“Are we good?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”

“I’m just making sure.”

“Yes, we are, but I do have another proposition for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“This Friday and Saturday, come with me, to Tuscany.”

“Tuscany?”

“Just say yes.”

Deep laughter crooned from her, and the sound made my heart race.

“You are so slick, you know that?”

“Is that what I am?”

Her laughter deepened and my excitement ignited.

“You know I promised to accompany you, what, a year ago?”

“Yes. And I know you’re a woman of your word.”

She sucked in a breath. “Yes…” she drawled. “I am a woman of my word.”

“So does that mean you’ll go?”

“What time should I be ready, Mr. Valentine?”

My mouth spread into a grin. “Six am, we’re taking an early flight.”

“You’re trying to beat the airport rush?”

“No. We’re flying private. I just happened to want every minute of every second of those two days with you.”

“Is that right?”

“Damn right.”

She giggled deeply. “I’ll see you at six am Friday. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Don’t ask me that, or I’ll shapeshift your schedule for the rest of the week.”

She laughed haughtily. “Have a good day, Christian.”

“You as well, Naomi.”

Her laughter became distant then the call dropped. I bit my bottom lip. I may have missed out on having her on my arm for the gala, but I would have her all weekend, and I was going to make it the time of her life.

Friday evening

Tuscany

Naomi had her phone pressed to her ear, handling what had to be her twentieth crisis call since we’d left St. Louis eleven hours ago.

“No, Tamara,” she said, sharply. “Tell him Christina doesn’t do private parties. We’ve been over this.”

I watched her work from across the back seat in the limo, admiring the way she could dismantle a problem while looking like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.

The burnt orange silk dress she’d changed into during the flight moved with her body, keeping my concentration on every curve she owned.

“I don’t care if he’s offering double. The answer is no.” She rubbed her temples. “Handle it, and don’t call me unless someone’s bleeding.”

The call ended, and she dropped her head back against the leather seat with a sigh.

“Your position sounds pretty daunting. Having to keep men in check must be exhausting.”

She smirked. “Believe it or not you do it all the time, in a different setting but still.”

I nodded. “I never thought about it like that.”

She smiled over at me. “Sometimes a few of my clients think money can buy them anything, including things I’ve explicitly told them aren’t for sale.”

“Well, they’ve definitely got the right woman to put them in their place.”

We stared at each other, and I winked. She blushed and turned her head to look out the window.

Villa Bellavista appeared through the trees like a Renaissance painting. Honey-colored stone walls, olive groves cascading down the hillside, and in the distance, a small village dotted with warm lights.

When we made it to our destination, Naomi stepped out of the car, her heels clicking against the gravel as she took in the view. “This is beautiful.”

“I thought so, too. I own it.”

Her eyes widened. “How long have you owned it?”

“Since I took a trip out here to see what a trip to Tuscany had afforded me. I fell in love with the area and the houses.”

“You bought a house in Italy on a whim?”

“I did. A man could use a place where his phone doesn’t ring.”

She laughed, and it was the first one I’d heard since we boarded the plane. “And here I thought you just enjoyed torturing yourself with international contract law.”

“That’s just a hobby.”

Inside the villa, stone floors spread throughout the entrance. There was exposed beams overhead, and rustic yet expensive furniture throughout. Naomi moved through the space as if memorizing it, running her fingers along the massive wooden dining table.

“This feels lived in,” she said. “Like it has stories.”

“Giuseppe, the man who sold it to me, said his family made wine here for six generations. He still comes by to check on the vines.”

“You kept the vineyard?”

“I kept everything. Giuseppe manages it, and I pretend to understand what he’s talking about when he explains why this year’s harvest will be exceptional.”

I opened a bottle of Brunello and poured two glasses while she explored. When she returned to the kitchen, she’d kicked off her heels somewhere along the way. The sight of her bare feet on my floors filled me with comfort.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked, settling onto a barstool.

“Wild boar ragu. Giuseppe’s wife, Elena, taught me the recipe after she spent an afternoon yelling at me in Italian.”

“She yelled at you?”

“Italian grandmothers don’t mess around. Elena tasted my first attempt and told me I was disgracing her ancestors.”

Naomi nearly choked on her wine. “She did not.”

“Six hours later, I could make ragu that didn’t embarrass the entire region of Tuscany.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. I’ve tasted your food.”

“American food. Unfortunately, I needed to sharpen my Italian cooking skills but never fear, you’re about to taste test what I’ve been able to accomplish since then, in an hour or so. You game?”

“I am.”

Her smile animated my nerves like a live wire.

“Chef Boyar-Valentine, at your service.”

She giggled and I wiggled my brows.

The kitchen came alive as I moved through the routine. I used fresh pasta from the market in Montalcino, vegetables from the villa’s own garden, and olive oil pressed from trees we could see through the windows. Naomi watched me work, asking questions about the house and the surrounding area.

“Giuseppe’s daughter lives in the village,” I explained as I stirred the sauce. “She still brings me tomatoes from her garden and lectures me about not visiting enough.”

“How very Italian of her.”

“How very right of her.”

We ate at the kitchen island with candles flickering between us and the sounds of the Tuscan night drifting through open windows. Sitting there with Naomi felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“This is amazing,” Naomi said, twirling pasta around her fork. “You’re the only man who’s ever cooked for me.”

“What do you mean?”