Page 13 of Spark (Lust & Luster)

Me: Please tell me we confirmed lunch today?

Dana: Yes. She’s just running a few minutes late. Breathe. You’ve got this.

I tuck my phone away, exhale, and glance toward the entrance—just as a hush rolls through the room.

Ellory Matisse has arrived.

She strides in flanked by two bodyguards, but it’s not them people notice—it’s her.

All effortless elegance in a powder-blue silk suit that ends just above the knee, paired with a cream blouse that floats as she moves.

Heads turn. The clink of silverware pauses.

Conversations dip, just for a second. She moves with the calm confidence of someone who’s been stared at her whole life—and never minded.

She owns the room without trying.

I catch myself staring—at the way the silk of her suit catches the light, or maybe the curve of her neck—and force my shoulders back. Focus. This is business.

I rise and extend a hand. “Ellory, it’s great to meet you. I’m Matteo Marino—your lunch date.”

She offers a smile that’s all poise and quiet confidence. “Nice to finally meet you, Matteo.”

The hostess appears with two menus and leads us to our table.

If I’d taken the table earlier, we might’ve scored better real estate.

Still, I don’t mind where we land—it’s intimate enough that our knees nearly brush.

Her security detail settles in one table over, close enough to eavesdrop but far enough to pretend they aren’t.

“Feels like we need a table for four,” I joke, sliding into my seat.

She laughs, light and genuine. “They’re great guys, but I hate that they have to follow me everywhere these days.”

“I get it. I read about the blackmail thing. Scary stuff.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, that was wild. I didn’t even know about it until the FBI showed up.”

My brows lift. “And here I thought my brothers kept secrets.”

She leans in slightly, and her floral perfume drifts between us—soft, warm, and completely disarming. My gaze flicks down before I catch myself and bring it back to her face.

“I think my father’s worried I’ll walk away from the business,” she says.

For someone so confident, there’s a flicker of hesitation behind her eyes—like the stakes are higher than she’s letting on.

That takes me off guard. “Really? What would you do if you didn’t run Olivier?”

She lets out a laugh, rich and unbothered. “Read. All day. Curled up in some oversized chair with a stack of books and nowhere to be. That’s the dream.”

“But you like what you do.”

“Oh, I love it,” she says, flashing a grin. “And I’m damn good at it.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second.”

The server appears to take our drink order.

“I could go for a bourbon,” I say, half-joking, “but I’ve got work to finish this afternoon.”

“I won’t tell,” she replies with a smirk.

I shake my head. “I need all my wits about me if I’m going to hold my own with you.”

“You probably do. I’m a tricky one.” She flips open the menu. “You won’t see me splashed across the tabloids with a new girl every week.”

She glances up to see if I caught the slip.

I raise a brow.

“I meant... guy,” she says again, cheeks flushing the prettiest shade of pink.

“I’ll take an Arnold Palmer,” I tell the server, still watching her.

“Unsweetened iced tea. No lemon,” she adds.

My phone buzzes. I glance down—my building. Odd. But not urgent. They’ll leave a message.

I turn my attention back to the menu. The grilled trout looks like a safe bet. I haven’t seen the inside of a gym in over a week, so it’s time for some damage control. I fold the menu and set it neatly on the table—just as Ellory catches me watching her again.

She closes her menu in sync, eyes sparkling. “How are the stones coming out of your mine in Nevada?”

She’s talking about our family’s diamond mine near the northern border. “We’re doing well,” I say with a casual shrug. “Mostly selling to tool manufacturers—good margins in industrial. But with our recent success after Paris Fashion Week, we’re fielding a lot of interest for raw, uncut designs.”

She tilts her head, curious. “Weren’t those the same rough stones Felicity Ford used in her Fashion Week line?”

I nod. “Yeah. That was my brother’s idea. Smart move—he took flawed, inclusion-heavy stones and rebranded them as fashion-forward. Turned imperfections into elegance.”

Her smile curves with something close to mischief. She leans in slightly. “I was at the Paris show. I bought Night to Remember .”

My brows shoot up. Night to Remember was the showstopper. It’s a red silk gown with a brilliant diamond cinching the waist and twenty five-carat rough diamond buttons running down the back. It sold before the model even left the runway. No one knew who bought it—until now.

“You were the mystery buyer?” I blink, impressed. “That dress was unforgettable. You’ll have to give me a heads-up when you wear it—pretty sure my entire family would want to catch a glimpse. It’s an honor having it here in San Francisco.”

She smiles like she’s been waiting to drop this. “That’s actually part of why I wanted to meet. I took the dress to our design team, and they’ve sketched a capsule collection inspired by it. We’d love to collaborate—with you—to fabricate and produce the pieces.”

I sit up straighter. This just turned into more than a meet-and-greet. “I’m listening. What kind of partnership are you thinking?”

Before she can answer, my phone buzzes again. I ignore it. Not now.

The server reappears, ready for our orders. I go with the grilled trout. Ellory surprises me with the burger—loaded with pimento cheese.

I glance at her in mild shock. She grins.

“You look surprised,” she says.

“Just impressed,” I reply. “Not every day someone in heels and a silk suit orders a burger that bold.”

She laughs, carefree and full-bodied, and for a second, I imagine the path from her collarbone to the curve of her ear—and how good it would feel to trace it with my mouth. I shut the thought down. Focus.

“I couldn’t decide,” she says, shaking her head. “It was between the burger, the brisket, or the pastrami reuben. Burger won by a nose.”

“It was the truffle fries, wasn’t it?”

Her brow lifts, playful. “Guilty.”

“I respect that,” I say. “I’d love to eat like that, but these days I mostly sit at a desk and pretend I still have abs.”

“My trainer drags me out of bed at five a.m. It’s cruel and unusual, but it beats eating lettuce for every meal. I’m not a rabbit.”

“You’re clearly stronger than I am. Maybe you’ll inspire me.”

She takes a slow sip of her tea and sets the glass down with purpose. “You know we’ve met before.”

I blink. “I don’t think so. I’d remember.”

“Probably not,” she says, smiling. “I was fourteen. Stringy hair, braces, awkward as hell. You were friends with my cousin—Mike Sutton? We met at your high school graduation.”

I search my memory. Nothing.

“You were a little distracted,” she adds, lips curving. “There was a girl practically glued to your arm—her dress barely covered anything. Boobs for days.”

I laugh, full and unfiltered. “That sounds… accurate.”

She watches me, waiting.

“I do remember that girl,” I say, shaking my head. “Lost her to Peter Phillips the minute she found out he was going to Stanford.”

“Of course,” Ellory says, rolling her eyes. “Mr. Heisman turned NFL flop.”

“Total crash-and-burn,” I agree. “They say the Heisman’s a curse—huge spotlight, crushing expectations. Most guys buckle.”

She nods, lips curving with amusement.

“But I do remember you,” I add. “You weren’t that awkward.”

Her smile softens, a little skeptical. “I think you’re being very generous.”

I meet her gaze. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just seeing you clearly now.”

“Were you in my sister’s class at Convent Stuart Hall?” I ask, curious.

She shakes her head. “No, I was a year ahead.”

Her burger arrives stacked high, cheese oozing at the edges and a soft sheen of truffle oil coating the fries.

My trout looks too dainty by comparison—glistening skin, a whisper of lemon.

Our conversation shifts naturally to the people we knew in high school—where they landed, who stayed.

Not many did. San Francisco’s too expensive unless you’ve got old money or tech stock options.

Most of their parents have relocated—to Palm Springs, Hawaii, wherever the sun’s cheaper and taxes are kinder.

Ellory polishes off her entire burger and three-quarters of the fries before sliding the rest toward me. “There’s just something about truffle oil,” she says, licking a bit of salt from her finger. “It makes fries... stupid good.”

I spear one with my fork, still watching her. “They’re dangerous.”

She dabs her lips with her napkin, and I decide it’s time to shift gears.

“So, where are you sourcing your stones these days?” I ask, flashing my most practiced, easygoing smile.

She matches it. “Other than me, we have a diamond buyer—but he’s retiring soon.”

My pulse ticks up. Olivier doesn’t just dabble in diamonds—they move serious weight. Not accent pieces. Centerpieces.

“Are you planning to replace him?”

“It’s on the table,” she says, letting the words hang just long enough to make me lean in. “But we’re also reconsidering the entire approach to sourcing.”

That’s the door I’ve been hoping for.

“We could offer a fresh angle,” I say, keeping my tone light but intentional. “Our team would love the opportunity to present a selection tailored for Olivier’s next chapter.”

She tilts her head, studying me. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Not a yes. But definitely not a no.

With the pitch made, I relax. I didn’t expect to enjoy this lunch as much as I am.

It’s rare to feel this kind of ease—and attraction—with someone who also happens to be smart, sharp, and impossible to rattle.

She’s a rare mix of polished and unpretentious.

Beautiful without even trying. A dangerous combination.

My phone buzzes again. Another alert from my building. I glance down—missed calls, new voicemails, a string of texts. All from my doorman, Miguel.

The server drops off the check, and I slide my card into the leather folder before he can speak.

“I think this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” I say, meaning it. “We didn’t even get to the jewelry you’re designing around Night to Remember. Sounds like a perfect excuse to meet again.”

Ellory smiles, smooth and professional. “Reach out to Jasmine Crockett in my office. She’ll find us a time. I’ll bring the dress, and we can walk through design ideas and fabrication.”

I nod, keeping my own smile polite, even though I’d been hoping for something a little more... off-book. Most women I meet don’t hesitate to take things beyond the boardroom. But Ellory? She’s holding the line.

Challenge accepted.

I walk with her to the curb, watching as she slides into a sleek black Maserati Quattroporte. She gives a small wave and merges into traffic like a queen in her carriage.

The valet pulls up with my car. I climb in, phone still buzzing. I finally listen to one of the voicemails.

“Mr. Marino, it’s Miguel. You didn’t mention going out of town... There’s an emergency at the Celeste. We need you to come immediately.”

I roll my eyes. As if I wouldn’t recognize his voice. Or need reminding which building I own a condo in. But that one word—emergency—sticks.

I call back. It goes straight to voicemail.

“I’m not out of town, Miguel. I’ll head home shortly. Call a plumber or whatever needs to be done. I get home as soon as I can.”

No smoke in the air. No sirens. Hopefully not another burst pipe. The last one cost three floors in my building and a small fortune.

My phone buzzes again. Miguel.

This time, I answer. “Hey, Miguel. What’s going on?”

There’s noise in the background—raised voices, maybe kids? Definitely not the normal quiet hum of the Celeste’s lobby.

Mrs. Powell in 5D is going to love this.

“Mr. Marino, this is important,” Miguel repeats, breathless. “You need to come home. Right now.”

“What kind of emergency?”

He hesitates. “Ms. Bancroft is here. I have to go. Just—please, hurry.”

Ms. Bancroft?

I mentally scroll through every Bancroft I’ve ever met—corporate, social, personal—but come up blank.

Still, Miguel sounds rattled. And I’m officially intrigued.

I fire off a quick text to my brothers.

Me: Just had a fantastic meeting with Ellory Matisse. They’re losing their diamond buyer—and she was the one who bought Night to Remember. Wants to build a jewelry line around it. Huge potential. Emergency at the Celeste—heading home now. Will update.

Luca: No way about the dress! Dante’s going to lose his mind. Keep us posted—let’s brainstorm before your next meeting.

I pocket my phone and take off toward Pacific Heights, heart ticking faster than I’d like.

Emergency or not… I’m dying to know what the hell’s waiting for me at home.

When I pull up in front of the Celeste, Miguel spots me instantly. He practically deflates with relief and rushes to open my door.

“Oh, thank God,” he says, wringing his hands.

“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping into the lobby. “What’s with all the noise?”

Somewhere nearby, I hear the unmistakable babble of a baby—soft, high-pitched, possibly fussing—but no child in sight. Just Miguel, looking like he’s aged ten years in an hour.

“That,” he says grimly, motioning toward the noise, “that is the emergency.”

My brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

Without another word, he disappears around the corner and rolls back a baby stroller.

The stroller is sleek and black, clearly expensive, but it feels wildly out of place in the marble-and-glass lobby.

A tiny hand flails from the cocoon of blankets.

Then I see her—round cheeks, pink face, impossibly alert eyes.

Staring straight at me like she’s sizing me up.

Inside it is, in fact, a baby.

A real, live, wide-eyed, chubby-cheeked baby… staring right at me.

Miguel gestures helplessly at the stroller. “A woman dropped her off. Said you were expecting this. Left a diaper bag—bottles, formula, clothes. The whole kit.”

He glances around like he’s hoping someone else will magically appear to handle it. “Then she just… vanished. I didn’t know what to do.”

I stare at the baby.

She hiccups.

One sock-covered foot kicks lazily in the air.

I take a slow step forward, my brain struggling to compute.

I’m Matteo Marino. I sell diamonds. I drive a Bugatti.