Page 24

Atta stopped at a table showcasing a few random items up for silent bids.

Her table was next to it. She was auctioning a private performance.

My table was next to hers. Security was heavy.

Atta nodded to the lead guard, and he stepped away from my spot but not far.

He might as well have disappeared. Casanova stood behind me.

He was not budging from his spot as my knight, as Angelo was not moving from his spot behind Atta.

The line for the silent auction was long, and most of the patrons wanted a word with the artists who made the pieces they were bidding on.

“Look at her, Lyle! Isn’t she so pretty?

!” An older lady with her older husband said as she walked up to my table.

“The roses in her hair. Her bone structure! Look at those high cheek bones. So Mediterranean.” She smiled at me.

“In another life, I was a makeup artist.” She tittered.

“Did you really make that necklace?” She put a hand over her heart. “I must have it!”

Ty closed the line once it ended and then took the stage.

He read off the names of the winners.

My mouth fell to the floor when the winning bid was announced for the necklace.

Ten million dollars.

Although I had designed pieces that well surpassed that monetary value before, the money it took to design that specific piece was nowhere near the ending bid.

It came from my own pocket, so I knew the price of it was in the thousands.

I made a meager wage working for my family.

I lived in the family home, and I ate the food my family provided.

I was paid, but not a ton, compared to how many pieces I designed.

To afford to make the pieces I donated, I saved for an entire year.

My family refused to donate the elements to make them.

A fist slammed against the table when the winner’s name was announced.

“Mariano Fausti.”

The fist belonged to Clint Herndon. He was standing, eyeing Mariano with fire in his eyes. Mariano grinned at him and tipped his hat.

“Mine,” Mariano said in Italian, punching his chest, looking at me.

I could not even find it in myself to roll my eyes at him. No time. Ty announced that the auctioneer was about to start the live bidding session of the evening. Mariano was one of the men being bid on.

Bidding paddles with numbers on them sat on the table, each one in front of a woman. The auctioneer announced that in another life, he was a comedian, and he began the auction with a lame joke about the items being sold “as is.”

“No refunds!” He laughed into the speaker. Then he introduced the first man.

He barely got any paddles.

It was clear the auctioneer was adding to the men’s resumes.

He claimed one man climbed Mount Everest, and on the way down, he carried a wounded sheep on his shoulders.

Everyone was laughing, but it was not helping sales.

It seemed as if all the women were saving up for the spectacular ending—The Casanova Prince.

Which was what the auctioneer called him when it was his turn to go out on stage.

Mariano looked at me and tipped his hat.

This time, I rolled my eyes, especially when every woman in hearing distance sighed.

My eyes scanned the room.

Almost all the women had paddles, and each one was already reaching for it before the auctioneer read off Casanova’s list of attributes.

This time, his words were not embellished.

The auctioneer announced that the Casanova Prince had been a soccer (football) player for Italy until an injury had benched him.

I knew this, of course. I would never forget the image of Mariano kicking out at the ball, and the Internet making the photo viral because his…

ah…package could be made out through his silk shorts.

What did I not know?

Mariano was what the world called an “Italian Cowboy.” Buttero in Italian. He hailed from lands in Maremma, Tuscany, where the culture there with cattle was long standing, although mysterious. These butteri could be traced back to Etruscan times.

Atta looked at me and raised her eyebrows. At the same time, we both mouthed, “Calloused hands!”

What pulled the rug out from underneath me, and almost made me fall on my culo was when the auctioneer brought out a black guitar and handed it to Casanova. He took a seat, one light shining on him, and sang a country song solo.

What.

The.

…?

Atta was looking at me again.

Was I pale?

Most likely.

I had no idea I had been standing and then took a seat until hands started rising around me, silent bids being taken with the paddles.

It was clear to see who the winner was going to be.

A beautiful blond with a sharp haircut and sexy eyes.

She wore a black dress that did not hide her figure but was tastefully done.

Money.

It was clear to see she came from money, or she had it on her own. Especially when the bid was already up to two million and she was still at it.

She had a smirk on her face, as if she knew she was going to win.

Atta was not bidding, but she had a paddle. I snatched it and raised it a few seconds before the blond’s bid could win it all.

Win a date with mine .

What the hell am I thinking?!

I was not.

Pure instinct had taken over.

I even ignored Angelo’s rough laughter into his drink, and my cousin’s smirk.

Classy blond and I were engaged in a war with the paddles.

The lifts of her hand were getting more aggressive.

So were mine.

I had wiped the smirk off her face and replaced it with sweat on her brow. She had probably not done this much work in her entire life for anything.

When my hand went up again, she growled.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

Her hand went up.

I almost growled but did not want to give her the satisfaction.

My hand went up.

She went to lift her hand but stopped. It was as if a chain had shackled her, and it was rattling with the will to bid again, but perhaps she could not.

She gave me a glare that would have sent a lesser woman shaking in her boots, but I was raised with Capri Capella.

Not many women could intimidate me. Not when I lived with Intimidation Regina.

The auctioneer was counting down.

Going, going, going…

“ Sold !” He slapped his gavel down. “To the beautiful lady with the roses in her hair! You got yourself a mighty fine date here, ma’am! Be gentle with him, though. You look like the queen of breaking hearts. You’re a looker. Hahahahaha.”

The entire room seemed to release a bated breath, and then it exploded with applause. All but Classy Blond, who flung her paddle so hard on the table I heard it crack. She huffed and stormed toward the stage, where the auctioneer had to stop her from going toward Mariano.

His eyes were on mine.

Narrowed.

As if to say… Tell me again how you do not care about this—us. I challenge you to.

I rolled my eyes at him and turned to leave.

“Sis,” Atta said, reaching for me to stop.

It was not her but a much bigger body that did it.

Casanova.

I poked him in the chest. “You did not tell me you can sing! You are a buttero .” I poked him again. “This is why your hands are rough.” I flung the observation at him as if it was an accusation.

He took me by the hand and pulled me to a more secluded spot. A darker spot. Atta had taken the stage and had started to sing. I was going to slap her culo later for the song choice! She was singing about dirty looks.

“Tell me if it would have changed anything,” Casanova demanded.

“Yes!” I screamed. “No! I do not know!” I turned away from him, trying to catch my breath, and when he turned me toward him, it was as if the fire that had started between us had finally made it to the detonator.

He came for me, and I went for him, and our mouths crashed into each other’s at the same time.

He was much hotter than me. Scalding.

I melted.

Melted into his embrace.

Into the way his mouth was working mine, making me whimper small little noises of pleasure.

His lips were the softest thing about him, beside the color of his eyes, but at the same time, the kiss was firm, not sloppy.

His tongue was teasing mine. He tasted like mint and whiskey.

He tasted like everything I had been starving for my entire life.

I could not imagine ever wanting anything else but this.

Him.

Ahhh …my hands curled around the lapels of his tux, and I refused to let go. My knuckles were so tight, if anyone had tried to take him from me, I would have ripped the fabric of his expensive suit into shreds.

What started out crazed and hot turned into something deeper, warmer…something that could burn longer than the night.

The way he was holding me?

I knew it was a dare—if anyone tried to take me from him, he would rip them to shreds.

At first, I thought the room was applauding our kiss, and then I realized they were cheering for Atta.

Her first song had ended. With the roar of it, reality snuck in.

I was making out with the Casanova Prince.

And instead of him having my heart, it was the man who had earned the name.

Mariano Leone Fausti. He had my heart , and the realization made me feel as if I was having an anxiety attack.

The kiss had made me breathless. So did the reality that I had given into him.

I would have yanked myself away. Run away. But the way his massive hands held me so close, I could not move.

“Release me,” I whispered, setting my hands over my lips when I could find the strength to pull away. It was not a choice. I could not breathe.

“Never.” His voice was rough, just as affected as I was.

However, he gave me room to breathe, and in the clarity, I understood what he had truly meant. He would never let me go, even if he did give me a couple of inches to work out my feelings.

“I need to go home, Casanova,” I whispered.

He nodded, about to turn to get the keys from Remo, but he stopped when the auctioneer approached me. The moonlighting comedian reminded me of where I had to pay for my bid.

“How much?” I could not remember.

“Five million.” He whistled as if he was impressed.

I whistled as well, to a different tune. A panicked tune. I did not have five million dollars!

My eyes rose to Casanova’s, as if he was the first person I would go to with trouble.

Dannazione!

He was. I realized it in that moment.

If something went wrong…he would be the first person I called for.

He seemed to realize this as well.

I could tell by the look in his eyes. Satisfied.

Mariano lifted his hands when I narrowed my eyes at him, then took me by the hand as we followed the auctioneer to the area where the payments were being handled.

He made arrangements to pay fifteen million dollars—ten for the necklace, five for the date with him—as if it was nothing but change. He looked me over after he signed the paperwork.

“Worth every fucking penny,” he said, and with that, we left.