Chapter 12
Saffron
I hated how comfortable the plush seats of Tyler’s jet felt.
When I got the email, my immediate reaction was to reject the offer and pay for the trip out of pocket, but the shallow depth of that pocket made me reconsider.
Now I was sitting at one end of the plane while Tyler was on the other end with three of his employees huddled in an impromptu meeting.
Well, his assistant, a project manager, and his CFO were huddled while Tyler casually reclined in his seat as he listened to his subordinates, interjecting here and there.
From where I sat diagonally opposite him at the far end, his handsome side profile was all I could see.
It was beautiful. He could have been a successful male model if he weren’t so stinking rich.
As though he could sense my stare, Tyler’s gaze caught mine. I froze; my cheeks heated. He frowned as though he had caught a pervert leering. I turned to my laptop and pretended to be busy, but that didn’t fool him. My phone buzzed. A text message popped onto the screen.
Tyler the Asshole: Don’t you have better things to do than stare at me?
Me: Don’t you have better things to do than send me text messages?
At the front of the plane, Tyler chuckled as he stared at his message.
God, I hate him. I went back to work and tried to focus on that until we arrived in Italy.
The logistics manager had booked a room on the same floor as Tyler, much to my surprise.
I thought I would slum it with his lower subordinates, but it seemed the manager thought I was of a higher status.
Nice. I hoped Tyler seeing me enter a room next to his made his blood boil.
The following day was hectic on my end. I saw little of Tyler or his people most of the day, except early morning at breakfast. I was busy trying to get to the factory shop on time.
I’d never been to Florence before, even during my modeling days, so I had to get my bearings first. The factory was just on the outskirts of the city, and I made my way there, following the instructions the supplier gave me.
The pungent smell of leather processing greeted me, and I knew I had arrived. A short, burly man was waiting for me when I got out of the ridesharing cab.
“Miss Channing?” he said, holding out his hand.
“Antonio Caruso?”
He nodded and beamed. His firm handshake was so strong it drove the blood out of my hand.
“You don’t look like I thought,” he said in a gruff voice laced with a thick accent and led me to a small building that was a few yards away from the factory.
My heels crunched on the gravel, digging into the pebbles.
I should have worn flat shoes, but oh well.
“Gosh. What did you think I looked like?”
“Not a supermodel. You’re what do they say…sexy.”
I jerked back.
“Respectfully,” he added.
“Right…” I chuckled. Antonio was a flirty man, especially over the phone, though I was sure it was harmless.
We entered the small building. It was a well-organized showroom with leather strips lined around the walls.
Beyond it was an open door that led to a messy-looking office.
Antonio went to close the door of the office.
“You must have been surprised by our request for you to come in person, but you have to know that when we’re doing business with a first-time client, we prefer for them to see the material in person.
Especially when the order is as large as yours. ”
“I understand.”
He smiled and clapped his hands once. “Fantastico!”
I spent half the day at the factory. After I chose the leather fabric and stress texture I preferred, he took me to an even bigger showroom so I could see the already made furniture and how it was made.
He proudly described his work while I took pictures with my phone that I sent to Malaya.
Antonio was in the middle of explaining how they made the leather appear stressed as he brushed his hand on a tan leather couch when he paused, straightened to his full height, and brightened.
“Mr. Hawthorne!”
I peered over my shoulder to see Tyler striding into the showroom, his assistant and another Italian-looking man in overalls trailing behind him. I swallowed a groan. The mischievous glint in his eye was not comforting. He probably came here to taunt me. Or worse, sabotage my efforts.
Antonio tapped my shoulder, his gaze on Tyler as he passed me by on his way to the billionaire. “Mr. Hawthorne! What brings you here?”
I turned to see Tyler assume his signature casual stance of hands in pockets, slightly leaning back. “Wanted to see if my interior designer is not making a mess of things,” he said, his fiery gaze squarely focused on me.
“Ah! She works for you! No wonder she chose the best.”
“Works with,” I interjected. “I am a business partner, Antonio. I don’t work for him.”
Antonio chuckled and closed the distance back to me. “That’s even better. Does that mean you’re not beholden to him?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“Not in any other way than to put these sofas in his hotels. Among other things.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tyler’s jaw tick.
Tyler came to stand beside me. His hand slipped around my waist. My stomach wobbled at the sudden and unexpected embrace. “My wife likes to play games, Antonio. But rest assured, she’s mine in business and out.”