Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
Two months later
The numbing glide of alcohol was exactly what Emilio needed. He crossed his leg, ankle over knee, as he sat on a plush, scalloped couch in blue and gold. The striking vibrance of its colours dipped into near invisibility and back again as the lights overhead danced to the beat of blaring music.
The club, Boulevard, was situated on the top floor of one of New York’s most expensive hotels, and was highly exclusive. The guest list was notoriously hard to get on, with a months-long wait even for the few who made the cut.
Emilio’s name was always on it.
He took a sip from his rust-coloured drink, then placed his glass on the brushed gold table and dropped his head back against the back rest. The fragrant negroni ran a smooth hand over the knot of feelings within him he was trying to ignore.
That tightness in his chest that hadn’t eased in two months.
A woman had sat down next to him, uninvited, and was trying to chat.
He focussed instead on the hypnotising patterns drawn by the lights and the beat pulsing through his body, letting it submerge him and drown her out.
With a deep breath, he tried to let go of the stress of his day at De Luca and Co—and everything else.
The woman next to Emilio shifted. He felt it, but didn’t look. She might have been beautiful: he wouldn’t have known. He could hear none of her words and he didn’t care to. He didn’t care for anything about her. He had no intention of attracting company tonight.
He went to Boulevard so that he could drink in peace, enjoy the crush of bodies.
It was a place where, unlike in his daily life, no one expected anything of him except a good time—and that was only if he felt like it.
Often, he did. For just a night, he could indulge in his need for pleasure.
There were no emotions involved. It was pure carnal release.
Emilio had no interest in the risk emotions posed.
Not since Gia—his brother’s fiancée. He’d let his emotions get the better of him then, and that situation had been a disaster for everyone.
Sure, his feelings for her had been genuine, but in hindsight their decision to act on them had been impulsive.
Emilio had been young and hadn’t thought about what being with Gia would mean long-term.
He could see now that even the best-case scenario would have led to family strife; his being ostracised.
Of course, that had happened anyway.
‘It was a fantasy, Emilio. I deserve more. It’s over.’
He hadn’t been enough for Gia to choose to be with him when Enzo had left her. Emilio would never forget the words: deserve more . More than him, because he hadn’t been enough. He would have had to give her fame and fortune. Keep her in the spotlight, as Enzo had. Maybe more than that.
Now, when Emilio thought of the future, he couldn’t see himself growing old with anyone.
He didn’t see any possibility of having a family or a healing, nurturing love.
That wasn’t for him. All the evidence proved as much: Gia leaving; his father’s constant rejection.
There must be something about him that was inherently unlovable.
Perhaps that wasn’t fair. There was one person who loved him beyond all else— had loved him.
His heart constricted painfully at the thought of his mother.
She was dead. She had trusted him so much that she had left all that was hers to him—well, apart from the vineyards.
Those had always been meant to go to his brother.
Now there was no one left with a shred of affection for him.
So, no, there would be no love, no relationships. Those were off the menu for him. The one-night affairs were far simpler and safer. He risked nothing. His heart was barred, and yet he didn’t have to be alone either.
He picked up his glass, swirling around the alcohol, orange peel and ice as he watched the people on the dance floor.
He spotted more than a handful of famous faces among the heaving bodies.
He smiled inwardly at the many whose movements mimicked actions that he was certain they wished they could do elsewhere: a bedroom, maybe, if they even made it that far.
This was what he needed, this surge of energy and carnality—overwhelming, drowning.
This was his medication. It meant he never had to be alone with himself, with Emilio De Luca.
After all, who would want that? The only person he could think of was dead. The grief from losing his mother was choking. Boulevard was the one place he didn’t have to feel it.
Still toying with his glass, Emilio pulled himself from his swirling thoughts in time to see a woman cut a path to the bar with bouncing blonde curls in a devastating, blue sequin dress that reminded him of sparkling Mediterranean waters.
He couldn’t fully see her face, but he couldn’t look away either.
***
Jasmine held her head high as she made her way through the cavernous space of the glossy club.
Dancing bodies thronged around her, barely a hair’s breadth between them.
She couldn’t hear the clack of her four-inch heels on the shiny dance floor.
Her height meant that her head rose above most others, making her feel as if she were floating through the tide, taken by the current towards the bar.
There weren’t very many seats open, but she snagged one at the end beside the black mirrored wall.
Her long legs crossed, with stiletto sandals on her feet. Her dress, short and sparkling, with thin bands tracing around her neck. Her back, entirely exposed. It was the most daring thing Jasmine had ever worn. She turned away from her reflection and called the handsome bar tender over.
‘What will it be?’ he asked, leaning closer to hear her better.
‘A Pinot Gris, please.’
He nodded and moved away, giving Jasmine a chance to scope the crowd.
There wasn’t a single face she recognised—as planned—but there was one watching her, a man lounging on a scalloped couch.
His arm was draped along the back rest, and in his fingers dangled a drink.
As she stared, a spotlight flashed over him, giving her a proper glimpse.
Perfectly cut dark hair, a little long on top.
A fitted suit, his shirt button undone at the base of his throat. Neat, well put-together.
A civilised costume for a ravening beast. A flutter passed in the depths of Jasmine’s belly.
She consciously replaced the flutter with a flash of annoyance and turned back to find her wine had arrived. She didn’t want to feel a flutter after the way her day had gone. Jasmine reached for the glass then stopped, staring at her ring finger. Her bare finger.
God, this day was supposed to have gone so differently.
She was supposed to be wearing a diamond ring and a sparkling wedding band.
She was supposed to be here on the top floor of New York’s hottest hotel with her husband having a celebratory drink before they left on their honeymoon.
It was supposed to have been her wedding day.
If everything had gone to plan, she and Richard would have danced for hours here before getting on a plane destined for the Maldives.
But none of that had happened because her fiancé had run off with Zara, her maid of honour, just before Jasmine could walk down the aisle. Neither of them had even had the decency to tell her. Instead, they had snuck off and left a letter.
Jasmine scrunched her hand up in a fist, took a breath and let it out. It did little to quell her anger and hurt. She took a large sip of her wine instead.
How had it all gone so wrong? She’d had a plan.
One she had formed as a child, watching her single mother trying to make ends meet alone and still be everything Jasmine needed in a parent.
A plan she had stuck to, with hard work and determination.
She’d wanted to graduate by twenty-one, make management by twenty-six, be married by thirty and have a child at thirty-five.
That would have given her enough time to ensure the foundations of her life were solid before starting a family and she would have had the financial freedom to take care of her mother.
She was twenty-eight now, and had been ahead of her milestones—until today.
Today was a catastrophic failure. And now any future hopes of marriage and family had gone out of the window. By leaving her at the altar, Richard had definitively proven to her that she could not trust men, ever. No exceptions.
Her father had been the first to teach her that lesson, by walking out on her mother and her when she’d been five. Jasmine had been viciously independent and untrusting ever since. That was until Richard had come along.
‘You can try to push me away but I’m always going to stand by you, Jasmine. I’m not your father.’
Words like that had thawed her heart, brought her walls down.
But today he had shown her that she’d been right the first time.
And as for her maid of honour, her so-called best friend…
Well, Zara had just taken a sledgehammer to what little trust remained in Jasmine.
And, if she couldn’t trust, she couldn’t have a marriage, and no marriage meant no family.
She wouldn’t be a single parent like her mother had been.
Suddenly Zara’s teasing jokes made so much sense. ‘You’re so lucky to have Richard. I wish I’d found him first!’
Or Richard’s little comments. ‘Promise me you’ll always keep Zara around. She’s good for you. We all need a Zara in our lives.’
They hadn’t been well-meaning as she had first thought. They’d been a prelude to the infidelity she was enduring now.
God, what a mess!
An unexpected buzz startled Jasmine back to the club with its pounding music and flashing lights.
She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone.
It was another missed call from her mother.
She’d already tried several times. Even Richard had called twice.
Jasmine didn’t want to speak to anyone, especially not the man who had wrecked all her plans.
The man who had hurt her even more than her father had.
The man who had said she was too controlling. Stifling.
Well, she’d show him.
Tonight Jasmine was out to forget. Forget about her plans, her ruined wedding, the years of careful control, the betrayal…everything.
Tonight, she was letting her hair down.
***
There was something about the woman at the bar that called to Emilio.
That made her shine as if a spotlight had been cast only on her, despite the still-strobing lights of the club.
Emilio hadn’t gone out seeking company, but this woman blew straight through that.
He hadn’t been able to look away since she’d walked in.
She kept twirling a lock of her curly, blonde hair. Emilio’s hand itched with the need to feel it for himself. He watched her drink the last of her wine and place the glass down, drawing patterns in the condensation.
He could take it no more. On impulse, he drained what was left of his negroni and walked to the bar. Standing beside her, he silently hailed the bar tender.
‘A negroni for me and a wine for her.’
The barman nodded but a cleared throat made both men turn.
‘Excuse me?’ The woman cocked her brow. Emilio felt her appraising gaze rake over his body from head to toe and back.
Normally it was the kind of look that gave him satisfaction.
An indicator of exactly what was to come right after: no-strings sex.
This time he felt something else, his heart hammering at the sight of her: the perfect corkscrew curls that hung below her shoulders, framing a face that took his breath away; hazel eyes that were a nearly even mix of green and brown.
And that mouth… Full, pillowy lips that beckoned him closer.
When she licked them, he almost fell to his knees.
Emilio had seen beautiful women before, but he’d never reacted to them quite like this.
Then she spoke, breaking his reverie. ‘I’ll have a martini,’ she said, her eyes never leaving his.
Emilio smiled. He liked a challenge. And pleasure was always a welcome distraction.
‘You know, it’s a crime for a woman as beautiful as yourself to be drinking alone.’
She laughed, a vibrant and carefree sound that Emilio wanted to hear again. How long had it been since he’d had genuine laughter in his life? He couldn’t think of much to be happy about lately.
‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘No,’ Emilio replied, leaning his elbow on the bar, the picture of casual confidence. ‘I just told you the truth. I don’t need pick-up lines.’
‘You’re awfully sure of yourself,’ she said with a smile that was entirely contagious. Emilio could feel one spreading across his own face.
He shrugged in response, pleased to see her swivel on her stool to face him.
‘You look familiar,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure we’ve met.’
‘You don’t know who I am?’ Emilio asked, quietly hopeful that she didn’t and that she would still want to join him, nevertheless. Still want to choose him, even if he were just another person and not a De Luca.
Like Gia wanted?
‘I can’t say that I do,’ she replied.
‘Let’s keep it that way. You can just call me Emilio.’ He held out a hand.
‘Jasmine,’ she said, taking it.
Emilio brought her hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. ‘Nice to meet you, Jasmine.’
‘And you, Emilio.’
The way she said his name did something to him. Suddenly, he wanted to make this night last as long as possible. He wanted time to bask in this connection with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. ‘Would you care to join me at my table?’