Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I nod, and a companionable silence settles between us. Well. That’s out of the way. If I wasn’t already berating myself for having improper thoughts about Val, he’s just poured ice water over my brain.
“All right,” he says, standing. “I’m going to get to work. Thanks for listening.”
“Of course,” I tell him. “Thanks for not giving me food poisoning.”
He rolls his eyes and flips me off on his way out. “You buy bad fish one time . . .” he grumbles.
I buzz my assistant. “Send Matteo in when he gets here.”
A few minutes later, he appears in the doorway with a shit-eating grin.
“Are we debriefing about last night?” he asks. “Because I think I’ve got a shot with Val.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.” I shake my head. “Nico just left after giving me the talk about not screwing his sister. I’m sure that extends to you.”
“As if you had a chance with her,” he scoffs. “You barely spoke two words to her.”
“Focus, idiot,” I snap. “I need you to pull intel on this car.”
I slide the sedan photos across to him. He looks them over thoughtfully.
“It’s been circling our properties the last few days.”
“You think it’s Marchetti?” he asks.
“Could be.” I shrug. “Could be nothing. Your job to figure that out.”
“This better not just be busywork to keep me from Val,” he says, half-joking.
“Get out,” I groan.
5
VALENTINA
On Tuesday morning, I nearly pinch myself walking into the DeLuca building. It’s an impressive skyscraper downtown, and even stepping through the door makes me feel like I’ve won the client lottery. This is exactly the kind of account I’ve been dying to land. Even if Sebastian is notoriously hard to please.
That sounds dramatic, but I don’t think it’s unfair. He admitted as much at dinner. From what I’ve read about this gala, it’s wall-to-wall LA elite, and invitations are highly coveted. This would be the most exclusive and expensive event I’ve ever handled.
The security guard in the lobby swipes his pass to let me into the elevator, and I nearly hold my breath the whole ride up. When I reach the top floor, a kind-looking older woman is already standing there waiting for me.
“Ms. Moretti?” she asks with a polished smile.
“Yes.”
“Mr. DeLuca is expecting you.”
That probably shouldn’t sound ominous, but it does. Obviously he’s expecting me, since we set up this meeting three days ago. Even so, the idea of seeing Sebastian again, even in a professional capacity, makes my heart pound loudly in my ears.
I follow the woman down a short hallway and into a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows that cut across downtown Los Angeles in hard, bright lines. The whole room reeks of authority. A large desk takes up a good portion of the space, expensive leather chairs sit opposite it, and a leather couch flanks one side. There’s a conference table at the far end and artwork on the walls that probably costs more than my car. Most importantly, there’s zero clutter. Not a single thing out of place.
Sebastian doesn’t like mess. I file that away for later.
The man himself stands by the windows when I walk in with his jacket off, white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, and one hand in his pocket. He turns at the sound of the door, and I’m immediately off-kilter. As good as he looked at dinner the other night, he is beyond distracting with his sleeves pushed up like that. I hate that I notice.
“Valentina.” He greets me like it’s a formality.
“Sebastian.” I match his tone.
His assistant closes the door behind me, and suddenly the room feels impossibly small. He gestures toward the pristine conference table. “Sit.”
He really doesn’t mince words. His professional tone leaves a lot to be desired. I imagine he’s controlling in bed, too, and flush immediately at the thought. That is absolutely the last thing I should be thinking about before discussing the biggest event of my career.
I set my bag on the table, take the chair opposite his, and pull out my iPad.
“I appreciate that you get right to business,” I say carefully. “That will save us some time.”
He sits across from me, and I look up to find him watching me with open curiosity. I try to ignore the way it makes my heart skip.
He slides a folder my way. “This is what exists so far.”
I flip through the pages, skimming preliminary information that gives me almost nothing to work with. The bones are there, but there’s no real vision.
I look up. “Who put this together?”
“One of the women from development.”
“Ah,” I answer diplomatically.
His mouth shifts slightly. “That bad?”
“It’s not bad, exactly. It’s just thin. Less of a plan, more of a wish list.”
“That’s why you’re here.”
I uncap my pen and start sorting the papers into cleaner stacks.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s start from the top. What’s the actual purpose of the gala?”