Marrying My Billionaire Playboy by Jaclyn Hartley
Chapter 1
Antonio
She is like a magnet, a charmer.
She is quite pretentious, but in a sultry way.
“Ora, eccola, lei è quella che stai con il Mio Amico.”
Sergio's Italian was loud and clear, and I suspect that besides the two of us, no one else in the room would understand. He nudges me and winks, repeating his words in whispers.
“She is beautiful. And you get to stand with her by the altar, my friend.” I remain deadpan as we watch the woman in a red silk dress. The fabric accentuates her curves as she swings her hips. Her toenails, painted to match her dress, peek out of her heels. The endless waves of her hair bounce behind her back as she parades around the room. I watch her dash to the door as she wraps her hands around one of the bridesmaids. I suspect that she is the type of woman who waves to tons of people on the streets in recognition.
For a moment, her head dips to the side, and my eyes immediately stray to her nape; fair-skinned and slender. I imagine running my hands on it, parting the soft brunette curls with my breath…but just as it happens, she pushes those maddening waves to the front, shrouding the lovely view from my eyes.
I smile and silently agree with Sergio that she is a fascinating little lady. “If this is your attempt to match me with another woman, then you have failed again, Sergio. We are going to have a wedding, yes, but yours only.” I say dryly and turn away from her to keep my attention on my longtime friend. The soft sound of her giggles fills my ears, but I pretend to be unfazed by anything.
It almost feels like she does this to taunt me; she knows I have been watching, observing, waiting for her to walk up to me, part those cherry-colored lips, and say, ‘hello’ in that whispery voice that has welcomed everyone except me.
Sergio narrows his eyes at me before his roman features brighten with a look of excitement. “Here she comes. I'll leave you two now to get properly acquainted. I must find the coordinator so we can begin.” He looks over my shoulder, and a smile of mischief plays across his lips. “Be nice, Antonio.” He addresses me by my Italian -given- name and walks to meet the little lady.
I keep my back to them and face the full-length window that encircles the entire hall. I can see the wide span of green land below, the rolling mountains, and the hills of Tuscany. I can't decide if I missed this place, but I am confident that I never wished to return so soon. Sergio had succeeded in making me break a promise I made years ago. I am distraught that I have returned home, but Sergio’s bubbly, vibrant nature makes it hard to settle in a quiet and brood about the memories of misery this place holds for me.
The fact that I have returned home after having spent years trying to build my life from scratch in a foreign land or the prospect of meeting my father and his lovely wife who may or may not wish to see me. All these thoughts I tried to flush down the drain the moment my feet left Seattle. I had tried my best to stay sane when the flight attendant announced that we were safe in Italy. I would do anything to take back the hands of time. To return to business meetings, endless emails, phone calls, and reviewing proposals and company sheets.
“I haven't seen Grace. Will she be joining us today?” Her voice cuts through my thoughts. I dip my hands into my jean pocket and turn around to face her. Ella Miller, Sergio had called her. The little American lady is to serve as Grace’s maid of honor and my partner for the lineup. After all this, I'll probably hang Sergio’s flesh on a pike and feed him to vultures for making me go through this. I am not a fan of weddings, nor do I fantasize about wooing bridesmaids and getting drunk on wedding nights.
“Hello, Mr. Deluca?” She steps forward as rays of sunlight dance on her face. “I think we may be paired up for the wedding.” The corners of her lips turn upward but her eyes forever remain stony. I guess the feeling of distaste for the situation is mutual.
***
I am a man who gets what he wants, anytime he wants, and in whatever form. This need for power began with the urge to prove to my father that I could very much survive without his assistance. Over time, it became an obsession. As I dived into the world of business, I kept craving more. I wanted a taste of the best with everything, including women.
I care little for happily ever after, love, and all that other baggage that come with the commitment. In fact, they hold no value to me. But I do enjoy having a good time and I can say that Ella Miller has captured my interest, and I wish to see more of her before the show ends. “Hello, Ella. I didn’t realize you were in the room this whole time.” I choose to indulge her.
She raises her brow and bares her teeth a fraction as she sizes me up. With confidence, she stretches out her hand towards me and “Ella Miller. Nice to meet you, too.”
The boldness she possesses to lead the conversation impresses me. My eyes fall to her outstretched hand with long polished fingers, and I decide to keep up with my immature act just to taunt her a little longer. I want to know if I can get a reaction out of her. The reaction I was looking for took longer than I expected, but there it is, now I see it. She is getting jittery under my gaze.
I can see it from the way she digs her heels to the wooden floors and in the way she taps her free hand to her hips. I let her outstretched hand remain that way for a tad longer to discern her limits. I am certain she is like all those other women who get bored with their routine lives and drool over dark, mysterious men on the internet or in the magazines.
She squares her jaw and mutters something inaudible. After assessing her limits, I take her hand in mine. It is warm, soft, and smooth. A hunger inside of me that has long been buried away begins to stir. An undeniable sensation flows through us as I feel her palm with my thumb. She draws in a sharp breath and our stares collide in the tension of heat.
The sound of a clap coming from the far end of the room interrupts this moment between us, so we are able to regain our breath. I look over her shoulder to see that the wedding coordinator has arrived. A tall, lanky, French-looking male is strutting in our direction with a demeanor that commands everyone to gaze upon him.
Sergio welcomes him in into a warm embrace. Grace moves languidly behind her groom to be. They are a perfect contrast to each other. I’ll forever be in awe of them. How could two such extreme characters cope with each other for the rest of their lives?
Ella is watching me watch them. “Beautiful, isn't it?” she asks, gesturing toward Sergio and Grace.
“Yes…” I assault her again with my stares. “I can see that.” Once again, she gets uncomfortable and color rises to her cheeks so she looks away, claiming defeat immediately. I grin and walk past her, only halting for a second to motion her towards me “Shall we?” I ask, giving her my most dazzling smile. It works. She spits forbidden words and swings ahead of me with an elegance to her step. A mere act of displaying her sensuality? Perhaps.
Aw shit. I have to pause in my tracks while I try to regain control of my body. My first time in Italy after many years and I am about to get a raging hard on from watching a strange woman perform the basic act of walking. I finger the cuffs on my sleeves and take a deep breath, before continuing to follow behind my partner.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Allow me to assume that we all understand the reason we are here,” the rehearsal coordinator booms. He stands at the center of the circle dressed in a navy-blue jacket, a white shirt, and a satin blue scarf hanging around his neck.
Personally, I am not one to appreciate those bright colors. In fact, the only colors that attract my attention are black and gray. But for this occasion, I had decided to leave my comfort zone and go for something more exquisite—a checkered shirt rolled up at the sleeves, blue jeans, and brown boots. I can feel several sets of eyes piercing my skin and it's not just the women. I’m used to getting attention such as this.
“I am Shawn Descoteaux. Yes, I am that same Shawn, the one and only. Beverly Hills has got nothing on me. Hollywood, Bollywood…” he throws his fingers in the air as he speaks and rolls his eyeballs before adding, “Vegas.” He prances around and halts before Grace and Sergio. He smiles widely at Grace and kisses both sides of her cheeks. Then he proceeds to strut around the couple, adjusting their stances as he speaks. This is all becoming too intense with Shawn’s arrival.
“Vous nous rendrez fiers ce jour-là. You will make us proud. Beautiful Grace, we just need to discipline Sergio a bit. très spontané!” Shawn exclaims.
“Not all of us are French or Italian,” one of the groomsmen cut in and everyone in the room laughs.
“Ah, yes, the Englishman speaks for his people. I am delighted to collaborate with such fine men and women.” Shawn switches to a British accent without missing a beat. He dashes to the far end of the room and begins to point fingers.
“Now, we begin with the groomsmen at the altar and our lovely ladies walking in to grace us with their elegance!” The coordinator says in excitement. He claps loudly and starts pushing and pulling pairs to stand as he wishes.
Sergio is all smiles and charms while Grace plays the shy bride with rosy cheeks. I stand beside Sergio. Minutes later, we have more people joining us in the hall. I recognize Sergio’s father and mother as they arrive. They have the same bubbly nature as their only son. Hours later, two little girls dressed like the Powerpuff Girls run into the room with their mother cursing in Italian behind them. The crowd soon constituted of a dog, an old man who could barely stand for ten seconds, and a chubby lady that laughed heartily at almost everything Shawn said. She is greatly amused by our show, and I doubt she has anything to do with the wedding.
“She is Miss Scurry. Remember her?” Sergio sneers when we accidentally bump into each other.
“Ouch.” The memory of our crazy science teacher comes to mind. She is the same woman who whipped our buttocks in middle school for the mischief we created.
Sergio laughs, “Told you, this is gonna be fun, my friend.”
Man, I hope it is. I know that I am only here for Sergio. It's going to be a once-in-a-lifetime event for him, and the least I could do is play along. Now that I understand the drill I am committed to give an above-average performance before heading back to Seattle
Oh, and least I forget, here comes the bride and maid of honor. Ella avoids my eyes until she stands right before me. I can sense my effect on her though she is trying hard to mask it by focusing on the task at hand. Grace steps forward, taking Sergio’s hand as the coordinator takes the place of the priest. Everything happens in a haze because I have got myself distracted by the woman before me. She wills patience, waiting for the right time to pounce on me. As I say her name in mind, she glances at me quickly. My hands dig into my jean pocket, and I rock on my heels.
Perfect, this is indeed the end of time.