The Italian Proposal. Maisey Yates

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      “The cost of doing business.”

      “So it seems.” She sighed. “You know, I’m not putting myself through this just because I feel some sort of sense of entitlement—like I deserve it because I’m my father’s daughter.” It seemed important somehow that she tell him the details to make sure he understood what she’d accomplished and why she felt the way she did. She shouldn’t care what he thought, but even as she reminded herself of that, she did care. “Four years ago Chapman’s nearly declared bankruptcy. I identified a flaw in the system and helped my father rework the way products were shipped. It shaved four points off the cost and brought the company back into the black. I proved myself. I saved the company. My family’s company. And still he’d rather let your corporation absorb what he built up from nothing than give it to me. All because I’m a woman. Do you see why I feel the way I do?”

      “If everything goes according to plan, you should be getting exactly what you’re entitled to.” Truth be told, Marco wasn’t the most modern guy. He was of the opinion that in general women should stay home and take care of their kids. But he could understand why she wanted to claim what was rightfully hers. It was a feeling he understood very well.

      “Well, Miss Chapman.” He took her hand and pulled her from her sitting position. “I believe you and I have a date.”

      * * *

      “I’ll just pop in and change. You can wait in the living room.” Almost as soon as Elaine closed the front door to her apartment someone knocked on it. She opened it to a woman with spiky pink hair and a man whose eyebrows were more immaculately groomed than her own. “Can I help you?”

      “I’m not sure how to say this tactfully, so I won’t bother. You need some help if you’re going to look believable as my fiancée,” Marco said from behind her.

      Elaine stared blankly at him, the realization of what his statement meant slowly dawning. “You’re giving me a makeover?”

      “I’m not; they are.” He gestured to the two people still standing at the threshold.

      Her ears were burning. A makeover! “I’m not your dress-up doll, De Luca. You can’t just mandate things like this!”

      He sighed in exasperation. Why was he exasperated? She was pretty sure she ought to have the market on exasperation cornered at that moment.

      “Why bother to fight me on this? You need it—trust me—and I’m going to get my way, so you might as well sit your cute little butt down.”

      She gave an indignant squeak and stood facing him with her mouth open.

      “What? No snappy comeback?” he mocked. “I think I should notify the press.”

      She could not remember ever being so angry before. He was taking control from her bit by bit, and there was nothing that threw her off more than losing control.

      She gave him a look that would have cowed most men. Leave it to her to get engaged to the one man who didn’t seem to find her the least bit intimidating. “The measure of a woman is not her looks.”

      “Very nice sentiment. It’s also patently untrue.”

      “It is not!” Great. Now he had reduced her to petty playground tactics.

      “It most certainly is. And the same is true for a man. If you dress the part you’ll be more likely to get the part. If I showed up at a board meeting in swimming trunks I wouldn’t be taken seriously, and your feeble, stereotyped sense of style is hardly going to earn you any respect.”

      Neither had dressing feminine, but she certainly wasn’t going to get into that with him. “Be that as it may,” she said crisply, “I’m not here to play trophy wife.”

      He continued to smile for the benefit of the stylists, who were busy pretending to ignore the fight. She wasn’t fooled by the grin frozen on his face. It had hardened, and his jaw shifted, the muscles in his shoulders bunched tight. “You’re here to be whatever I ask you to be. And if I ask you to be my trophy then that’s what you’ll be. We do both want this marriage, don’t we…cara mia?” The threat was implicit.

      Icy fingers wrapped around her heart. She couldn’t lose this deal. She had worked too hard. And she certainly wasn’t going to lose it over something as trivial as a hair-trim and a little lipgloss.

      She sat in the chair that was moved for her, keeping her face carefully neutral.

      The petite hairdresser talked animatedly while she worked, waving her scissors every now and then to emphasize her point. She put a row of foils on the top of Elaine’s hair, turning it a lighter, less brassy shade, and cut six inches off the length, bringing it up so that it just skimmed her collarbone, and added long layers to give it body and movement.

      The man, Giorgio, was there for make-up and, Elaine wasn’t terribly surprised to hear, eyebrow waxing. Her face was scrubbed and peeled and waxed and finally painted.

      Giorgio stepped back and examined her like an artist looking at his masterpiece.

      “I’m brilliant,” he said as he handed her a mirror.

      She barely recognized the woman looking back at her. She had fun, modern hair that looked full and healthy. Her face glowed, probably from the gold powder that Giorgio had brushed all over it, and her eyes looked larger and brighter with the expertly applied eyeshadow and her newly shaped brows. She hated so much to admit that it was an improvement. But it was.

      Marco took her by the hand and pulled her up out of the chair, and dropped a light kiss on the tips of her fingers. Her legs wobbled.

      “You look beautiful.”

      A new knock on her door broke the moment, and Elaine wrenched her hand from his. “I assume you know who that is too?”

      He nodded, and walked to the door and opened it, taking a garment bag and tipping whoever it was that had made the delivery. “Your dress for dinner.”

      He placed the hanger in her hand, and she stared at it. He was changing everything about her, from her hair to her wardrobe, in order to make her look like his type. Either that or he was just trying to drive her insane.

      She opened her mouth to offer up a sour comment, but the frosty look in his deep chocolate eyes stopped her cold. This was her end of the bargain—the part she had to keep in order to get what she wanted. She swallowed the comeback and went to her room, making her footsteps heavier than necessary, and unzipped the garment bag, revealing a filmy golden-brown dress with beaded spaghetti straps.

      It fit her perfectly. Too perfectly. The gown clung to her curves like a second skin, showcasing her small waist and full bust, and revealing a little too much cleavage for her comfort.

      Marco hadn’t even asked her size. He’d guessed. If there was a more potent reminder of just how much of a womanizer he was, she couldn’t think of it. And what was even worse was that she had a sneaking suspicion that the boiling feeling she got in her tummy when she thought about him with other women just might be jealousy. Which was a completely futile road to walk down. Men like Marco De Luca could have, and did have, any woman they wanted. And women like her were not exactly the women that men like him wanted.

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