Beddable Billionaire. Alexx Andria

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       CHAPTER TWO

      Nico

      “NICE TO MEET YOU, Mr. Donato. Lauren Hughes, Luxe magazine.”

      The tall brunette thrust her hand toward me as if she were a man—strong, no-nonsense, obligatory—her deep brown eyes the only feature worth noting if I were to go off first impressions.

      The handshake lasted all of two seconds, no lingering, and then she was sitting primly at the farthest point on the sofa in my living room, recorder in hand, expression blandly expectant, as if preparing to mentally vacate as soon as I started talking.

      “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hughes,” I said, my gaze quickly taking in the shape-swallowing shift dress that completely obscured her figure and the functional flats that finished off the wretched ensemble. I think my maid dressed better than this woman. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too heavy.”

      “Dealing with traffic is just one of those things you get used to when you live in New York,” she said with a brief smile. The look in her eyes told me she wasn’t one for small talk, which suited me fine because I hated it, too—but I was definitely not quite sure what to make of this stiff-as-a-board reporter.

      Definitely not what I was expecting, and I was fucking disappointed. Where was the hot chick in the curve-hugging pencil skirt, glasses sitting demurely on the bridge of her nose, hair upswept in a delicate yet artfully messy bun? Not sitting on my sofa, that’s for sure.

      “Have you always been a New Yorker?” she asked with a direct stare. No makeup that I could tell. Not even a hint of mascara to brighten up her eyes. A pity. Those dark eyes with a little assistance might even be pretty. “My editor tells me that your family is from Italy, originally.”

      “Yes, so the legend says,” I answered, trying for a little wry humor. When she didn’t so much as offer a polite chuckle, I cleared my throat and followed with, “Tuscany, actually, but we’ve been in New York for two generations now. Our Italian roots are fairly weak at this point. All I inherited from my Italian ancestors is a love of fine women, wine and pasta.”

      “Ah.”

      “Your skin tone is beautiful. Are you Latina?” Was she Latina? Or perhaps Native American? Maybe even Creole?

      “A hodgepodge of nationalities,” she answered, adjusting herself on the sofa. “Just lucked out in the skin department, I guess. So, tell me, how does it feel to be named one of New York’s most eligible bachelors?”

      “Well, you know the saying, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about,” I said with a wink. “But it should be interesting to see what crawls out of the woodwork once the magazine hits the stands. I’m always down for an adventure.”

      “If you’re not interested in finding love, you could’ve turned down the interview,” she said, again with that brief smile that I was beginning to suspect was patronizing. “I’m sure we could’ve found someone who was more aligned with the purpose of the spread.”

      “Who said I’m not looking for love?”

      “Well, I mean, it was kind of implied by your earlier statement. To call the women who might be interested as things that ‘crawl out of the woodwork’ sounds insulting, don’t you think?”

      Annoyance threatened to color my tone as I admitted, “That was a poor choice of words. Maybe I’m more embarrassed by the attention than I like to let on. The truth is, I’ve never considered myself interesting enough for an entire magazine spread, and СКАЧАТЬ