Olivero's Outrageous Proposal

CHAPTER ONE

ALYSE HAD ALMOST given up on her plan, and was on the verge of deciding that the whole thing was a crazy, downright dangerous idea, when she saw him. She was actually thinking about leaving before this dazzling charity ball had really got started, suffering second and even third thoughts about the wild scheme she had come up with when the crowd before her parted slightly, forming a pathway that led straight from her to the tall, dark male on the opposite side of the room.

Her breath caught, and she knew that her eyes had widened even as she pushed back a fall of golden-blonde hair so as to see him better. He was...

‘Perfect...’

The word slipped past her lips, escaping her control and actually whispering into the overheated air.

The man on the far side of the room looked so different, alien almost. He stood out as vividly as a big black eagle in the middle of a bunch of glorious, sparkling peacocks. Of the same species but somehow totally unlike everyone else.

And that difference was what caught her eyes and held them, finding it impossible to look away. She even froze with her champagne flute halfway to her lips, unable to complete the movement.

He was stunning. There was no other word for it. Tall and strong with a lean, powerful physique encased in the sleek sophistication of formal clothes in a way that somehow made him look dangerously untamed in contrast to the elegant silk suit, the pristine white of his shirt. His tie had been tugged loose at some point by impatient, restless hands, and it now dangled limply around his throat where the top button of his shirt had been wrenched open too, as if he needed space to breathe. The fall of his black hair was worn longer than any other man’s there, like the mane of a powerful lion. High slashing cheekbones were etched above the lean stretch of his cheeks, long dark lashes concealing the burn of his eyes as he stared out across the room, the faint smile on his sensual mouth one of cold derision rather than any real sign of warmth.

And it was that that made him perfect. The faint but obvious sign that, like her, he didn’t quite belong here. Of course, she doubted that he’d been pushed out into the public world as she had. Her father had insisted that she come here tonight, when she’d much rather have stayed at home.

‘You need to get out after spending your days stuck in that poky little art gallery,’ he’d said.

‘I like my days in the gallery!’ Alyse had protested. It might not be the job in fine art she’d hoped for, but she earned her own money and, if nothing else, it gave her a break from the stresses at home when the demands of her mother’s illness seemed to throw a black cloud over everything.

‘But you’ll never meet anyone unless you socialise more.’

For ‘anyone’ read Marcus Kavanaugh, Alyse thought wryly. The man who had made her life hell recently with his unwanted attentions, his persistent visits and determination to persuade her to marry him. He’d even started turning up at the ‘poky little’ art gallery so that she had no peace from him. Then just recently, for some reason, Alyse’s father seemed to have decided that the marriage would be a match made in heaven.

‘He might be your boss’s son and heir, but he’s just not my type!’ she’d protested, but it was obvious that her father wasn’t listening. He wasn’t actually pressing her to accept Marcus’s proposal but, all the same, it was plain that he thought it was unlikely that she’d do better with anyone else.

In the end, exhausted by feeling harassed and oppressed, she’d resolved to come to the ball tonight and use the event as a way to break out of the predicament in which she found herself. Which was where the stranger across the room came in.

Of course, this man obviously wasn’t slightly out of his depth like her. His height, stature and the fine cut of his clothes were the match of anyone here, and his expression showed that he wouldn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him. Which gave him an added advantage as the necessary partner in what she had hoped for tonight.

Her partner in crime, as it were.

It was as that thought crossed her mind that it seemed it had reached out and touched the man opposite. Because he stirred as if something had alerted him. That leonine head swung round, and his eyes clashed with hers.

It seemed that in the moment her eyes met his the world suddenly tilted, lurching dizzily, so that she actually reached out a hand to press against the wall beside her and keep herself upright.

Danger.

The word seemed to flash wildly inside her head, making her bite her lip in a sort of a panic, but one that was mixed with excitement too. She’d wanted a way to put an end to Marcus’s over-persistent pursuit; it would be great if she could have a little fun as she did so. If fun was the way to describe the fizz this man put into her body.

She’d started slightly in that moment of fierce contact, jerking her glass so that drops of the pale sparkling liquid splashed out of it, landing on the rich blue silk of her dress and marking it with damp, spreading patches.

‘Oh, no!’

She had a tissue in her tiny silver clutch, but reaching for it with one hand while trying to balance the glass with the other only made things so much worse. The delicate stem of her glass flute was clutched between her fingers, the bag almost tumbling to the floor. Her desperate grab to stop it escaping made it slip dangerously in her grasp, slopping more wine onto the tops of her breasts exposed by the scooped neckline of her dress.

‘Allow me.’

It was a cool voice, calm and smooth as silk, powerfully soothing. Alyse had barely enough time to recognise that it was deep, masculine and beautifully accented before a pair of hands—long, strong, bronze-skinned—reached out and took the vulnerable glass, the silver clutch from her, depositing them on a nearby table. Then he snagged up an immaculate white napkin and shook it loose before pressing it against her waist, padding at the spill that stained her dress.

‘Th-thank you.’

The foolish weakness in her legs was still afflicting her, so she fought for the control she needed. But, in spite of her efforts, she still swayed awkwardly on the ridiculously high heels she was unused to wearing.

‘Steady.’

That voice was closer, almost in her ear. Or perhaps that had something to do with the way he had stopped mopping her dry and now that powerful hand had closed around her own, holding her upright.

‘Thank you.’

To her relief, her voice was stronger now, firmer, and she felt her balance return. She could stand upright at last, bring her head up, look him in the eye...

And almost lost all that hard-won stability when she looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, deep and clear and bright as a Mediterranean ocean in the sun at the height of the day.

The man who had been on the opposite side of the room now stood at her side, big and dark and disturbing. His tall frame blocked out the light, the sight of everyone else in the ballroom. The heat of his body seemed to reach out to enclose her, and the scent of his skin, mixed with some tangy cologne, was like a warm enchantment all around her so that inhaling it made her head spin in sensuous intoxication.

‘You.’

This time she had enough thought left to twist her hand from under his and grab at the strong arm that was near to her. She felt the hardness of bone, the power of muscles bunch and tighten under the silk suit and knew a rush of heat and flame that seared along her nerves, threatening to melt her strength away in the same moment that she rediscovered it.

‘Me...’ he confirmed, the uneven smile that accompanied the single word strangely ambiguous.

He took the napkin from the hand that still held hers, freeing it for use again.

‘Better get this dried off fast,’ he murmured, ‘before it ruins your dress completely.’

‘I—yes...’

What else was there to say? And who else to say it to? It seemed that they existed in a private, closed off bubble, a world of their own while the buzz of conversation went on around her unabated.

That proud dark head was bent, the brush of his waving hair soft against her cheek as he concentrated on the task of cleaning up the mess of wine. He was so close that she felt he must hear the unexpected thunder of her heart, see the way her breathing had sped up, bringing a rush of colour to her skin. That napkin was now moving over the edge of her neckline, crossing the point where blue silk met creamy flushed skin, stroking over the sheen of wine on the tops of her breasts.

It was soft, delicate almost, but in the same second it felt like an invasion, far too intimate for the moment and their surroundings. Too intimate from him.

‘I think that will do...’

She wanted to spin away, knocking his hands aside, so shaken by the effect his touch was having on her even through the folds of that starched linen napkin. But at the same time she wanted more of it. More of that touch and closer, nearer to skin.

So she pushed the response from her mouth, afraid that if she wasn’t careful she would replace the words with others. Ones that her primitive female instincts wanted her to throw at him, the words more and please hovering dangerously close to her tongue.

‘I’m fine now—thank you.’

‘Yes, I think you are.’

He was still so close that his warm breath stirred the blonde tendrils of her hair where they curled over her ear. But at least his hand had stopped that slow, caressing movement, and he had lifted it from her skin, bundling the napkin into a ball before dropping it back on to the table beside them.

‘So perhaps now we can start again.’

The beautifully accented voice had a smile in it, one that was echoed in the curve of his lips. But those deep blue eyes had a cooler, assessing expression in them that made her feel uncomfortably like some specimen laid out on a microscope slide.

‘Or, rather, start.’

He straightened up fully and it was only then that she realised just how tall he was, the way he had bent to his task disguising the long, lean frame that was approaching three inches taller than hers, even in the four-inch heels.

‘My name is Dario Olivero,’ he said, holding out a hand in a formal greeting that seemed ridiculous after that enclosed moment of heightened intimacy they had just shared. His voice sounded strangely rough, as if he was speaking from a dry throat.

‘Alyse Gregory...’

She followed his lead, her voice almost failing her as she slicked her tongue over suddenly parched lips in an attempt to moisten them, and watched his intent blue gaze drop to watch the betraying movement. She could have sworn that the corners of that beautifully shaped mouth curled up slightly in response and it seemed to her that it was the sort of smile that might appear on the face of a tiger when it realised that the deer it had its sights on was tremblingly aware of its presence.

But even that thought fled from her mind when he took her hand in his and held it, strong and warm and shockingly exciting. It was as if no one had ever held her hand before. At least not with this sizzling burn of contact, the shockwaves of heat that seemed to spread out from every tiny point of contact, burning along her nerves straight to the most feminine centre of her body. The sensations, the thoughts this created felt positively licentious, indecent in such a public place and with someone she had only just met.

They were also the sort of sensations she had never felt before. Never this fast, this strong, for a man who was almost a complete stranger.

But at least now she knew his name. And she’d heard of Dario Olivero of course. Who hadn’t? His vineyards and the superb award-winning wines they created were known the world over.

‘Alyse...’ he said, and his tone made her name into a very new and very sensual sound, curling the two syllables around his tongue and making them seem almost like a caress. But the look in his eyes still seemed to contradict the soothing sound. The clear dark blue had sharpened, focused strangely just for a moment, then his face relaxed again and he turned on a brief blinding smile.

* * *

Alyse Gregory. The name echoed round inside Dario’s head. So this was Lady Alyse Gregory. He had been told that she was to be at the ball—it was the only reason he had endured the boredom of the evening so far, though it had amused him to watch the other guests, see their false smiles, the air kisses that made no contact, meant nothing at all.

Way back, he would not even have been able to cross the threshold here, let alone mix with this titled and moneyed crowd. If he’d tried, he had no doubt that he would have been shown the door. The back door. A door he’d had plenty of experience of when he’d been in charge of deliveries for the Coretti winery, the place that had given him his first job and set him on the road to success.

Perhaps once he might have been given entry as Henry Kavanaugh’s bastard son, if his father had ever acknowledged him. Just the thought brought a sour taste into his mouth. If he had ever hoped for that then tonight the hope was completely erased from his mind. Tonight he was here, accepted, welcomed as himself. As Dario Olivero, owner of the hugely successful vineyards in Tuscany, exporter of the wines that the wealthy and powerful fought to have on their tables at events like this...

A man who had made his own fortune. And of course money talked.

But that wasn’t what had brought him here tonight. Instead he’d wanted to meet one woman—this woman.

‘Hello, Alyse Gregory.’ It took an effort to iron out the note in his voice that revealed the blend of satisfaction and surprise that flooded through him.

He’d expected her to be beautiful. Marcus certainly wouldn’t be seen at a huge social event like this with anyone who was less than supermodel material, even if she did have the title that both the Kavanaughs, father and son—legitimate son—believed to be so important.

But this Alyse Gregory was nothing like Marcus’s usual run of women. She was tall, blonde, beautiful—that much was true. But there was also something different about her. Something unexpected.

She was far less artificial than the sort of painted sticks Marcus liked to be photographed with. She had curves too—real curves, not the silicone-enhanced bosoms flaunted by Marcus’s last but one model of the year. Those moments spent mopping the wine from the creamy skin exposed by her neckline had set his pulse thundering, his trousers feeling uncomfortably tight. The scent of her body, blended with a richly floral perfume, had risen from her skin to enclose him in a scented cloud that made his senses spin. And the moment that a small, glistening drop had slid down into the shadowed valley between her breasts had dried his mouth to parchment so that he had had to swallow hard before he could give her his name.

He was on the verge of making a complete fool of himself, holding on to her fine, long-boned hand for so long. The smile that had come to her lips was wavering, and he could feel the tension in her fingers as if they were hovering