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“Oh?”
“He’s asked the Valentinos to tender as well.”
“You can’t be serious? Why the hell would he ask them?”
“You’ve seen their work lately? They’ve been busy in the high-rise space.”
“But they’re—he knows how we feel about them.”
“I suppose he can’t be seen to play favourites.”
“Damn it,” Dante ground out. “Well, that changes things.”
“It just makes me more determined,” Rocco drawled.
“Can you do it?”
He considered it. The appeal was huge, naturally. Unfortunately, he knew better than to stretch himself too thin. He was a perfectionist, and a lot was riding on the success of the Hampton’s development. “No.” Regret roughened the word. “I’m up to my eyeballs on this…situation. How about Salvatore and Sofia?” Rocco volunteered his brother, as well as Sofia. Though not strictly a Santoro, she was the goddaughter of his aunt and uncle, and had been raised like a sibling to Dante and his family. She was a newly qualified law graduate, smart as a whip, fiercely determined, and could be trusted implicitly.
“Perfect. You’ll let them know?”
“I’ll organize a meeting for tomorrow.”
“I’ll log in.”
Rocco disconnected the call, then strode towards the window that overlooked Fifth Avenue, hands on hips. The weather had begun to turn about a month ago, the sublime days of summer giving way to a steadily greying sky and a drop in temperatures, so it was no surprise to see a little snow swirling outside his window, this high up.
Before he knew it, it would be Christmas.
Cristo, he hoped he had this deal wrapped up by then. It had absorbed way too much of his life, and while he was a man who loved a challenge, the appeal of this challenge was starting to wear a little thin. The sooner he could get Maddison across the line, and in his rear vision mirror, the better.
“You!” The word was dripping with venom, and a hint of surprise. “What are you doing here?” She spoke as though he were an assassin.
It almost made him laugh, but the stakes were too high; fighting with her wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He needed to launch a full-scale charm offensive—and fortunately for Rocco, that was very much within his skillset. The woman could drive him crazy, but from this point on, he wouldn’t show that. He wouldn’t bite, he wouldn’t let her get under his skin. He’d smile when he wanted to snark, he’d win her over, even if it killed him.
He held a brown paper bag up. “I brought bagels.”
She arched a brow as though he’d shown her a handgun. “Bagels?”
“Lunch,” he prompted.
Maddie’s glance flicked beyond him, to the long grass that separated the houses from the sweep of the beach.
“Why would you bring lunch? I thought I made myself pretty clear last night. I don’t want to see you.”
“Si,” he bit back his first, acerbic reply. “But we both know putting your head in the sand about this will not solve anything. So, have lunch with me—and let me show you the plans.”
She paled. “I don’t need to see your plans. I can just imagine what you intend to do with this beautiful, sleepy street.” She gestured to the other houses, just across from the windswept, grass-covered dunes of the beach. It had been many months since the Santoro corporation had started making deals to acquire these houses, and in response to the sales, they’d gradually begun to empty and be let fall into disrepair. The house immediately to their left had broken windowpanes visible from the deck—not a great example of what she was intending to highlight.
“Would it kill you to take a look?” he challenged.
“Possibly.”
“Come on,” he imbued the words with teasing brevity. “Give me thirty minutes.”
Maddie arched a brow, lifted a hand to her hair, and tucked it behind her ear. Her hair had fascinated him last night; he’d never seen anyone with quite this shade of red. It reminded him of leaves in the Autumn, lustrous and rich, and the way it bounced when she spoke with passion—which she seemed to do frequently—only added to the sense it had a life of its own. Her eyes sparked with fire and vim, and her lips seemed permanently pouted. Oh, she meant it to be disapproving, but there was something about the stubborn set of her mouth that had begged to be kissed. Her skin had been like gossamer silk to touch—finer than a rose petal at dawn. These thoughts were not particularly helpful, however. Rocco forced himself to focus on his reason for being here, ignoring her hair, eyes, lips, and skin, and the fact—come to think of it—she was wearing a pair of skintight yoga pants that did nothing to hide the neat curves of her legs and bottom.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not going to leave until I agree?”
