Most…
He snorted. ‘The Sultan of Style’s a ridiculous title.’
There was that arched rise of her brow again. That intense look that speared right through him once more. Luckily he wasn’t so transparent with Simone that he couldn’t hide his greatest sins. She might know a lot about him, but she didn’t know it all and he’d do everything in his power to keep it that way.
‘But it’s good for business and the press loves it. They love you.’
Her hand moved on his shoulder, almost a clench. Some quarters of the press had been unfair and unkind when he and Simone had become engaged in their reported whirlwind romance.
Plain Jane Marries Sultan of Style!
That’s what one tabloid had printed and others soon followed. Unimaginative sheep, all of them.
It wasn’t that Simone didn’t have style. She had one which an uncharitable commentator he would never speak to again, had unfairly termed ‘Funeral Director Chic’.
Leo preferred to say she wasbusinesslike, with a minimalist aesthetic. Both were descriptions they’d tried seeding to the press but hadn’t caught on.
Yet it rankled, a bitter pill he railed against swallowing, especially since she’d politely refused most of his efforts to gift her designer fashion. Though she had accepted a vintage item for their engagement dinner, when he’d told her it was a thrifty choice. Still Simone didn’t seem to care about her appearance at all, or want to accept the offer of his credit card to facilitate some choices of her own.
What woman wouldn’t want to spend his money? Most others of his acquaintance had and he’d enjoyed sharing it around. He’d never forgotten the cold, hard life he’d come from on the streets, when a little softness might have made a difference. And whilst he didn’t care what was printed about him, leaving that to his PR department, he still couldn’t help wondering whether Simone wasn’t so circumspect about the criticism of her.
‘I meant what I said.’
‘You’ve said lots of things.’
‘About you, being beautiful.’
Whilst they didn’t havethatsort of relationship, Leo was still driven to repeat his praise. Something about her seemed to light up then, in a way he’d never seen before. Her grey eyes widening a fraction. Her gloss slicked lips, parting. She didn’t seem so disinterested now. His heart rate kicked a little higher, as if a world of possibilities had begun to crack open when there were really none, aside from a continuing professional relationship.
‘Soon, everyone will see what I can,’ Leo said.
It was a promise, and one he’d been working assiduously towards. The exclusive rights to their wedding had been sold to a popular lifestyle magazine with all proceeds donated to charity. They’d see what Simone usually hid. What he glimpsed in this moment. The way the ivory silk of her dress caressed her gentle curves. The fabric sinuous and almost alive as she moved. Her long golden hair not restrained in her usual bun or chignon, but swept back from her face by glittering combs. Tumbling over her shoulders in thick, glossy waves like a forties movie star. Add in the perfect lighting and a world-renowned photographer, and she’d finally be recognised for who she truly was.
Simone Zanetti. Hisbeautifulwife.
She looked up at him, with a whisper of pink flushing her cheeks.
‘I— Thank you, Leo.’
‘My pleasure,amore mio.’ Given a few guests had been invited to join them on the dance floor he’d tried the words of affection out for size, in the perfect timbre. Loud enough for the people dancing around them to hear. Soft enough to seem intimate.
They’d had no bridal party for their wedding. No one but each other. For him, because he had no family worth inviting. For Simone, it seemed her position was the same.
He was aware of her parents, as he had been with any employee who held a position of trust and importance in his company. She had a wealthy family in California. Her father was from the ivy league. Her mother, a famed socialite. Her brother was a corporate lawyer. She also had a younger sister, who hadn’t yet made her way in the world.
When Leo had suggested inviting them all to the wedding she’d refused, for her mother, father and brother at least, saying they were estranged. Her sister, who she’d admitted to him when their arrangement was settled had needed her help, remained a mystery. Something about her health. That was all Simone would say on the subject. His interest had been piqued because there might have been a similarity between them he’d been unaware of before. Although for that very reason he’d let further discussion slide. Simone was entitled to her secrets. Hell knew, he was keeping enough secrets of his own.
No one knew he was the son of Vito Silvestri. Leo would never give his father the satisfaction of acknowledging him in any way.
‘Amore mio? Isn’t that a little…unnecessary,’ Simone whispered, jolting him from his thoughts about the man who’d donated his genetic material to Leo’s life and nothing else.
Leo leaned forwards, his lips at her ear. What would the guests think? That they were having a tender moment? He hoped so.
‘Accept the endearment,’ he murmured, his cheek against hers. Simone’s breath hitched and something warm and potent slid in his belly like a shot of Grappa.
‘What should I call you, then?’
For so long she’d called him Mr Zanetti or Sir. When she finally used his first name, he’d liked the sound of it on her lips. Leonardo. Leo. The way she said it, as if she was savouring each syllable.
