Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

E VEN THOUGH MADDIE HAD known what to expect, nothing could really have prepared her for the sight of Rocco Damned Santoro in the flesh. She'd known he'd be selfish, rude, self-obsessed, shallow—she'd googled the hell out of him the moment her grandfather had mentioned his offer to buy their home—but in person, he exuded all of those traits and more. There was such a confidence to him, an absolute arrogance, that set her teeth on edge and made her want to take him down a peg or two.

She watched from across the hotel bar, biding her time, as he flirted effortlessly with a stunning supermodel type, all long legs and flossy blonde hair pulled into an ‘I just got out of bed' bun. As Maddie watched, Rocco reached over and wiped the corner of the blonde's mouth, then lifted his thumb to his own lips and sucked on it. The blonde purred loudly enough for the bar to shake; Maddie rolled her eyes.

What a piece of work.

Just because he belonged to the Santoro family, he clearly thought he could swoop into their dull little part of the Hamptons and buy out the whole goddamned street. The plan? To demolish the row of old, slightly unkempt beach houses and replace them with a ubiquitous, lacking-in-character line of shops and luxury condominiums. The kind of thing that would suck the charm out of the area and make it indiscernible from any other seaside, monied part of the world.

Well, not if she had anything to say about it.

Maddie watched as the blonde leaned closer, whispered, then stood, sliding something across the tabletop—a room key—then sauntered off, all suggestive hip wobbles and pouty lips. As she strolled past Maddie, a cloud of floral perfume engulfed her, so Maddie coughed, and hoped her asthma wouldn't choose that moment to kick it up a notch.

She stood quickly, taking one last fortifying sip of her wine before she began to walk. Rocco reached for the room key as Maddie approached the table. Apparently, he was impatient for ‘dessert'. Well, too bad. He'd just have to wait a while longer.

As Maddie approached, her stomach felt strange, like she'd swallowed a whole batch of popping candy and it was having a field day in her organs.

This was a bad idea.

A really bad idea.

But then again, what choice did she have? She couldn't let her grandpa sell their home. It was their home . Oh, to Rocco Santoro it was just the last piece in the puzzle, the hold-out piece of real estate he needed to turn the sleepy street into a five-star shopping and dining precinct. What could someone like him understand about family and sentiment and the way walls could literally come to hold all of your childhood thoughts, feelings, fears, dreams, and aspirations? Maddie had known enough destruction and loss in her life to know when to fight for what mattered to you—and this was definitely one of those times.

"Can I help you?"

His accent was a strange mix of laid-back American and European, presumably Italian given his family's origins. His eyes were pure velvet. Black velvet, lined with thick, curling lashes, emphasized by his straight, dark brows. His nose was straight too, in that hyper-patrician way, it seemed to convey arrogance almost as neatly as his curved lips did. In his chin, there was a dimple that did nothing to distract from the geometrically square shape of his jawline.

Because of course, someone like Rocco Santoro couldn't just be filthy rich and famously successful in the business world. Of course, he also had to be drop-dead gorgeous. Why give someone just a handful of qualities when you could cram them full with all the tools to live a great life?

Maddie pulled on her handbag strap, momentarily cursing her own appearance in a way she hadn't really thought to since senior year, when all her friends developed curves and a sense of being a woman and Maddie was still pitching balls in the backyard until sundown.

"Hello?" Rocco lifted a single, dark hand into the air, waving it in front of Maddie's face, as if to wake her from a dream. "Are you okay?"

He wore a gold band on one finger, no other visible jewelry.

So? A voice in her head grumbled. What does that matter? You didn't come here to dissect his fashion choices or speculate on his accessories. This was business. Well, she corrected, for him this was business. For her, it was personal. Entirely personal.

She lifted a hand to her curly auburn hair, shoving it out of her eyes as she tilted her head and tried to flood her eyes with all of the hatred she'd built up for him over the last eight months.

"Rocco Santoro?" She stumbled a little on his first name—but that was his fault, too. Who had a name like Rocco, for God's sake? Rocco. Rocco. Strength. Vitality. Mystique.

She rolled her eyes, this time at herself.

"Guilty as charged," he grinned, flashing her a mega-watt smile. He flirted like most people breathed, apparently, even with someone like Maddie, who was nothing like the blonde glamazon currently waiting for him upstairs.

Her eyes dropped to the table, where the room key was sitting in front of his drink.

"I won't keep you long." Her tone reverberated with disapproval. Her golden eyes flicked to his with more of the same.

He arched a single brow, silently encouraging her to continue.

"I'm Maddie Young."

His eyes narrowed imperceptibly and for the briefest moment, she thought she saw the cogs turning. A glimpse of something more than the playboy cad he was embodying.

"Jack's granddaughter?" He reached for his drink—scotch, she guessed, from the colour and glass. "He's mentioned you."

That made Maddie's pulse throb and her insides twist. "He's mentioned you as well."

"I'm not surprised." Beneath the table, Rocco's foot tapped the edge of the barstool. Maddie ignored the tattoo, even when it was adding to the anxiety wrapping around her. "What can I do for you, Maddie?"

"I came to tell you to stop calling him. Stop writing to him. Stop pressuring him. He doesn't want to sell to you, and he never will."

For good measure, she crossed her arms over her chest, as if to emphasize that she meant business. Only his gaze dropped lower in response to the gesture, landing for the briefest moment on the modest curve of her cleavage, so she lost her train of thought.

"Is that so?"

To her chagrin, he stood. And any hope she'd held of him being short in stature evaporated—she would have liked to think of him extending no greater than five foot. Annoyingly, he easily towered at least six inches over her.

"Damn straight."

He lifted that same brow again but this time, it seemed to smirk at her. "I see."

"I doubt it." She couldn't keep the scathing condemnation from her tone. "Anyway," she fluttered her lashes at him. "Enjoy your night."

It was an almost perfect getaway. She'd said what she wanted to say, delivered it with confidence and aplomb and now she was leaving him, hopefully with his jaw gaping, to sashay out of the luxurious hotel bar without a backwards glance. At least, that's how it went in her mind. But Maddie was not someone who sashayed, and she was definitely not a ‘luxurious hotel' kind of person, and unlike Rocco Santoro, she was far from effortlessly chic. So, it shouldn't have surprised her that the moment she turned to leave him, a waiter should appear, having cleared another table then engaged in a direct collision course with Maddie. Or perhaps the collision course was all hers. It didn't matter; the effect was the same.

Seconds later, Maddie was wearing the remnants of a brightly coloured cocktail down her front, as well as a handful of chips, smeared in ketchup. Heat infused her cheeks, and she could only stare at the waiter—who stared right back. He was young—a teenager, she'd guess—and he looked mortified. "It was my fault," she quickly said, reaching a hand out to reassure him. The colour had left his cheeks; she was half afraid he'd pass out.

"It was my fault," he corrected, shaking his head. "I'm new. I didn't see you."

"I moved abruptly; you couldn't have." She knelt down to pick up the bowl of upended chips.

"Please, don't do that," he begged. "Running into a guest is bad enough, my manager will die if she sees you cleaning up."

"I ran into you," Maddie reminded him. "And I'm not a guest."

The young man closed his eyes, clearly mortified. Maddie took pity on him, ignoring the cold sensation against her chest as the cocktail made the wet shirt cling to her like a second skin. Another waiter appeared, whispering something to the young man before crouching down and commencing a cleanup. "We're so sorry, madam. Please, accept this complimentary pass for the hotel restaurant." The waiter, older by perhaps ten years than the guy she'd bumped into, handed a black card with gold writing to her. "And naturally, the hotel will pay for your dry-cleaning expenses."

"That won't be necessary." She ignored the card for the restaurant—she'd never been to this hotel in her life, and she had no plans of returning. "It wasn't his fault. I ran into him." And with that, she turned and left.

"Maddie." His voice was just as rich and commanding from a distance as it had been up close. She ignored it, striding across the foyer, pretending that the well-heeled guests weren't all turning to look at her. "Wait a moment."

She ground her teeth. "What for?" But she muttered it under her breath, with no intention of stopping to talk to the insufferable man, nor to let him see her humiliation.

"Because we aren't finished."

Intentions be damned. She whirled around, her face flushed, her eyes wide. "We? There is no ‘we'. You're just someone who's been harassing a sweet old man. You need to stop."

His brows furrowed. "You're upset."

"I'm—covered in someone's Vodka Sunset," she muttered.

"Yes." Again, his eyes dropped lower and this time, her whole body flooded with tingles. From the tips of her toes to her fingernails and everywhere in between. He was looking at the mess that was her shirt but just beneath the Jackson Pollock-esque arrangement of colour were her breasts and despite the fact they were nothing impressive, just having his gaze concentrated there was doing all sorts of things to her equilibrium, so she found it impossible to swallow. The tingling in her fingertips intensified, zipped back up her arms and focused in her bra, until her nipples were over-sensitive and taut. She practically groaned, because of course her body would betray her at a time like this. "Would you like to come up to my room and change?"

"Your room?" She stared at him as if he'd started speaking in a foreign language. "No. That's the last place I want to be."

"I have shirts."

"They'd be enormous on me."

"Better to swim in a shirt than be drenched in someone else's drink, right?" His brows knit together. "It's cold out there. You'll freeze."

"I'm going straight home." She tugged on her handbag strap as if to recommit to that plan. "Besides, your date is waiting."

"She'll wait," he waved a hand through the air, as if physically dismissing the other woman.

Maddie let out a low whistle, her disapproval obvious. "You really are a piece of work."

"With respect, you hardly know me."

"I know everything I need to know."

"Like I'm a real estate investor looking to pay above market rate for your elderly grandfather's house?" he demanded.

"It's our house," she snapped, then pressed her fingers to her temple.

"My apologies, his name is on the paperwork. Has there been a change I didn't know about?"

Her jaw dropped and she hated him then, with a violent passion. "Oh, go to hell."

She turned to leave but he moved quickly, catching up with her. "We got off to a bad start. You're angry and I'm—surprised," he said after a pause. "I wasn't expecting to meet you tonight."

"You weren't expecting to meet me ever. Your business plans seem to revolve around hoodwinking kindly senior citizens into handing over the keys to their homes and in the meantime, you assuage whatever conscience you might have by telling yourself you're paying more than they could get on the open market. You don't think about the true value of the house, the sentimental value, the history, the feel of the area. You don't think about the fact that for decades those houses have stood, side by side, like friends on the bluff, old and weathered, but no less beautiful for that. You don't think about—," She trailed off, because his eyes had dropped to her shirt again. "Would you stop staring at my breasts?"

His eyes widened. "I'm not. But you're shivering, the shirt is a mess, and I can't let you leave like this."

"You can't let me?" she huffed out.

"I can't let you."

"Who do you think you are to let me do anything?"

"I like your grandfather. I respect him. There's no way he'd want you striding out into the Manhattan night like that. So come up and get changed, and then you can go. Deal?"

"No, it's not a deal," she repeated, but he was right; she was freezing.

"I'll even let you hurl abuse at me through the bedroom door," he said with an impish grin, so her fingers itched to slap him. "If that makes you feel better?"

"It does, marginally," she repeated, her words overly saccharine.

"So?"

"Fine," she flicked her gaze towards the ceiling. "But only because it's cold out and I don't particular relish being a laughingstock because of you."

"Heaven forbid." He reached out and put a hand in the small of her back, but she jerked away from him, sending a fulminating glare in his direction.

"I'm sure it goes against all your instincts, but try not to touch me, Rocco. I'm not interested in you, and I'm sure as hell not going to be charmed by your ‘irresistible billionaire' act, so don't bother trying."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"I'm serious." She strode towards the elevator with Rocco right behind her, so she missed the moment he shrugged out of his jacket. She didn't miss the moment the soft, expensive wool wrapped around her shoulders, enveloping her in his subtle, masculine fragrance and a welcome sense of warmth. "If you think you can flirt your way into a property deal, then you clearly have no idea how dead set against this whole thing I am."

"I know how you feel," he said quietly, eyes scanning her face. "Your grandfather's explained."

Betrayal sliced through her and she sucked in a deep breath, grateful the lift whooshed open at that exact moment, because the idea of her grandfather having told this man how much the house meant to Maddie—and why—made her feel vulnerable and exposed in a way she hated. Not him. Not this guy.

"Has he?" The words emerged choked.

Rocco swiped the card against the control panel and the elevator whooshed upwards. His phone beeped audibly. In the reflection of the elevator doors, she watched him remove it from his pocket, read a text then put it away again.

"Your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

His tone lacked emotion.

"Lover? What exactly do you call the women you date?"

His lips smirked and, in the reflection, their eyes met, so her pulse ratcheted up uncomfortably.

"Why so interested?"

"I'm not," she said, surprised that it didn't quite ring true. "Okay, fine," she said with a lift of one shoulder. "I'm interested in how men like you operate."

"Men like me?"

"Men who think women exist for their personal entertainment. Who don't see the value in anyone or anything unless it's commercially sound."

"You sound pretty sure about the kind of man I am," he said, without giving anything away in his voice.

"You think I'd come to see you without doing my research first?"

"And? What does your research tell you?"

"That you've made an artform out of two things in your life." She whirled around to face him. "Changing women more often than you change underwear and destroying culture and heritage in the name of ‘progress' and profit. Honestly? You make me sick."

Had Maddie stepped towards him? Or had he stepped towards her? The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end when she realized they were literally toe to toe. "Do I?"

"Yes," she clung to that, and also to her anger. To the inviolable sense that she hated everything this man stood for. "You couldn't possibly understand that knocking down houses like these goes against everything that matters in life. You couldn't possibly understand the importance of history and nostalgia, the sense that?—,"

"That nothing should ever change?" he supplied, his lips tightening, a hint of anger in his eyes. Good! Inspiring him to anger felt good. No, it felt great. It felt like she was pushing him to be real, to feel something like what she'd been feeling since her grandfather had first told her about the property offer.

"Some change is inevitable," she contradicted. "But you seem pathologically unable to leave anything as a testament to the past. Movie theaters from the twenties, old art deco banks, that glorious apartment building in France you ripped down to build a steel office block?—,"

His lips tightened a little more. Power rushed to her head.

"I've done my research," she reminded him. "You tear down things of beauty and replace them with inanimate, modern monstrosities and expect to be lauded for it. Well, not by me, and not when I have a say in what happens to Honeybee Lane."

A muscle jerked in his jaw. "You can fight and fight and fight all you want, but you do realise that I'm going to win, don't you, Maddie?"

She stared up at him, her pulse making it hard to think straight, much less stand up. "You're wrong."

His smile was ice cold. "I'm never wrong, and I always win."

"You've never been up against someone like me before. You can't buy me, Rocco, and you can't buy my grandfather."

"Everyone has a price."

"Not me."

"I just haven't worked out what it is yet," he moved a little closer. "But I will, and then you'll be begging me to take the house off your hands."

"You are such an arrogant shit."

One side of his lip twisted in a mocking smirk. The doors pinged open, startling Maddie, who'd half-forgotten where they were.

"Yes," he agreed, as though she hadn't just hurled an insult at him. "You should probably think twice before making an enemy of me. I'm much more fun to be friends with, you know…"