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They had gotten the DeGradi contract, the deal was sealed, and they had one more evening in Italy before they left for home the following morning. Tonight, Rayner had every intention of letting loose with his business for the trip behind him.
He gave instructions to the driver on where to take them, and the car set off on its way to the hotel.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“There’s an exclusive nightclub in Central Rome. I haven’t been there the past few times I’ve visited, but it’s a great place to have a drink,” he explained.
“Mr. Rayner, the party animal,” she teased, hoping to keep his smile from fading for just a while longer.
He looked at her and his eyes were soft. “Call me Rogan, Farren.”
She wasn’t sure what it meant, if anything, that he was offering her such a gesture. It felt like a teacher who let his students call him by his first name. It made the relationship more personal, right or wrong. Maybe she was giving it more significance than there really was, she thought.
“Rogan,” she repeated, nodding with an unsure and timid smile.
They headed to the hotel to get changed into their evening-wear, but were stopped in the lobby by a clerk running the front desk.
“Miss Fields? There is a note here for you,” the young man said, pulling a small, sealed envelope from a drawer in front of him.
Confused, she looked at Rayner… Rogan… with an unspoken question. He shrugged, and led the way toward the counter where the young man handed her the note.
“Thank you,” she said to him, and she and Rogan walked to the elevator together.
Once inside the elevator, Rogan asked, “Aren’t you going to open it?”
She wasn’t sure why she felt nervous, almost guilty, but least of all, curious. She ran her fingers beneath the flap of the envelope and pulled out the note from within.
“It’s from Bartolo Bianchi,” she told him. “He’s asked to see me tonight before I leave tomorrow.
Rogan’s jaw clenched. “And what will you tell him?”
“I… don’t know.”
The remainder of the elevator ride was silent, the high of their earlier win seeming to have faded with the appearance of Bartolo’s note. When they got to Farren’s door, Rogan stopped.
“Come with me tonight,” he said. It wasn’t an order. It almost sounded, she thought, like a question. A request.
She turned from her door key and looked up into his eyes. He was only standing maybe two feet away from her, and she could almost feel the heat radiating from his body.
“Okay,” she breathed.
She watched a smile work its way across his face, reveal the small creases in the outer corners of his eyes.
“Okay.” He turned and strode to his room.
She slid her key card and went inside to find what to wear, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something felt different about Rayner tonight. Was it their triumph with the DeGradi deal? What else could it be? She wondered, and her thoughts came up empty.
He wanted her to spend the evening with him, to celebrate, to have drinks. Given the choice between spending her last night in Italy with either Bartolo Bianchi or Rogan Rayner, God, she wanted it to be Rogan. There was no question, except would her heart thank her or hate her for it later?
She was about to find out.
TWELVE
The nightclub was crowded for a weeknight, Farren thought. It was upscale, though, and she found herself in awe of the ritzy decor, the marble floors, and the crystal glasses they drank from. She could hardly complain about the music being so loud, because Rogan had to get really close to her to speak directly in her ear to be heard. The whole experience was intoxicating.
“Can I get you another drink?” Rogan asked, picking up her empty wine glass.
She considered for a moment, then agreed to one more. It would probably have to be her last, judging from the giddy feeling she already had. Could she really blame that solely on the wine, though? He left her standing at their small, round table that was just big enough for two people to occupy as he strode to the bar to order another round of their drinks.
