However, the woman he’d met in Paris over fashion week a few months ago unusually returned often in his thoughts. Not introducing himself to play a mysterious romantic game had been stupid, in hindsight.
The driver got behind the wheel and looked back at Gio with a nod. “Good morning, sir.”
“Morning. House of Morgan headquarters.” Saying that out loud was surreal.
The driver turned toward the road. “Yes, sir.”
A moment later, the limo was heading into Miami. Gio took out the contract he had printed out and stared once again at the logo of The House of Morgan.
His father’s logo was his way of saying “family.” Despite Mitch, or maybe because of him, he’d chosen it as his own label years ago for that reason.
Last year, when he saw that someone else, someone he’d been told was dead, used the same name he used on his menswear but for dresses, he’d sued.
His clothing line was his own and no one else’s. Now he was here and the offer was at hand. And part of him understood. His half-sister had probably picked the name and logo for the same reasons he’d chosen them. But, he’d been first.
The limo stopped in front of a high-rise building. He stuffed the papers back in his briefcase and headed inside to the lobby. The House of Morgan logo shone in bright gold on the black marble wall behind the desk.
Even the swish of the M was too much likehisemblem. And the logo was all their father’s.
If the merger deal worked out, no one would ever know there was friction within the House of Morgan as the world already thought the two half-siblings were a team.
His father’s words that family never fights with family replayed in his mind and grated on his nerves. He’d never even met these siblings which made teaming up sound impossible.
Gio was here almost to spite Mitch’s memories. His father would never have wanted him to speak with the legitimate heirs to his fortune.
Another piece of him wanted to hate the Americans for stepping into his world and assume he’d roll over.
Mitch had hated Gio’s fashion interests and never supported the arts. There was no reason to think his half-sister wasn’t just looking to incorporate and steal his own passion with her slight interests.
Either way, it was time to meet his half-sibling and the star of their father’s children. The night of her party in Paris, he’d spied from a distance without introducing himself. Gio smiled at the receptionist. “I’m here to meet with Victoria Morgan.”
A stunning Hispanic woman in a pink and gold skirt with a gold cardigan strode from a side office to the front desk and held out her hand. “I’m Caro Morgan. This way.”
He shook the hand of the female fashion designer and vaguely remembered meeting her briefly that same night in Paris. When a friend of a friend had invited him to crash he hadn’t been able to resist a chance to study his half-sister. It was why he hadn’t told the beautiful woman his name.
Gio wondered if the goddess he’d spent the night with worked here too?
Not sharing names had been one of his stupid ideas that he’d hated in the morning. If he’d gotten her name, he’d at least have a way to track her down again.
The scent of her floral perfume haunted him.
Caro walked him through an office and right, toward a conference room that had a half glass wall showing a marble table and black leather seats. Gio scanned the office and looked for his lost goddess, but of course she wasn’t there. Caro had no idea his thoughts as she said, “She’ll be right with you. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”
Focus. If the contract was acceptable to both him and Victoria, then he might work with this young woman who had married one of his half-brothers and he needed to make a good impression. He met the woman’s gaze and murmured, “Sounds lovely,signora.”
She gave him a wide smile as she said, “Caro, please.”
He tipped his head and nodded. “Of course. I’m Gio.”
The door flew open and the goddess of his memories walked right into his reality. Tight black curls coiled to her shoulders, a light purple dress went to her calves covered with a long crocheted purple sweater hiding her gorgeous curves. She stared at him in shocked surprise. “Caro… I…”
“Kiwi?” Caro asked.
Ah—information fell into place. His mysterious goddess was Kiwi Washington, the shoe designer.
In Paris, she’d said her show was a success—how modest on her part as his own customers now came in expecting his suits to be paired with men’s shoes too.
She crossed her arms, her brown eyes wide, like she’d seen a ghost—there was no sign of the passion from that night. She took an audible breath and asked, “What are you doing here?”