She ducked back out and spoke quietly to the vendor, who laughed and filled her order. Two minutes later she was in the car and settled back in her seat, handing him a hot paper cup and something in a bag.

She shrugged as he continued to frown. “I get cranky if I don’t have coffee in the morning.” She shook her head. “And believe me, you won’t like me when I’m cranky.”

A caramel aroma was drifting over toward him and he watched as she pulled out a raspberry-covered donut, taking a large bite. “Best donuts in New York. Nowhere else comes close.”

She nudged him. “Go on. Try yours.”

Phoebe Gates was nothing like he’d expected. The last time he’d dealt with an interior designer she’d been all business suits, stiletto heels and clipboards. Her assistant had hung on her every word, constantly taking notes. She’d been abrupt, professional and aloof.

He stared down at the Americano in his hand. Just the way he liked it. And in the paper bag? A regular sugar donut. He hated icing and sprinkles nearly as much as he hated filled donuts.

He frowned. “How did you know?” he asked.

She swallowed her donut and took a sip of her coffee. “How did I know what?”

He held up his Americano and paper bag. “This. How did you know this?”

He was suspicious. People didn’t generally surprise him. It wasn’t as if she could have done an Internet search to find out what kind of coffee and donut he preferred.

She shrugged again and smiled. “I just know these things.” She grinned and tapped her nose. “Interior design. It’s all based on observation skills.”

Matteo narrowed his gaze. Maybe he’d made a mistake this morning, but by the time he’d reached call number eight he was reaching the desperate stage. In amongst the family feuds of Christmas, the one thing that his overextended Italian family had agreed on was that it was time to get rid of some of the family property. Matteo had agreed to take charge and he intended to get this over with as quickly as possible. He’d thought with the price tag he was offering any interior designer would snap his hand off for the job. Turned out he was wrong. Four of the designers he’d called were on holiday with only an answer-phone message saying calls wouldn’t be returning until the new year. Two had answered but refused due to family commitments. One was currently working in Washington. By the time he’d reached Phoebe he just wanted someone to say yes. But then she’d surprised him.

Matteo was used to doing business. He paid a price and a job got done. End of story. So he’d been a little surprised that Phoebe had insisted on seeing the property instead of just agreeing to the job straight away. This was time he really didn’t have to spare.

And it wasn’t that she seemed unprofessional—that was too harsh. It was just, she seemed so...relaxed.

He’d be paying her a quarter of a million dollars. Was it wrong to expect a little more deference? His insides cringed at the thought. Was he being archaic—or sexist even? In this day and age, neither would be acceptable and both could earn him a slap around the back of the head from his very feisty sister.

She nudged him. “Eat up, or I’ll start to think my instincts are off. Now, we’ve got a bit of time. Give me some history about the house.”

Matteo finally took a sip of the coffee. Surprisingly good for a street vendor. He opened his mouth to speak just as his phone rang. He glanced at the caller. Vittore. His brother. Doubtless this would be another fight.

The interruption clarified things in his mind. He turned to Phoebe. “I’m not going to give you any background information on the house.” He tried not to look amused. “Let’s just see what your instincts tell you.” He settled back against the seat as he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Vittore?”

* * *

She’d spent the last hour staring out the window at the passing view, desperately wanting to talk. But Mr. Bianchi appeared to conduct most of his business on his phone. Something she’d find depressing on a good day.

Right now, she could be in the middle of Macy’s searching for the best bargains.

Maybe the purple coat her mother had admired would be half-price. She could have bought that as a “getting better” present. She’d like to get her mom something to put a smile back on her face. It certainly would be better than spending an hour in forced silence.

The city view had changed rapidly to an even more snow-covered landscape. There was a reason the Hamptons was famous. The popular seaside resort was a historical summer colony on the south fork of Long Island. It featured some of the most luxurious and expensive real estate in all of New York and was regularly featured on TV shows and films.

Phoebe had visited here as a child and a teenager. She’d even spent a semester at the university campus out here and seen exactly how the other half could live. It was almost as if the whole atmosphere changed the further away from the city you got.

She loved New York. She loved the hustle and bustle, she loved the people and she definitely loved living in the city that never slept. But she’d also always loved the Hamptons. Sure, she might not have a billion-dollar bank account. But there was something about this place that made her heartbeat quicken as they passed through one village and hamlet after another. The space. The air. The views. And the houses.

The houses here were to die for.

Her stomach gave a little flip-flop as the road stretched ahead of them and they passed one palatial mansion after another. Each one was individual, styled a little differently from its neighbor. Some had been up for more than a hundred years. A few had appeared in the late eighties with a completely modern design that already looked dated.

Mansion spotting was a popular pastime in the Hamptons. A few house builders had obviously decided not to take part in the game and set their homes far back from the road. Phoebe wrinkled her nose. Those people had no sense of fun. What was the point in house spotting if you couldn’t even see it?

The car slowed a little and her eyes widened. She was familiar with the surroundings. Anyone who watched TV would be familiar with the surroundings. One of the streets around here was nicknamed Billionaires’ Row. Some of the most expensive homes in the US were here.

Phoebe leaned back in the seat and tried to catch her breath. Any minute now they would turn another corner in another direction. She shot a sideways glance at Matteo. He’d told her his home was in Southampton. But she hadn’t really thought he’d meant this street. Did people actually live here?

The car moved toward the oceanfront, glided through a set of wrought-iron gates, then snaked its way down a long driveway. Sitting in prime position on the oceanfront was one of the biggest houses Phoebe had ever seen.

She couldn’t breathe. She actually couldn’t breathe. By some miracle Matteo had managed to finish a call and put his phone away.

Please don’t let him expect me to be able to talk right now.

He seemed unfazed. He glanced upward—a look of indifference.

To a house like this? Really?

She tried to swallow as there was a little glint of yellow from the top of the house. A curve, covered in snow. Was that an atrium?

The question started to form on her lips then she glimpsed a flash of something else from Matteo. Distaste. Or dislike. She wasn’t quite sure which. Really? To a place like this?

Play it cool. The words kept repeating over and over in her head. She hadn’t been joking when she’d said she liked to see a property before deciding if she would take on a job. But she also liked a chance to meet the client. Interior designers sometimes worked alone. Getting a feel for a job and a client had given her a “Get out of Jail Free” card on a few occasions. Safety always came first and on the odd occasion something just didn’t feel right. It had been okay when Jason had been around. He’d always had her back. Clients had taken one look at the strapping ex-Navy pilot and any erroneous thoughts had vanished from their minds. At least that was the way it had always seemed.