“Her name is Caroline Bishop. She is an American.”
Nicolo jumped as if he’d been singed. Gianni Antonini was standing beside him, head cocked, a sly grin on his too-soft face.
“Antonini.” Nicolo cleared his throat, forced his attention from the woman. “I thought I saw you in the crowd. How’ve you been?”
“I can introduce you, if you like.” Antonini’s grin widened. “I have a—what shall I call it?—a special friendship with one of her roommates.”
Nicolo’s expression was chill. “I am sure you have.”
The other man laughed softly. “She’ll be at the party, of course. All the girls will—it’s where they’ll make their best contacts. Would you like to meet her then?”
Nicolo swung toward him. “Why?” he said, almost pleasantly. “Do you get a cut, Antonini?”
“Nicolo, Nicolo. You try and insult me when I’m only being friendly. You know how these American girls are. So far from home…” He smiled and nodded toward the stage, where Caroline was just disappearing behind the curtains. “This one is more interesting than most. She plays hard to get—but anything can be had for a price.”
Nicolo’s mouth curled with distaste. “That would make the buyer as cheap as the seller,” he said flatly as he stepped away from the wall. “Arrivederci, Gianni.”
The soft sound of the other man’s laughter followed him as he stepped into the foyer. When the door swung shut after him, he breathed deeply, drawing the cool, unscented air deep into his lungs.
Damn! Why had he let Antonini get to him that way? Let the man do as he liked. It was none of his business. There’d been no need to behave like a fool. He’d been working hard lately. Too hard. Perhaps that would explain it, why he’d lost his composure with Antonini, why he’d reacted as he had to the woman.
He smiled tightly. Although a man didn’t need an explanation for that kind of attraction. The reasons for it were as old and as primal as mankind itself. Still, the incident had been upsetting. It was as if he’d had a sudden glimpse of a side of himself he didn’t know, a side that was dark and uncontrolled.
It was an uncomfortable realization.
After a moment, he took a cigar from his pocket, lit it with his gold Cartier lighter, and shifted it until it was clutched between his teeth. Music spilled from behind the closed doors as the moments passed. The cigar was half-finished when he shot back his cuff and looked at his watch. Good. The showing couldn’t last much longer, and then he could collect la Principessa and leave.
He smoked the cigar down to a stub, then ground it out. The music was changing, rising in volume, approaching what had to be a climax. The show must be ending, at last.
He took a deep breath, marched to the doors, and flung them open. Yes. The audience was rising to its feet, applauding and cheering, as the models tugged a smiling Fabbiano on stage.
Nicolo shouldered his way through the crowd toward the Princess. She looked up when he reached her, her eyes glittering.
“You missed it all, Nicolo,” she said. She crooked her finger at him, and he bent down until her lips were at his ear. “The clothes were terrible,” she whispered. “You cannot imagine!”
He laughed. “But I can, darling.”
“No,” she said positively, “you cannot. Even she—what they dressed her in was so—so orrenda…”
He laughed again and followed the old woman’s pointing finger. “Who?” he said. “Who did they dress in something so dreadful…?”
The laughter, and the words, caught in his throat. There she was again, standing on stage with the others, that same cool, removed look on her beautiful face. The red silk dress had been exchanged for a slender column of midnight blue sequins that caught the light and spun it back in dizzying rainbows of color.
His eyes slipped over her. The gown was long, seemingly demure—but when she shifted her weight, he caught a flash of her thigh, and when she turned—God, when she turned, he could see the length of her naked spine…
“Nicolo, Nicolo?”
He swallowed hard and tore his eyes from the girl. “Yes, Nonna?”
The old woman clutched his arm and rose slowly to her feet. “That, at least, is more becoming. Still, it is not what she should wear, not with that face. Am I right?”
“I’m sure you are,” he said distractedly.
“Amazing that she should be here, no?”
He shot a last, quick glance at the girl before turning back to the Princess.
“Forgive me Nonna. Who are you talking about?”
“Arianna,” she said impatiently.
Nicolo stared at her. “Arianna?” he said slowly.
The old woman made a face. “Don’t look at me that way,” she said, “as if I’d suddenly become senile.”
“Darling Nonna,” he said gently, “Arianna is not here. She hasn’t been in Italy for a long time. You know that.”
The Princess touched her tongue to her lips. “Of course I do,” she said. “I only meant that the coincidence is amazing.” She nodded toward the stage, where Fabbiano was taking bows. “Don’t you see? It’s incredible how much she resembles Arianna.”
A cold fist clamped around his heart. There was no need to ask her who she meant. He knew, instantly; his gaze went to the girl who had so intrigued him and he was only amazed he had not seen it right away.
Yes. Of course. The resemblance was there, not so much in looks but in the way she held herself, the way she looked out at the world with that little smile that dared anyone to try and touch her, he thought, remembering. There would be a greater resemblance, too, one not just of demeanor but of morals—or their lack.
“Nico?” His grandmother took his arm. “We must meet her.”
“No,” he said sharply. He drew a breath, forced himself to smile. “No,” he said, more gently, “I don’t think it wise, darling. It’s late, and your doctors would want you to get your rest.”
“And you know what I would say to them! Nicolo, please, it will only take a moment.”
A roar went up from the crowd. The velvet curtains had dropped over the stage, and someone had thrown open the doors that separated this room from the next. Crystal chandeliers glittered brightly above a marble floor; a quartet of musicians played music—real music, Nicolo thought, incongruously, not the brain-frying stuff they’d played during the fashion show. Serving tables, set with white damask, delicate stemware, and hors d’oeuvres, beckoned.
“Nicolo?”
He looked down. His grandmother was clutching his arm, smiling at him with an almost girlish pleasure.
“We will not go near her, if you prefer. But it is so long since I went to a party,” she whispered. “Please, Nico. One little glass of wine—just five minutes—and we’ll leave. Yes?”
The crowd surged forward. Nicolo sighed.
“Five minutes,” he said, “and not a second more. Capisce?”
La Principessa laughed softly. “Of course,” she said, and, with sudden surprising firmness in her step, she moved toward the ballroom.
CHAPTER TWO
CAROLINE stepped back quickly as the heavy velvet curtain descended. She was always eager for her turn on the catwalk to be over but tonight she breathed an audible sigh of relief as the show ended.
Something had gone wrong. Perhaps that was overstating what had happened out there, but, for the first time in months, she’d suddenly felt at the mercy of the audience, aware of every whisper, every stare.
“Ladies, ladies! We must not keep our guests waiting.”
Caroline glanced up. Fabbiano was standing off to the side, his arm raised like a parade marshal’s as he directed the models off stage. His eyes met Caroline’s and he gave a fussy toss of his head.
“Do you hear me, signorina? Hurry, please!”
The ballroom, she thought. That was where he was herding them, and it was the last place she felt like going, especially now. It had been a long time since the mental barrier between herself and the watching a
udience had been broken…
“Remember, please, ladies. Smile and be pleasant, make your way through the ballroom so everyone can see you.”
…and it was definitely the first time she’d become aware of one person in that audience, one watching pair of eyes…
“Heads up, stomachs in, spines straight. The hair, the face, all perfect. Capisce?”
…and it had been disconcerting. Very. Like—like being watched, like having her privacy violated. She’d fought the sensation as long as she could and then she’d done something she’d never done before, she’d deliberately looked into the sea of faces, looked unerringly to the rear of the crowded room…
“You! Comb your hair, per favore. Signorina. The skirt. Over there! Is this a funeral or a party? Smile. Smile!”
…and found a man watching her, his eyes fixed to her face with blatant sexuality.
There was nothing new about that. Men had been assessing her hungrily for years, ever since she’d turned sixteen and changed from an awkward, gangly teenager to a tall, curvaceous young woman. Caroline had never grown used to it but she had learned to ignore it, even here, in Italy, where admiring a woman openly seemed almost a national pastime.
What was different was that there had been something else mixed in with the raw hunger blazing in his eyes. It was anger, she’d thought suddenly, anger as sharp and cruel as the blade of a knife, as if he’d held her responsible for the desire so clearly etched into his arrogant, handsome face…