Resisting the Sicilian Playboy
‘We don’t have time to chat. My team and I need to begin.’
As if on cue, a small army of women in black smocks appeared from behind one of the purple curtains. Dara caught a glimpse of row upon row of clothing racks before the curtain swung back into place, blocking her view.
‘Hold on a minute—what is all of this?’
She raised a hand to stop the pinstripe-wearing bully as he loomed near, measuring tape in hand. A tight knot of tension formed in her stomach as one of the women hung a silky red dress on a hook beside the mirror.
The Frenchman gave an impatient sigh. ‘We are here to style you, darling. Everything from hairpins to nail polish.’ He glanced down at her short practical nails and frowned.
Dara clenched her fists, a mixture of embarrassment and anger forcing her to bite her lip. How dared that arrogant Sicilian brute organise this little stunt? As though she was some sort of pauper, here to be dressed up like one of the beautiful people for the night.
Indignation bubbled in her chest and she grabbed her phone from her handbag, ready to launch into a verbal attack on a certain nightclub mogul, only to realize that she didn’t even have his phone number.
The memory of his face at lunchtime swam into her mind—that devilish smirk when she had shivered under his touch. He’d said he wasn’t playing games any more, but that had been a lie. This little manoeuvre was designed to throw her off balance, to put him back in control. He clearly didn’t like it that she was proving of practical use in tonight’s event.
Willing herself to calm down, she took a deep breath and looked back at the sultry red number mocking her from the corner of the room.
‘Did Signor Valente choose this gown for me?’ she asked in a deathly quiet whisper, watching with narrowed eyes as the blond man’s bravado faltered.
‘He picked it out himself this afternoon, mademoiselle.’ He stood up straight to emphasise his point. ‘It is one of a kind.’
Just like the man himself, she thought snidely. This was the same kind of stunt as the cocktail last night. No other man would be so obnoxious as to choose a gown for a woman he barely knew.
She walked across the room and ran her hand down the jewelled fabric. If Leo had sent her here to unsettle her...well, he had succeeded. The thought of wearing something so blatantly sexual was akin to tearing out her own fingernails. Dara did not do sexual—she didn’t even do sex any more.
For the first time in five years she felt once again as if she wasn’t good enough. As if she needed to change herself to fit the items on someone’s list. And that just wouldn’t do.
The blond man and his team of beauty assassins stood silently, watching her, hairbrushes and make-up wands like weapons in their utility belts.
She turned to face them, her eyes blazing with determination. ‘I will be choosing something for myself.’
The Frenchman shook his head. ‘Monsieur Valente has made his wishes very clear to my team.’
‘Tell me, honestly, does this dress look like something I could pull off?’ Dara gestured to the gown.
He turned his head to one side, examining her from head to toe with agonising intensity. ‘Truthfully, no. Your chest is too flat to wear such a low neckline. And the colour is far too rich for such a pale complexion. Nonetheless, I refuse to go against my client’s wishes.’
Dara ignored such blunt description of her flaws, crossing the room to stand in front of him, hands on her hips. ‘Let’s make one thing clear. I am your client. What will it do to your business if you send me out in such an ill-thought-out ensemble? It will be such a high-profile event too...’
She let her voice trail off and watched as his eyes widened with horror.
‘I’m glad we understand each other.’
She smiled with satisfaction as he turned to his team and began barking orders to bring more dresses.
* * *
Leo looked at his watch as the guests started to filter in for the champagne hour. He was beginning to think that Little Miss Proper had decided to chicken out. His limo had gone to collect her over an hour ago. Taking another sip of the whisky he’d been nursing, he passed his gaze lazily around the room that Dara and his team had spent the afternoon finalising.
His coveted glass water features now sat in each corner of the dance floor. The overall effect made the room seem wider and brought much more attention to the features themselves. Low sofas flanked the dance floor, now an ideal space for the younger celebrity scene. The open area of the club was filled with loud pumping music, and the dance floor glowed with sultry lighting, giving it an almost mystical appearance.