Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire

Atelier was a posh word for a workshop with a rather uncomfortable sitting room attached, she had discovered, as the designer measured every inch of her so he could prepare a toile, or pattern, from which any number of visions, as he called a frock, could be created.

Signor di Fivizzano might favour a particular style of gown, but she had made it clear from the off that if she didn’t feel comfortable she wouldn’t play the game. Plunging necklines and sausage skins were out. She didn’t care how exclusive the fabric might be, the shape had to be right for her. The designer had shuddered at her mention of sausages, but he had promised to supply her with a rail full of his visions to choose from. That had taken up a great deal of time and the event was closing in. There was no time to lose, and so she made the best of things, pinning a smile to her face as the hotel manager led her forward.

‘I’ll leave you now,’ Marco’s man said briskly, according her a small bow. ‘You’ll have half an hour to settle in, and then your assistants will arrive.’

‘My assistants?’

Too late! Having nodded briskly to the manager, Marco’s man was on his way.

The manager’s face was now a professional mask, devoid of all expression, but she had to wonder what he made of her in her one shabby dress—a sale rail number that had seemed a good idea at the time but which now, she realised, having just caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors in the lobby, made her look like a galleon in full sail. And as for the hideous pattern—

‘Signorina?’ he prompted with an almost balletic gesture. ‘No expense has been spared,’ he added approvingly as they waited for the elevator. ‘Three hairdressers will attend you in our best suite—on the top floor.’

Three hairdressers? Was she a three-headed hydra?

Snake charmers this way, she thought dryly as the steel doors slid open.

They exited the elevator into a lobby discreetly decorated in tones of cream, taupe and ivory, with just a hint of Caligula in the crumbling Roman busts that lined the walls on marble plinths. She didn’t need any more encouragement to shudder with a sense of impending doom.

‘Your people will be with you shortly,’ the manager announced, opening the door onto the suite with a flourish.

The suite was at least twice as big as her godmother’s house. Picture windows overlooked Rome—towering antiquity existing happily alongside modernity—and it was a stunning view, but her mind was full of Marco. She only had to look at herself in the mirror to know how out of place she would be at his function, and how quickly he would realise his mistake. It would take more than a team of beauticians to put this right—she’d need a miracle.

And there was another thing—what man would spend this sort of money on a woman without expecting more than small talk? Fantasies were fine, but reality was something else with a man so potent and virile he made Genghis Khan look like a drooping weed. And she had far more sense than to get hot and heavy with her boss. She wanted to keep this job—

She jumped at a knock on the door. Swinging it wide, she stood back as her team filed in.

‘Where is she?’ a man with a lavender quiff demanded, staring about.

She pressed back against the door, quailing beneath his scrutiny. She could only imagine the many faults he would find with her.

Narrowing his mascaraed eyes, lavender quiff stared at her. ‘Are you Signorina Rich?’ He couldn’t have sounded more horrified.

‘I’m afraid so.’ She smiled and jumped to attention.

Lavender quiff did not smile. Finely plucked brows rose at an improbable angle as he leaned in to examine her more closely. He almost, but not quite, managed not to groan.

‘Well. We’d better get started,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘I can see that I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘What exactly are your instructions?’ she asked, glancing around nervously as beauty professionals laid out what might be instruments of torture, for all she knew, along with an improbable quantity of make-up and scent.

Lavender quiff consulted his phone. ‘Do what you can with her,’ he intoned.

Marco clearly didn’t expect too much of her. No pressure, then, Cass concluded wryly as she resigned herself to her fate.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘AND THE GRAND REVEAL! Come on, sweetie, do try and put a good face on it,’ lavender quiff, whom Cass now knew was called Quentin, pleaded as he heaved a theatrical sigh. ‘The livelihoods of all these people depend upon you making a good impression at the party. And, believe me, they have definitely earned their money tonight.’