Contracted to the Italian Prince Page 2

  “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 audience 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…

  “I asked you a question, signorina. Please favor me with an answer.”

  Caroline blinked. Fabbiano was standing in front of her, staring at her like a disapproving schoolmaster. One of the girls giggled nervously as color flooded her cheeks.

  “Well,” she said, “I—e
r—I—”

  “Just nod and say yes,” Trish murmured from behind.

  Caroline did both. The designer’s brows drew together and then he gave her a grudging smile.

  “Exactly,” he said. As soon as he’d turned away, Trish slipped in beside her and Caroline angled her head to the other girl’s.

  “What did I just agree to?” she whispered.

  “The usual warning that we strain our brains and memorize the numbers of our gowns. I suppose he’s afraid he won’t be able to squeeze every lira out of the crowd unless we direct all questions to him personally.”

  Caroline nodded. That was fine. It might be part of her job to parade through the ballroom but she surely didn’t want to have to prattle facts and figures for what she was wearing now, a skintight concoction of bugle beads and sequins that probably cost more than she’d make for the entire year.

  The door to the ballroom opened. Music and laughter wafted out like an invisible cloud.

  “Ready,” Fabbiano said, and for just an instant Caroline felt a clutch of something that was very close to panic. What if the man was still here? What if she felt him watching her again?

  She gave herself a mental shake. What, indeed? She had a job to do, and no Italian Romeo suffering the effect of an overactive libido was going to keep her from doing it. She took a deep breath, smiled coolly, and sailed forward into the ballroom.

  The room was enormous. High, frescoed ceilings looked down on a marble floor worn smooth over the centuries. She caught a glimpse of crystal chandeliers and gilt-trimmed walls covered in faded damask, much like the walls at La Scala. Had the same architect who’d designed the opera house designed the Sala dell’Arte?

  She wasn’t going to find out tonight, Caroline thought with a little sigh. She was here to work, to wend her way among the clusters of people gathered around the groaning buffet tables, to smile like a wax mannequin and to stop when requested, to pirouette and offer the same answer to each question about her gown whether it dealt with size, color, fabric, price or availability.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” she kept saying, as if she were chanting a mantra. “Please direct your queries about gown number eighty-two to Fabbiano.”

  She could say it in English and in French, in Italian, Spanish and German; she could do a passable job in Japanese. She could probably say it in her sleep. She could—

  A hand reached out and caught hold of her arm. “What a terrible color,” the woman said irritably. Caroline offered a noncommittal smile. “Is it available in red?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” Caroline answered pleasantly. “Please direct your queries about—”

  “And that high neck in the front.” The woman stabbed a bony forefinger just below Caroline’s breasts. “Can it be lowered to here?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Please—”

  The woman turned away. “Honestly,” she said, “these girls sound like parrots!” Her companions laughed. “What can you expect? They’re paid to be pretty, not bright.”

  Color stained Caroline’s cheeks as she moved off. She would not do this again, she thought tightly, and the agency be damned! At least you could tune out the gawkers when you did catwalk modeling, but down here, wandering through the crowd, people treated you as if you were—

  “Hello, darling. How are you this evening?”

  A man was blocking her path, an Englishman by the sound of his upper-class drawl. Caroline smiled politely.

  “Fine, thank you. I’m wearing gown number eighty-two,” she said. “If you have any questions—”

  “Well, yes, I have.” He grinned, showing yellowing, too large teeth.

  Two other men crowded up beside him, grinning just as foolishly. “What’s your name, love?” one asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Caroline said pleasantly, “but—”

  “Come on, darling, all we’re asking is your name. Surely you could tell us that.”

  “I could,” she said sweetly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  The men laughed as she maneuvered past them with a fixed smile. She could see a couple of the other models standing near the buffet table, laughing as they accepted glasses of champagne from attentive gentlemen. Fabbiano would not mind if he saw the girls beginning to blend in with the guests. Orders came in just as easily that way as they did when you strolled around and worked the room as you were supposed to. Perhaps they came more easily. She had been at this long enough to know that, Caroline thought bitterly.

  “Sociability sells,” the head of the International Models office in Milan said at every opportunity.

  But Caroline had not hired on as a saleswoman, and she’d certainly not hired on to be sociable. She’d—

  An arm shot out and snaked around her wrist.

  “Here we are!” an American voice said happily. “The most provocative little number in the collection. Come here, cara, and let me get a closer look.”

  Caroline’s smile stiffened. The man holding her was short and chubby. He swayed a little as he breathed fumes of wine into her face.

  “Yessiree, that surely is somethin’, isn’t it?” he said. “Just take a look at those lines.”

  He was looking at her, not the gown, but Caroline pretended otherwise.

  “I’m wearing gown number eighty-two,” she said pleasantly. “Please direct your enquiries to—”

  “By golly, you’re an American, aren’t you?” He chuckled. “I should have known, darlin’. Only a genuine American long-stemmed beauty could move the way you do. That pretty blond hair, those big blue eyes—how’d you get eyes the same color as those sequins, honey?”

  Smiling, he ran a finger quickly down the curve of Caroline’s hip, then danced it around until it rested lightly against her thigh, just at the start of the slit that ran the length of the gown. When she flinched back, his arm tightened around her.

  “Come on, darlin’, hold still.” His eyes met hers. “Otherwise, how can I judge what I’m buyin’?”

  She felt herself flush, but she forced herself to show no other reaction.

  “That’s easy,” she said, her tone still pleasant. “Just ask Fabbiano about item number eighty-two. He’ll give you the details.”

  “Well, not all of them, darlin’.” He smiled. “For instance, I’ll bet he can’t tell me where you’d like us to go for supper.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Drinks, then. I’ll just bet modelin’ is thirsty work.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not thirsty, either.”

  His smile didn’t waver, but Caroline could see the sudden darkening of the pale eyes.

  “Now, darlin’, you want to be nice to old Eddie,” he said softly. “I don’t think you realize who I am.”

  A pig, she thought fiercely, that’s who you are. But she knew how to handle pigs. You didn’t run—that only made them eager for the chase. Instead, you looked straight into their eyes and made it clear that you had absolutely no desire to wallow in the mud with them.

  “You’re right,” she said quietly, “I don’t. And, what’s more, I don’t much care.”

  His smile diminished just a bit. “I’m a buyer, darlin’, and I’ve got a mighty fat checkbook. I can write this here Fabbiano a nice big order—if I like the merchandise.”

  “Tell that to Fabbiano, not to me. I wear it, he sells it.”

  The man grinned. “What is it, honey? Am I bein’ too subtle for you? I’m in a position to further your career if—”

  “Perhaps I’m the one who’s being too subtle,” Caroline said coldly. “The dress is all that’s for sale.”

  The little man squinted; the look in his eyes became furtive. “Come on, darlin’. You don’t really want Fabbiano to find out that one of his little girls cost him a whoppin’ big order.”

  Caroline’s palm tingled. One good slap across that sweating face, she thought, that was all it would take to send the little SOB reeling. She was taller than he by at least four inches, and, even though he outweighed her, it was all gut and no muscle.

  But the last thing she wanted to do was make a scene. This was humiliating enough without having an audience looking on.

  “Listen,” she said quietly, “if you just let go of me, I’ll forget this ever happened.

  “Forget?” His voice was creeping up the scale. Caroline looked around cautiously. A couple of faces had turned toward them, lips curled with anticipatory amusement. “Hell, darlin’,” he said, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to forget. I’m the one’s been insulted, the one’s been—”