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CHAPTER ONE
CAROLINE concentrated on a spot on the wall while Fabbiano, kneeling on the floor beside her, whisked a needle and thread through the hem of the scarlet silk dress that clung to her like a second skin.
“My best creation,” he muttered to the coterie of assistants clustered anxiously around him, “and see what has happened to it!”
Their eyes shifted to her accusingly, as if the hem’s collapse were her fault.
“Turn,” the designer commanded, jabbing her in the leg with a pudgy hand. “Quickly, quickly, signorina. Now, stand still.”
The needle snicked in and out of the fabric, and then he leaned back on his heels, scowling.
“Carlo. The chalk.”
An assistant stepped briskly forward and slapped a stick of yellow chalk into Fabbiano’s outstretched hand.
“Pins.”
Another slap. Caroline’s lips quivered. She had a sudden vision of the designer’s rotund form draped in green surgical scrubs. Surely next someone would step up and wipe his brow.
“Scissors.”
The little man’s hand shot out again and Caroline quickly raised her eyes to the ceiling. Don’t smile, she told herself sternly. Think of something else. Think of how surprised the well-heeled audience beyond the velvet curtain would be if it could see what was going on back here, the last-minute mayhem that came of packing a dozen models and heaven only knew how many assistants, hairdressers, make-up people, and general, all-purpose “gofers” into the cramped space that lay backstage at the Sala dell’Arte.
No. That was the wrong thing to think about. It only reminded her of how she and Trish had hooted with laughter when they’d seen the engraved invitations that had gone out in three languages for this evening’s showing.
“‘The Hall of the Arts’,” Trish had read in her flat Midwestern twang. “‘What locale could be better suited for the unveiling of Fabbiano’s stunning Fall Collection on behalf of the Children’s Aid Fund?’”
“The local pescheria?” Caroline had suggested with an innocent bat of her long lashes, and the roommates had dissolved in giggles.
“I agree,” Trish had said when they’d stopped laughing. “The fish market would be just the right setting for Fabbiano’s designs, but no one’s going to say so.”
“Especially when he’s been cagey enough to tie the showing to a charity affair,” Caroline had added with a sigh. “All he’ll get is praise. I’ll bet there won’t be an empty seat in the house.”
There wasn’t. One of the models had peeked at the audience from behind the heavy velvet curtains that draped the stage and reported breathlessly that every spindly-legged gilt chair in the crowded hall was taken.
“Wait until you see who’s here,” she’d whispered excitedly, then reeled off a dizzying list of names that had drawn oohs and aahs.
Even Caroline, who wasn’t much into such things, had recognized some of them. Usually, Fabbiano’s showings drew people very much like his designs, those who were all glitz and no substance. But tonight there was a fair sprinkling of media people and others, those with money and titles, what Trish teasingly called old blood.
“Signorina. Signorina, are you deaf?”
Caroline looked down. Fabbiano, still on his knees, was glaring up at her, his hands on his hips. “I ask you to turn in a circle, please. You must hurry, if we are to finish. It is almost showtime.”
Well, that was honest, anyway. Showtime was certainly what this was. When Caroline had signed a year’s contract with International Models, it had been because she’d wanted to learn everything she could about the fashion business. A year in Milan, Italy’s great fashion center, had sounded close to perfect—at least, that was how the woman who’d interviewed her at International Models had made it sound.
“You’ll work with the finest talents in the business,” she’d said earnestly, “you’ll make oodles of money, and you’ll return to the States at the top of your profession.”
Caroline hadn’t cared much about that last part. Modeling was only a step on the road to a career in design. But earning enough to pay for design courses at Pratt or at the Fashion Institute in New York had been more than appealing, and working with people in the business had been the clincher. She had, in her naïveté or her stupidity—she was never sure which—imagined herself standing at the elbow of a Valentino or an Armani, learning to drape soft wools, to design things that had classical beauty.
It had seemed a dream come true.
And that was the trouble, she thought wryly. It had been exactly that—a dream. Reality had turned out to be something quite different. Oh, she liked Milan. The city was a spirited blend of the old world and the new. In the same hour, you could gaze on the incredible beauty of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper and stroll the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, Europe’s oldest, most elegant shopping mall. And always, on a clear day, you could look up and see the magnificent, snow-capped Alps.
But not one of the agency’s promises had come true. Caroline modeled not for Valentino but for Fabbiano and designers like him, whose careers would last only fractionally longer than the lives of fruit flies, whose successes were dependent not on talent but on flash and dash. As for the money she’d planned on saving—how could she? The agency took half her pay before she ever saw it, some of it in commissions for her bookings, the rest to pay her share of the rent on the miserable apartment she shared with Trish and two other girls.
But worst of all was finding that she disliked fashion-show modeling. Camera work was one thing, but she felt incredibly vulnerable shimmying in a trendy, often skimpy outfit while pop music blasted and people stared. It was, she knew, a stupid way to feel. She was a model; people looked at models. They were supposed to. It was just that she couldn’t help seeing beyond those stares, to the envy of the women and the coldly calculating sexual avarice of the men.
Eventually, she’d found a way to endure her moments spent on stage. The trick was to turn off the instant you stepped on the catwalk. Not to make eye contact with anyone in the audience. Not to think about the silly outfits you were wearing or the paint slathered on your face or hair that had been whipped and frothed into a lion’s mane.
Instead, you held your head high and let a glazed look mask your eyes. You moved to the music in a way that the show demanded. And all the time you weren’t really there, you were somewhere else entirely, and the funniest part of it was that you ended up looking like a pro, like a model who lived for these moments in the public eye.
“D’accordo!”
Caroline started, then looked down again. Fabbiano was rising creakily to his feet, all smiles now that the crisis was over. Beaming, he clasp
ed her shoulders and pressed kisses into the air on either side of her face.
“It is done,” he announced. “You, signorina, are superb. Almost as beautiful as the dress you are wearing. Yes?”
Caroline cleared her throat. “It’s—it’s quite unusual.”
“Unusual?” he said, casting his entourage an amused glance over his shoulder. “It is beautiful, young woman. It is the most beautiful thing you will ever wear—until I surpass myself the next time!”
“I don’t see how you could,” she said pleasantly. “You’ve just about gone the limit now.”
The little man’s eyes narrowed momentarily, but then he smiled. Even if his English permitted him to understand her answer, his ego would not.
“Enjoy yourself, signorina,” he said with a smile, and then he hurried off, his assistants trotting after him.
“Fat chance of that,” Caroline said. “Well, it’s the thought that counts, I guess.”
“Is that what’s supposed to keep me in this dress? Positive thoughts?”
Caroline whirled around. Trish was coming toward her, her pretty face twisted in a grimace. She was wearing a chartreuse dress that looked as if it had been spray-painted on.
“My God,” Caroline said with a groan, “what’s that?”
“A good question.” Trish lifted her hair from her shoulders and turned her back. “Do me a favor, would you? See if you can zip me up.”
“I can,” Caroline muttered as she inched the tiny plastic teeth shut, “if you can do without breathing. There. How’s that?”
“Impossible—but who am I to complain?” Trish swung around and faced her. “It is beautiful,” she said coyly, “it is the most beautiful dress I will ever wear, until I surpass myself the next time.”
Caroline laughed. “You heard?”
“Yeah.” She stepped back, eyes narrowed, and surveyed her roommate dispassionately. “Too bad you couldn’t tell him the truth—that whatever class that dress gets it owes to you.”
Caroline tugged at the thin straps that held the red silk up over the generous curve of her breasts, then smoothed down the skirt as if her touch might somehow magically make it extend beyond her thighs.
“And you haven’t seen what I get to put on next,” she said with a shudder. “What the heck? Another hour or so, I can get back into my jeans and—”
“Not tonight, old buddy.”
“What do you mean, not tonight?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. The cocktail party after the showing? We’re expected to mingle.”
Color rose in Caroline’s cheeks. “I don’t mingle.”
“Hey! I don’t, either, remember?”
“I’m sorry, Trish. I didn’t mean—”
Trish sighed. “I know you didn’t. Look, tonight’s different. The party’s for charity. For kids.”
“So? We’re here to show Fabbiano’s misbegotten collection, that’s all.”
“Exactly. And he’s pledged five per cent of tonight’s take to the Children’s Aid Fund, which means—”
“Which means the old boy’s one clever manipulator.”
“Which means,” Trish said patiently, “that we’re on the books until the party ends. We have to smile pretty as we work our way through the ballroom so that the carriage trade will want to place orders.”
“And the men can try to finger the merchandise.”
Trish grinned. “I’ve never seen one of them manage that with you yet.”
“You’re damned right,” Caroline said sharply. “It doesn’t say a word in our contracts about us having to put up with being hit on by every male who thinks he’s got the price of our bodies.”
“Look, I agree. Some of these guys are jerks. And some of the girls—well, some of them seem to think the men are perks of the job.”
“They’re one of the horrors of it.”
“Uh-huh. But try telling that to Giulia. Or to Suzie. They’re both seeing guys who’ve promised to get them into films.”
“And I,” Caroline said with conviction, “am seeing no one but the cabdriver who takes me home.”
“Sounds good to me,” Trish said with a shrug.
“Signorine.” The girls turned. One of Fabbiano’s assistants was standing on a low stool, clapping her hands. “Ladies,” she said excitedly, “e ora di farlo. We are about to begin.”
Caroline felt a familiar knot forming in her belly. I hate this, she thought fiercely, I hate this!
“Hey. Are you okay?”
She looked at Trish, forced herself to smile. “I’m fine.”
* * *
IT WAS, he thought, one hell of a place for a man to spend a Thursday evening. Not that he didn’t like women. Nicolo Sabatini permitted himself a little smile. Damn, no. No one would ever accuse the Prince of Cordia of that.
The trouble was, there were too many of them packed into this room. Beautiful ones. Homely ones. Young ones. Old ones. And all of them had one thing in mind.
The Fabbiano Collection.
Nicolo shifted unhappily in the little gilt chair that had certainly not been made for a man’s body. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t interested in what women wore, either. He liked the softness of silk, the slippery feel of it under his hands as he slowly undressed a woman in a shadowed bedroom.
But to have to sit here and pretend interest in an endless parade of painted mannequins wearing bored looks and the ridiculous fashions he’d already glimpsed in the huge sketches plastered on the wall as decorations—Nicolo shifted again. No, he thought, no, he couldn’t do it, not even for la Principessa. He would do anything for his grandmother, his beloved nonna—hadn’t he proved that by accompanying her here tonight, to this benefit for her favorite charity?
But to sit here, like one of the effeminate fools smirking over there or, worse still, like Antonni and Ferrante and the others he’d spotted, who boasted of the conquests they made of the long-legged girls who dreamed of jewels and furs and sold themselves so easily—to sit here, to even be in the same room with such men, made him feel filthy.
And there was no reason for it. He could step out into the anteroom, smoke a cigar, even take a walk around the block, and still be back in plenty of time to escort la Principessa safely through the crowd and out the door.
Nicolo leaned toward the elderly woman seated beside him. “Nonna,” he said softly.
La Principessa looked up. “Si, Nico.”
“Would you mind very much if I stretched my legs?”
She smiled. “You are restless?”
“No, not at all. I just—”
“Restless, and out of your element. I should have realized.” She smiled again as she touched his cheek. “A man like you prefers his women one at a time, eh?”
He grinned, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. “You know me too well,” he said.
The Princess waved her fingers at him. “Go on, Nico.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. I shall be fine.”
“I won’t go far,” he said. “If you need me—”
“I won’t,” she said firmly. “Now, go.”
He rose from the ridiculous chair and made his way carefully down the crowded row, responding politely to those who greeted him by name, noting with carefully repressed surprise that two women who gave him private little smiles were seated next to each other, friends who had no idea they had something more than friendship in common.
It was less crowded at the rear of the room and he thought of pausing there, where he could watch la Principessa and still draw a breath of air that was not perfumed half to death, but then he patted the slender cigar in the breast pocket of the dinner jacket that had been hand-tailored to fit his sinew-hardened body and decided that only a whiff of tobacco would fully cleanse his nostrils of the mix of scents that hung in the overheated room.
He turned toward the door—and all at once the room was plunged into darkness and a whine of hideous music exploded from the
overhead speakers.
“Dio mio,” he growled, and he leaned back against the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and prepared to wait out the boredom of the long moments ahead.
Lights on the ceiling blinked to life, spraying the stage with wild colors. The curtains parted, revealing a line of models wearing too much makeup, too much hair, and not enough clothing to stretch a man’s imagination. One of them stepped forward, bouncing frantically to the music, and the others followed her down the catwalk. The audience applauded, and the parade was on.
Nicolo’s mouth twisted as he watched the show, for that was certainly what it was, one in which the women were as much for sale as were the clothes. What was beyond him to understand was why any man in his right mind would want to buy. Nothing so readily available was worth having, not even women as beautiful as…
The breath caught in his throat. A woman was moving on stage, a woman wearing a red dress. No. God, no. Heat rose in his blood. To call the bit of silk that clung to her body a dress was ridiculous. His eyes skimmed over her. The dress curved over her breasts lightly, cupping them like a man’s hands. It flowed over her hips the same way, and over her buttocks. He felt his fingers flexing, and he balled his hands into fists and jammed them into his pockets.
She turned, swaying to the music. Her face was perfect: high cheekbones, a straight nose and a lush mouth. Hair, streaked with the colors of the sun, tumbled down her back and over her shoulders and swung in waves as she shimmied down the catwalk. Her hips moved slowly to a beat in the music only she seemed to hear. Her expression was cool, almost impassive, and Nicolo wondered if that was how she looked when she lay beneath a man, her flesh responding to his caresses but her soul forever untouched.
His body tightened, the muscles drawing in on themselves. The heat that had bloomed in his blood became fire, traveling straight to his loins. He felt himself quicken, felt himself focusing on her, on that dress of flame…
And suddenly, she looked directly at him. Her head turned; her eyes swept across the room, then fixed on his. Dio, what a face! It held the beauty of a madonna—and the promise of a courtesan.
