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Cheyenne looked at Alene. Such simple words, but they sent a whisper of unease dancing up her spine. Silly, of course. The world was full of men who were architects.
“But we don’t want to commit to one tonight, Alene. New York must have dozens of architects who could work with us on this.”
“Trust me, darling. This is the guy we want. Assuming we can get him, that is. He’s probably got enough jobs to keep him busy from now through the next century, but he’s like every other man on the planet—he won’t be able to resist a pretty face. You just turn on the charm and I’ll bet you’ll have him eating out of your hand.” Alene chuckled. “Not that he isn’t pretty charming himself. He’s got more money than Fort Knox, he’s amazingly good looking and on top of all that, he’s very, very talented.”
Alene still had her arm around Cheyenne’s waist; they were going down the few steps that led from the stage to the ballroom floor. Cameras and cellphones were pointing at them; Cheyenne kept her smile in place, something she’d learned to do early in her career, but it was getting more difficult to maintain.
That strange sense of unease was growing.
“What’s his name?”
“There’s Vanity Fair,” Alene whispered. “Give them a big smile.”
“Alene. What’s his name?”
“The photographer from Vanity Fair? I can’t recall.”
“The architect. The man you’re hoping I’ll meet.”
“No worries, darling. You’ll meet him. I put you at his table. Oh, look! Is that Annie Leibovitz? It is! Fantastic. Let me introduce you.”
“I’ve met Annie,” Cheyenne said impatiently. “Just tell me the name of this architect.”
“Annie! Yoo hoo!”
“Alene. The architect. Who is he?”
“Luca. Luca Bellini.”
Cheyenne had felt her heart rise into her throat. No, she’d thought, no, no, no! The last person she wanted to deal with tonight was the man she’d been with this morning. As for working with him… The idea was laughable. Except, laughable was the wrong word. She would never, not in a million billion years, work with Luca Bellini.
And, sweet Jesus, there wasn’t a way in hell she was going to explain that to Alene Beresford or anybody else.
“Yoo hoo, Annie!”
“Alene.”
“Annie. Over here.”
“Alene!”
“Cheyenne, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing? If we can get Annie Leibovitz to agree to do a shoot for us—”
Cheyenne dug in her heels. Not easy, when they were five inches high, but she did it. Alene Beresford almost stumbled.
“What are you doing? Annie Leibovitz is right over—”
“I know. I see her. But—but I have to—to check my makeup. My hair.”
“You look gorgeous!”
“Not for a famous photographer, I don’t.” Cheyenne stepped back. “Where’s the ladies’ room?”
“Out in the hall, across from the elevators, but really, Cheyenne—”
“I’ll be right back,” Cheyenne said, flashing a brilliant smile.
Cheyenne all but forced her way through the crowd. Everybody wanted to say hello; everybody wanted a photo or a selfie. A sea of smartphones waved ahead of her like grass in a Sweetwater meadow.
She kept smiling. And moving.
The hell she’d be right back.
Finally! There were the elevators. Dammit, people were waiting for them. She couldn’t just stand around. Luca was here, but where, exactly, was that? No way did she want to run the risk of finding out.
The restrooms were right were Alene had said they’d be.
Perfect.
A quick detour into the ladies’. Kill a couple of minutes so that one or two elevators could arrive, get into one, take it to the lobby, get into a cab and phone Alene while she headed downtown. Sorry, she’d say, but I came down with a headache.
It wasn’t a foolproof plan—Alene would be ticked off—but it would have to do.
The restroom attendant was watching her.
Cheyenne went to one of the marble vanities. Opened her little purse. Took out her lip gloss and ran it over her mouth.
And checked her watch.
Surely, two or three minutes had passed.
She capped the gloss, put it away, fumbled a ten-dollar bill from her purse and dropped it into the glass bowl on the vanity. Then she looked in the mirror, made sure she looked cool and collected—amazing, what years of working before a camera could do—and went to the door.
Good. Excellent. Nobody was waiting for the elevators.
She pasted a professional smile to her lips. Walked out of the restroom. Closed the door behind her…
Just as the door to the men’s room opened.
And Luca Bellini stepped into the corridor.
CHAPTER FIVE
Luca recovered first.
“Cheyenne,” he said politely.
“Luca.”
She was polite, too, but he could see her struggling to stay that way. Good, he thought coldly. She had every right to be uncomfortable.
What she had no right to be was so incredibly beautiful.
There were scores of women here tonight. They were all impeccably groomed, coifed and gowned.
He’d brought women he’d been involved with to functions like this. He had a general idea of what it took for a woman to make an appearance at a glittery charity event.
Paying the bills, grazie a Dio, did not involve knowing all the details, but he knew enough to be aware that those details included hair appointments, nail appointments and time spent with makeup artists, and that all those things followed hours spent choosing the most elaborate gowns and shoes and everything else that would never mean a damn to a man, but would be
vital to a woman.
Unless everything about Cheyenne was an artful illusion, he doubted that she’d put in more than a few minutes getting ready for tonight.
It wasn’t that she didn’t look beautiful.
She did.
Her hair was loose and flowing, drawn back on one side by some kind of clip.
Her face glowed, the skin almost a dusty gold, her mouth a sexy red, her lashes dark and long.
Her gown was blue, half a dozen shades of blue. The neckline left most of her shoulders bare.
Kissably bare.
The fabric looked silky; just looking at it made him want to feel its texture between his fingers.
It skimmed her body. Breasts. Waist. Hips. Thighs. It hung in a way that was demure even as it hinted at what lay beneath: breasts he had yet to taste, though he knew they would be sweet on his tongue; hips seemingly made for his hands to grasp; that hot delta between her firm thighs.
The gown was artfully slit from hem to thigh. Each time she moved, he caught a glimpse of tanned flesh.
His body went rigid.
He was on the verge of a monumental erection, the kind he hadn’t had in public since he’d learn to control his body’s needs at the age of sixteen.
The possibility of making a fool of himself was bad enough. Even worse was the realization that it was she who would make a fool of him, just as she had done before.
No, he thought coldly. That was not going to happen.
“What a surprise.”
“Yes,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing.”
He almost laughed. Her eyes were like pools of ice, her tone glacial, but she was smiling as politely as he.
And no wonder, he thought, as he caught the glow of a flashbulb from the corner of his eye. They were on display, a pair of actors trapped in a bad play, and she wouldn’t want ugly publicity anymore than he would.
“Yes,” he said, “isn’t it? When Alene told me you were here, I was…dumbstruck.”
