Page 32

A bearded French man holding enormous gold tailor's shears emerged from behind a curtain. He wore a scuffed work apron, eyes creased with age. When he saw Marcelo, he nearly stabbed the shears into the fabric beside him.

"Marcelo! You bloodsucker, you haven't dropped dead in a Manhattan boardroom yet?" The man laughed, spreading his arms, shouting in fluid French mixed with thick Italian slang.

"Not yet, Jean-Pierre." Marcelo stepped forward, clapped shoulders with him hard, and thumped his back. "Durand's couture is getting stale. I had to come find you, you mad hermit."

"This is Jean-Pierre," Marcelo said, turning to me. "The most particular private haute couture tailor in all of Europe. And an old friend from Florence twenty years ago."

"This is Ruby Caldwell. My assistant. Also an ambitious designer."

I nodded, a little dazed. "Hello, Jean-Pierre."

Jean-Pierre's gaze swept past Marcelo's shoulder and locked onto me. His hawk-sharp eyes traced my collarbones, waist, and the curve of my hips. The laziness in his expression ignited into something fervent.

"Mon Dieu..." Jean-Pierre circled me halfway, fingers sketching invisible lines in the air. "Marcelo, where the hell did you dig up this Venus? Paris runways are full of skeletons. I haven't seen an hourglass figure this perfect—this powerful—in five years. This hip drop, this chest-to-waist ratio... she was born for Grecian draping!"

Jean-Pierre's exaggerated praise slammed into my nerves like a hammer. My face burned. I didn't know where to put my hands.

"All right, don't stare at her like some deranged human trafficker. You'll scare her." Marcelo stepped between us, cutting off the old tailor's obsessive gaze.

Jean-Pierre rolled his eyes and pulled a worn leather measuring tape from around his neck. "Fine, fine. Coat off, girl. Let me get your measurements—"

"Give me the tape." Marcelo reached out and smoothly yanked it from Jean-Pierre's hand.

Jean-Pierre blinked. Then his mouth curved into a knowing grin. He shrugged and retreated behind the counter. "Suit yourself, Mr. Moretti. Just give me the numbers when you're done."

I stood frozen in front of the fitting mirror. Panic flooded me. "Mr... Mr. Moretti, you're measuring me yourself? That's not appropriate. I can report my own measurements—"

"Listen, Ms. Caldwell." Marcelo moved behind me. His shadow swallowed me whole.

He wound the tape slowly around his right knuckles, his gray-green eyes pinning me in the mirror, voice low. "If what you learned in FIT is worth anything, you know self-reported measurements have enough error to ruin a hemline. Coat off. Arms up."

No warmth. Just authority.

Under Jean-Pierre's burning gaze, I had no choice. I peeled off my coat, revealing the deep wine-red knit dress underneath.

I took a breath, stiffened my neck, and raised my arms.

But the second his cool hands and the tape circled my neck, every hair on my body stood on end.

His fingertips were rough with calluses. When he looped the tape around my neck to measure the circumference, his knuckle grazed the sensitive pulse at my throat. The scent of cedar and raw male heat drowned me.

"Relax, Ms. Caldwell." He leaned down slightly, his breath hitting my collarbone. "You're stiff as a board. Your bust measurement will be off by two inches."

The tape crossed my chest.

His arms spread wide, half-embracing me from the front. His thumb grazed the edge of my breast. I gasped and flinched backward. "Mr. Moretti!"

"Don't move." He growled, not pulling back. Instead, his right hand pressed into the hollow of my shoulder blade and pushed me forward—closer to his chest.

The space between us shrank to inches. Through the thin fabric, I felt the hard planes of his chest.

"Jean. Write." He didn't even look up, lips forming crisp syllables. "Bust, 43.5 inches."

Jean-Pierre whistled from behind the counter, pen scratching paper.

Then waist.

Marcelo dropped to one knee slightly, arm circling my narrowest point. The tape tightened. His pinky brushed—accidentally? deliberately?—against the dip of my waist. Electric heat shot up my spine. I bit my lip to suppress a humiliating whimper, stumbled backward, and slammed into the cold mirror.