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The stylist smiled conspiratorially. ‘Don’t worry. Most people are about your height, and designers cater for normal women these days.’
Relief washed through Chiara as the woman pulled out a black dress and said, ‘I think this one will be perfect. Try this on. I’ll help you with the zip.’
Chiara went into the bathroom, and just as she was ruminating on her very plain white underwear, and how it would look under the dress, there was a knock on the door and the stylist handed her a box.
Chiara opened it to find the most beautiful underwear under layers of tissue paper. Black lace. And surprisingly practical. In exactly her size. Her cheeks flamed as she put it on, wondering how they had known her size. Had Nico told them? She wouldn’t have credited him with remembering, but then she couldn’t ignore the sizzle of awareness that had been between them since the moment he’d appeared in the restaurant.
When she was dressed she came out, and the stylist turned around and exclaimed, ‘Bellissima, Mrs Santo Domenico!’
Chiara didn’t believe her, and reluctantly looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She sucked in a breath. The dress had a wide vee neck and then fell in soft flowing layers of chiffon to the floor. Her pregnancy was unmistakable, but the clever cut of the dress managed to flatter and make her look almost petite.
There was a knock at the door at that moment and then a voice. ‘Signor Santo Domenico is ready to leave.’
The stylist jumped into action, giving Chiara a wrap and a bag and helping with her shoes—a pair of black strappy sandals. At the last moment Chiara remembered her plain gold wedding ring and slipped it onto her finger. It was snug; her fingers had swollen slightly with her pregnancy.
And then, when she was ready, she took a deep breath and steeled herself to greet her husband.
CHAPTER SIX
NICO WAS HAVING a hard time focusing. He put it down to the fact that he had his wife by his side for the first time since they’d married and he wasn’t used to being at a function with someone. But that wasn’t it. The reason he couldn’t focus was because when Chiara had appeared in the drawing room of the apartment a short time before she’d looked endearingly shy and uncertain. And...gorgeous.
She was a sleek and coiffed version of the woman who had walked down the aisle to marry him. Unrecognisable as the woman who had come to him that day in the villa in her boxy shirt and jacket and calf-length skirt. He wanted her just as much, if not even more, because he knew exactly what she was hiding under all that elegant packaging. A raw and earthy sexuality.
They stood amongst a throng of Rome’s elite society now, and more than one man’s glance had lingered on Chiara.
Her hair was pulled back on one side and coiled over the other shoulder in a shiny Hollywood wave. The vee of the dress drew the eye to her creamy cleavage. Nico had had to restrain himself from demanding she wear something less revealing, because he knew that she was probably the most chastely dressed woman in the room right now. And yet he looked at her and all he could think about was sex and how his body ached for her. Had been aching for five months. He’d never denied himself the pleasures of sex for that long.
He felt almost angry that the neat plan he’d devised to marry Chiara Caruso had all but blown up in his face.
Her arm was linked in his and he realised she was gripping him so tightly she was almost cutting off his circulation. He looked down at her and could see naked terror on her face. ‘Are you okay?’
She looked up at him and all he could see were those huge green eyes. How had he ever thought her nondescript?
‘I’ve never been to something like this before. I don’t know what to do or say.’
Nico’s conscience pricked. He could see the faint shadows under Chiara’s eyes. He’d whisked her out of Dublin, put her on a plane, and now she was here, at one of Rome’s highest society events of the year. There weren’t many who could swim easily in an environment like this.
And he could remember all too well what it had been like when he’d attended his first such event. He’d felt raw and uncultivated, and he’d been sure people were looking at him
expecting him to steal the silver.
‘When was the last time you ate?’ He’d noticed that she hadn’t eaten on the plane. In fact he noticed now that apart from her bump she’d lost weight. She looked delicate.
She blinked. ‘Breakfast... I think.’
Irritation surged. ‘You’re not looking after yourself—or the baby.’
She turned to face him, pulling her arm free of his, eyes flashing. ‘I’m not the one who arrived like a whirlwind and gave me hardly enough time to pack, never mind eat.’
Nico’s conscience smarted even more. He took Chiara’s elbow and led her into the dining room, where the rest of the guests were heading. ‘There’s a five-course meal this evening so make sure you eat. Tomorrow we’ll set up an appointment with a specialist and make sure everything is all right with the baby.’
Chiara felt prickly, and completely out of her depth. She’d never been in such an opulently decadent place before. Glittering chandeliers and hundreds of candles bathed the guests in a honeyed glow inside the huge ballroom of a medieval Italian palace—the home of the French embassy.
Chiara was nearly blinded by the jewels hanging off necks, ears, throats and wrists. Each woman was more beautiful than the last and the men were handsome and statesmanlike.
Sleek waiters in black and white uniforms moved among the guests with exquisite canapés and champagne.
It was seriously intimidating, and Chiara felt absurdly self-conscious in her dress.
