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The drive was shorter than she would have liked, and soon, they were before the grand structure. Chyna had been here once before as a child. Her parents had been together then, and the ballet had been stunning. She had tried her hand at ballet when she returned home, but she became easily bored when she didn’t look like the prima ballerinas overnight. Staring up at the gorgeous castle-like building, her memories made her wish that she had stuck with it.
Chyna followed the other girls out of the limo, and in an instant, Giselle, Marco’s personal assistant, was before them. She was all legs with sky-high heels and a too short dress accentuating her very best feature.
Diamonds glittered everywhere on her—strings of them around her neck, giant round ones in her ears, rings covering her fingers, and some even peeked out of her hair piece that was placed carefully in her dark brown hair. It appeared diamonds had actually been sewn into the glittering bodice of her dress. The rules about moderation had never applied to her.
“Come along. Come along,” she said, not halting to see if they followed.
The girls kept up with her easy pace, following her to an enormous door leading into the building. A flurry of activity was already underway when they found the dressing area.
Two dozen models were being fit into an array of clothing sets for the fashion show. A few models were walking around in flowing designer gowns. Several were wearing glittering lingerie, tastefully constructed for the evening. Still others were helped into animal print bodysuits and barely there bathing suits. Makeup artists were painting faces to match, accent, and highlight the garments. Blow dryers went off around the room as hairstylists brushed and sprayed their locks into submission. If Chyna didn’t know better, she would have thought it was all chaos.
“Brigitte, Ravenna, Giovanna, go to hair and makeup,” Giselle snapped.
“Chyna, Marco would like to see you in his office.”
The girls were already eyeing her suspiciously, but Chyna ignored them and followed Giselle. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be called into private sessions with Marco, and they knew it. Still, after three weeks of one-on-one attention, her stomach still clenched at the possibilities.
Powerful men hardly unnerved her—she had grown up with one after all—but Marco was different somehow. He had the authority to give her everything she wanted, but more importantly, he had the power to take it all away.
“Marco has had your costume moved back here,” Giselle explained as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Wonderful,” she said dryly.
“Are you not grateful?” Giselle snapped.
Chyna should have known better than to act like this around Giselle. She would have killed for the opportunity to model for Marco, but Giselle just didn’t have it.
“More than grateful,” Chyna said, keeping the lilt out of her voice.
Giselle sneered anyway.
Chyna wanted to tell her how unattractive that was. She would have been able to do that if it had been Alexa.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath.
“Yes?” Giselle asked, raising her eyebrows at the profanity.
“Nothing.”
Chyna hadn’t called Alexa in over a week. What a shitty best friend . She had been so wrapped up in her modeling and Milan and Marco that it had slipped her mind. She would be sure to call her soon.
What was the time difference to Atlanta again? She scrunched up her nose. She was bad at these kinds of things.
Whatever. She would make it work.
“Hey, do I have time for a phone call?”
“What?” Giselle demanded.
“Do I have time?”
“Certainly not. You’re late as it is.”
Chyna sighed. Another time then . She felt bad, but she pushed the thoughts aside.
She would call her when she could. Alexa had never expected more than that. Plus, she was probably in a la-la land with her Ramsey. She just hoped that Alexa was avoiding his bitch sister and Jack—well, that was a given. Though, at least Chyna understood that maddening obsession… kind of.
“Here you are, darling,” Giselle said, pointing at a door labeled Director.
“Grazie.”
Chyna thanked her gratefully.
Giselle’s smile quirked at Chyna’s clipped Italian accent, but she acknowledged her no less before departing. “Prego.”
Chyna turned toward the rustic door with a solid gold placard and knocked.
“Come in,” Marco called in a beautiful Italian accent.
His voice was out of this world.
Chyna’s body warmed at the sound.
She opened the door to the director’s office and found Marco sitting among a collage of tutus, sequins, and fabrics.
Her eyes darted to the massive hardwood desk, and she smirked. A long black costume bag hung against the back wall with a shiny gold imprint marked on the top. She would recognize Marco’s handiwork anywhere, even without being able to read his glossy name from a distance.
Finally, her eyes returned to the man behind the desk. He was staring at her with those deep chocolaty eyes like a predator feasting its gaze upon its prey.
He stood, almost regally, from the desk upon her entrance. His square jaw, those broad shoulders, and cut waistline were perfection. He could have modeled, but he was just as talented in design, business, and behind the camera. He had shaved his ever present five o’clock shadow, and his brown hair was slicked back so it wouldn’t fall into his eyes like she was so accustomed to. It had been cropped much shorter when she had first arrived. He was way past due for a haircut, but she thought the longer look suited him.
“My star,” Marco muttered.
He had begun calling her that after their first late night photo shoot, centered near a large, open window in his apartment. He had told her that she outshined the stars in the background of the photos. As far as he was concerned, she would be his brightest star. He had been calling her his star often enough that it was now her pet name.
“Marco,” Chyna said huskily, closing the door behind her.
As conflicted as she was away from him, when she was in his presence, he was like a heady perfume. The sweetest aroma in the world.
“You’re late,” he said sternly, with a glimmer in his eye.
“Marginally,” she volleyed, walking toward him while he still stood imposingly behind the desk.
Oh God, that desk.
“You haven’t even seen hair and makeup, and you smell like sunscreen,” he chided.
