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“Hold your head high and walk like the queen you are,” he whispers in my ear.
Italian men know their shit when it comes to winning people over, I’ll give him that. It’s in their blood.
When I look at him, I almost believe the look of pride he wears with the half-smile of a man who got what he wanted.
I tell myself not to believe it. I tell myself that it’s all an act, that he has no feelings for me. I tell myself it’s better that way.
We were told to make a spectacle, so here we are.
I don’t mind performing, and I love performing in front of crowds, but there’s something about the pressing heat of expectation that makes me a little light-headed. I stumble and without missing a beat, he quickly rights me.
“You okay?” he asks in a low voice in my ear.
“Just… a little light-headed is all.”
With one quick nod and a few sharp commands, he takes me to a paved area that’s vacant and dismisses the entourage of cameras. “We need a minute, thank you.” Still holding his arm, we walk to a little shaded bench. “Sit. Take a deep breath.”
I do exactly what he says. I don’t know how he gets it, but he manages to produce a bottle of chilled water and presses it to my lips. I take a big gulp, close my eyes, and do the whole breathing thing all over again.
“Sorry. Not sure what came over me. I don’t mind crowds, usually.”
He smirks. “Iknow.”
“My God,” I mumble. “Do you have to remind me that you’ve watched me?”
“Of course.”
“But it isn’t fair if I’ve never watched you.”
Holding my gaze for seconds that tick by so slowly they feel like minutes, he reaches for the water bottle and takes a sip himself. “You will, babe,” he says softly, handing me my water back. “You will.”
I open my mouth to snark at him when the blinding flash of a camera has me blinking in confusion. Oh myGod.I have never been important enough to warrant actual paparazzi. I’m both stunned and a little flattered.
“I told you,” Adriano says to our photographer with a warning flash of his eyes I’ve seen before. I cringe in anticipation. “She needs a minute.”
The photographer leaps to his feet from behind a large bush, but isn’t fast enough to escape Adriano, who snags the camera and throws it like he’s throwing the winning touchdown of the Super Bowl. I cover my mouth as it hurtles through the air and lands on a concrete pavilion, shattering into a million brilliant shards of metal and glass.
“Get the fuck out of here before I throwyou.” He would. Hesowould.
Our Peeping Tom runs for his life.
“Motherfucking little bitch,” Adriano mutters under his breath.
“Son of a womanizing bastard,” I say back, because it’s fun to join in with creative cussing. I shrug at the casual lift of his brows. “I wasn’t allowed to swear as a kid, so I try to make up for it.”
“I guess you’re feeling better then?”
I stand. “I am.”
An hour later, we’ve been looped into a crowd of people. I’ve looked everywhere for our friends but haven’t seen a single familiar face.
“What a lovely couple you are,” one woman with perfectly arched brows and bleach-blonde hair says. I wonder if it’s jealousy that taints her voice, or something else. She leans in. “Are they real? You can tell me.”
I stare at my ring, and she laughs. “No, silly girl. I know Adriano well enough to knowthosearen’t fake. I meanthose.” She stares pointedly at my breasts.
She’s questioning myboobs?
“They’re as real as a knuckle sandwich,” I mutter. Adriano makes a choking sound and squeezes my hand, but I can’t tell if it’s a warning or an indication of appreciation. A waiter walks by with a tray holding flutes of champagne. I take two and hand the bleach blonde one. “Here,” I say sweetly. “It helps with inhibition. You need to be a little bolder, don’t you think?”
