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Jensen spent the next few days working long hours to make sure every model who was to appear in the anniversary party show knew their role, right down to the last detail. She knew how frantic the final minutes before a show could be and wanted to make sure they got it right, particularly when she’d asked each model to share a memory of her work with Francesco during the backstage video they were shooting, which she hoped would be a wonderful retrospective of his career. Not to mention the fact that if she was busy, she didn’t have to think about her mother and how furious she was with her.
She’d received a text from Veronica late the day the photos had appeared, a response that had made her so angry she hadn’t talked to her since.
Of course it was me, darling. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. The Alexandre story was dying out and this gives it fresh legs. Apologies, I know you wanted to keep things quiet, but the producers are ecstatic.
She’d called her sisters, smoke coming out of her ears. Strategized an intervention for when she returned to New York in a few weeks. Obviously, Veronica needed more help than she’d been getting. No longer was Jensen going to bankroll her while sacrificing her own future. Cristiano had been right. She did know herself. Knew who she wanted to be. And she was done enabling her mother to her own detriment.
But first, she acknowledged, her hair and makeup done as the preshow buzz reached a fever-pitch backstage at the party, held at a magnificent seventeenth-century palace in the heart of Milan, she had a promise to Cristiano to keep. She had promised him tonight would be one for the history books. That she would make it the most-talked-about event of the fashion calendar, less Pascal’s spectacular debut in a few days’ time.
Picking up her bejeweled pink phone, she wound her way through the models, all in various states of readiness, warning them she was about to start filming.
Assured that all the models were at least partially attired in the short Vitale blue robes as she herself was, she started filming with her phone, introducing the backstage video and making her way through the buzzing crowd, stopping to speak with each notable model as they shared a reminiscence about Francesco and his career. By the time she made it to Isabella Müller, who offered a great story about the young designer’s genius and his subsequent rise to stardom, it was time to sign off the video, put her phone down and change into her dress, with the show having just begun.
Her heart pumping with blood, her skin flushed with excitement, she slipped on Francesco’s bold one-shoulder midnight-blue gown, with its spectacular bedazzled cutout detailing across the back, accentuated with crystal paisley embellishments. A thigh-high slit showed off her endless legs, the figure-hugging design of the dress and the silky, rich material highlighting her pert posterior, perhaps her best asset.
Her dresser adjusted the single strap of the gown so the material lay perfectly flat against her skin, like a glove. She added sparkling diamond drop earrings and a matching cuff bracelet, the perfect accompaniment to the glamorous dress. Her chestnut tresses caught up in a high ponytail, curled, sophisticated ends gave her an effortlessly chic look, highlighting her naturally striking features, set off by a hint of bronzer that dusted her impressive cheekbones.
“Are you ready?” Isabella murmured, appearing at her side, her still-strong accent giving the words an exotic flavor, her calm composure born of thousands of hours on the runway.
Jensen nodded. Wiggled her toes in the silver stilettos she’d donned in an attempt to convince herself this was really happening. That she was about to walk the runway behind her idol. It brought all of her teenage fantasies full circle, and she thought she might burst from the wonder of it all.
Tempering her unusual nerves, she followed Isabella to the wings, created tonight in the ornate anteroom of the palace gallery. The beautiful gilded room was packed with every notable face in fashion, along with every kind of celebrity imaginable, from film to music to theater to the literary world. Given the buzz she’d generated with her social media campaign, she knew it had provided an extra push, intense visibility around the night, but even she was shocked by some of the faces in attendance.
Her gaze found Cristiano, standing in the audience, leaning against a pillar that rose to the majestic second-floor balcony. Dressed in a superbly cut black suit tonight, with a snow-white shirt and a Vitale blue tie, he looked so insanely handsome, her heart skipped a beat, then galloped forward at an unsustainably quick pace.
She’d only seen him in passing since that morning in the kitchen, learning from Ilaria that he’d been embroiled in a supply chain crisis in LA that was causing serious difficulties in the manufacturing process. She’d been worrying about him, about the pressure he’d been under, about everything on his shoulders right now. But according to an earlier conversation with Ilaria, they’d had a breakthrough last night, and a temporary solution was now in place. Which was a massive relief.
“He is ridiculously handsome,” Isabella murmured, following her gaze to Cristiano. “Not such a bad subject to play to, is he?”
Jensen’s stomach dropped, swirling in a crazy, off-beat rhythm. She had no idea where they stood. Whether he’d changed his mind about her after the paparazzi debacle. She’d convinced herself that if he had, it would be fine. It was always fine. She would bury herself in her work and pretend she didn’t care, because that’s what she always did. Ignore how she felt, retreat into herself, refuse to acknowledge her feelings. Because then, she’d never have to feel the pain of rejection. Of him deciding he didn’t want her after all.
But she knew she was lying to herself. Knew why she’d been running from him the past few weeks. Because of the wild, uncontrollable longing he unearthed in her. Because she wantedhim. The strong, honorable, impenetrable man that he was, one a woman might desperately want at her back. The kind of man she never even knew existed. She wanted the headlines to be true—that she could be the woman at his side. And she thought she might be fooling herself into thinking that could ever happen. Because surely, he’d never choose someone like her.
The show director announced her cue. Drawing in a deep breath, she pushed her shoulders back and stepped into the lights at the head of the runway.
Cristiano watched Jensen step into the spotlight in Francesco’s magnificent midnight-blue dress, so spectacularly beautiful, she hurt his eyes. She was the brightest star by far on a night that had featured a cavalcade of them. A spectacular celestial event you saw once in a lifetime. From her gleaming mahogany hair, swept back from her face in a high ponytail, to her ebony eyes that shone with exotic promise, to her incredible, curvaceous body set off to perfection in the stunning dress, she was a vision.
She had promised him she would deliver, and she had. Social media was ablaze with photos and posts about tonight’s show, making it unlikely any moment in fashion would top it this year. She had been dedicated and brilliant these past few weeks, everything he’d needed her to be. But she’d also gone above and beyond the call of duty to make sure everything fell into place for tonight.
The relief he felt was palpable. A massive weight off his shoulders. He’d needed tonight to go perfectly and it had. A fitting tribute to his grandfather’s brilliant legacy. But he knew it meant more to him than that. He’d needed to know he could depend on Jensen. That he was right about her. That his instincts had been correct. Because if he’d thought the last few days might have cooled his ardour, might somehow have imprinted some last vestige of sanity on his brain, they had instead only underscored his feelings for her. Intensified those emotions.
He had missed her. Missed her company. Missed talking to her—the escape she provided from the endless weight on his shoulders. And he wasn’t in the mood to hold back. Not any longer.
She stepped back with the other models, her breathtaking trip down the runway complete, applauding the historic moment as his grandmother stepped onto the stage. Seemed utterly flustered when Marcella caught her and pressed a kiss to both of her cheeks, murmuring something in her ear that unearthed a flush across her high-boned cheeks. He hoped to hell it was the credit she deserved for her efforts.
“She is spectacular tonight,” Ilaria murmured, from her position by his side. “Our brand ratings have skyrocketed since the photos of you two went public.”
“I thought the Italian people were furious with her for violating the sanctity of the Trevi Fountain.”
Ilaria smiled. “The Italian press is fickle. They have decided you are far too glamorous a couple for them to resist.”
Cristiano wasn’t in a mood to disagree. He’d decided he wanted Jensen a long time ago. He was all in. And he didn’t much care what anyone thought about it.
He bided his time. Through the three-course dinner that followed. Through the speech he made to mark his grandfather’s legacy and the others that followed. Through the formal passing of the baton to Pascal, to the prescribed post-dinner chitchat Milanese society required on a gorgeous, late-summer evening. Through the results of the auction, which raised millions for charity, a mind-numbing blur of voices and niceties he abided rather than actually listened to, he was so physically exhausted, he could barely stand on two feet.
He watched Jensen flit from group to group, spreading that inexorable, undeniable charm of hers, casting everything and everyone she touched in a golden glow. Really, he had no interest in dancing when the time came, but the prospect of holding her in his arms held too great a sway. As the band swung into a slow, sultry number, the majestic frescoes of the ballroom a stunning backdrop, he moved purposefully, locating her in a group of people near the bar, giving in to the fiery need that burned in his veins.
Her back turned to him, she was cast in candlelight, the midnight-blue gown following every line of her voluptuous body in a loving, sensual caress. He thought he might be a little obsessed with her perfect backside, which undoubtedly held the entire male population in its thrall. It made him think very improper thoughts, with only her, that dress and himself starring in those particular fantasies. And maybe that was because he hadn’t been able to get that night in the pool out of his head and everything in him was clamoring for them to finish what they’d started.
