Книга - Roman Spring

Roman Spring
Sandra Marton


Destination: Rome Attractions: the Colosseum, Vatican City… and Nicolo SabatiniNew World woman versus Old World man - it's more than just a culture clash when American fashion model Caroline Bishop meets Prince Nicolo Sabatini.Certainly to a woman of the nineties, this Roman hunk's views on love are as antiquated as the ruins of his city. And, given half a chance, perhaps as eternal… .









Roman Spring

Sandra Marton







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


CHAPTER ONE (#u67f356a8-67b1-5c88-9283-a026bb92ad15)

CHAPTER TWO (#u369cfb53-5051-5373-9c94-b309205cc413)

CHAPTER THREE (#ua2b5ad40-0d86-5667-a2da-0bb9aed3ed9b)

CHAPTER FOUR (#uf715c4db-78ee-5894-a8a8-eb463ae27de5)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

(#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


CAROLINE concentrated on a spot on the wall while Fabbiano, kneeling on the floor beside her, whisked a needle and thread through the hem of the scarlet silk dress that clung to her like a second skin.

“My best creation,” he muttered to the coterie of assistants clustered anxiously around him, “and see what has happened to it!”

Their eyes shifted to her accusingly, as if the hem’s collapse were her fault.

“Turn,” the designer commanded, jabbing her in the leg with a pudgy hand. “Quickly, quickly, signorina. Now, stand still.”

The needle snicked in and out of the fabric, and then he leaned back on his heels, scowling.

“Carlo. The chalk.”

An assistant stepped briskly forward and slapped a stick of yellow chalk into Fabbiano’s outstretched hand.

“Pins.”

Another slap. Caroline’s lips quivered. She had a sudden vision of the designer’s rotund form draped in green surgical scrubs. Surely next someone would step up and wipe his brow.

“Scissors.”

The little man’s hand shot out again and Caroline quickly raised her eyes to the ceiling. Don’t smile, she told herself sternly. Think of something else. Think of how surprised the well-heeled audience beyond the velvet curtain would be if it could see what was going on back here, the last-minute mayhem that came of packing a dozen models and heaven only knew how many assistants, hairdressers, make-up people, and general, all-purpose “gofers” into the cramped space that lay backstage at the Sala dell’Arte.

No. That was the wrong thing to think about. It only reminded her of how she and Trish had hooted with laughter when they’d seen the engraved invitations that had gone out in three languages for this evening’s showing.

“‘The Hall of the Arts’,” Trish had read in her flat Midwestern twang. “‘What locale could be better suited for the unveiling of Fabbiano’s stunning Fall Collection on behalf of the Children’s Aid Fund?’”

“The local pescheria?” Caroline had suggested with an innocent bat of her long lashes, and the roommates had dissolved in giggles.

“I agree,” Trish had said when they’d stopped laughing. “The fish market would be just the right setting for Fabbiano’s designs, but no one’s going to say so.”

“Especially when he’s been cagey enough to tie the showing to a charity affair,” Caroline had added with a sigh. “All he’ll get is praise. I’ll bet there won’t be an empty seat in the house.”

There wasn’t. One of the models had peeked at the audience from behind the heavy velvet curtains that draped the stage and reported breathlessly that every spindly-legged gilt chair in the crowded hall was taken.

“Wait until you see who’s here,” she’d whispered excitedly, then reeled off a dizzying list of names that had drawn oohs and aahs.

Even Caroline, who wasn’t much into such things, had recognized some of them. Usually, Fabbiano’s showings drew people very much like his designs, those who were all glitz and no substance. But tonight there was a fair sprinkling of media people and others, those with money and titles, what Trish teasingly called old blood.

“Signorina. Signorina, are you deaf?”

Caroline looked down. Fabbiano, still on his knees, was glaring up at her, his hands on his hips. “I ask you to turn in a circle, please. You must hurry, if we are to finish. It is almost showtime.”

Well, that was honest, anyway. Showtime was certainly what this was. When Caroline had signed a year’s contract with International Models, it had been because she’d wanted to learn everything she could about the fashion business. A year in Milan, Italy’s great fashion center, had sounded close to perfect—at least, that was how the woman who’d interviewed her at International Models had made it sound.

“You’ll work with the finest talents in the business,” she’d said earnestly, “you’ll make oodles of money, and you’ll return to the States at the top of your profession.”

Caroline hadn’t cared much about that last part. Modeling was only a step on the road to a career in design. But earning enough to pay for design courses at Pratt or at the Fashion Institute in New York had been more than appealing, and working with people in the business had been the clincher. She had, in her naïveté or her stupidity—she was never sure which—imagined herself standing at the elbow of a Valentino or an Armani, learning to drape soft wools, to design things that had classical beauty.

It had seemed a dream come true.

And that was the trouble, she thought wryly. It had been exactly that—a dream. Reality had turned out to be something quite different. Oh, she liked Milan. The city was a spirited blend of the old world and the new. In the same hour, you could gaze on the incredible beauty of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper and stroll the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, Europe’s oldest, most elegant shopping mall. And always, on a clear day, you could look up and see the magnificent, snow-capped Alps.

But not one of the agency’s promises had come true. Caroline modeled not for Valentino but for Fabbiano and designers like him, whose careers would last only fractionally longer than the lives of fruit flies, whose successes were dependent not on talent but on flash and dash. As for the money she’d planned on saving—how could she? The agency took half her pay before she ever saw it, some of it in commissions for her bookings, the rest to pay her share of the rent on the miserable apartment she shared with Trish and two other girls.

But worst of all was finding that she disliked fashion-show modeling. Camera work was one thing, but she felt incredibly vulnerable shimmying in a trendy, often skimpy outfit while pop music blasted and people stared. It was, she knew, a stupid way to feel. She was a model; people looked at models. They were supposed to. It was just that she couldn’t help seeing beyond those stares, to the envy of the women and the coldly calculating sexual avarice of the men.

Eventually, she’d found a way to endure her moments spent on stage. The trick was to turn off the instant you stepped on the catwalk. Not to make eye contact with anyone in the audience. Not to think about the silly outfits you were wearing or the paint slathered on your face or hair that had been whipped and frothed into a lion’s mane.

Instead, you held your head high and let a glazed look mask your eyes. You moved to the music in a way that the show demanded. And all the time you weren’t really there, you were somewhere else entirely, and the funniest part of it was that you ended up looking like a pro, like a model who lived for these moments in the public eye.

“D’accordo!”

Caroline started, then looked down again. Fabbiano was rising creakily to his feet, all smiles now that the crisis was over. Beaming, he clasped her shoulders and pressed kisses into the air on either side of her face.

“It is done,” he announced. “You, signorina, are superb. Almost as beautiful as the dress you are wearing. Yes?”

Caroline cleared her throat. “It’s—it’s quite unusual.”

“Unusual?” he said, casting his entourage an amused glance over his shoulder. “It is beautiful, young woman. It is the most beautiful thing you will ever wear—until I surpass myself the next time!”

“I don’t see how you could,” she said pleasantly. “You’ve just about gone the limit now.”

The little man’s eyes narrowed momentarily, but then he smiled. Even if his English permitted him to understand her answer, his ego would not.

“Enjoy yourself, signorina,” he said with a smile, and then he hurried off, his assistants trotting after him.

“Fat chance of that,” Caroline said. “Well, it’s the thought that counts, I guess.”

“Is that what’s supposed to keep me in this dress? Positive thoughts?”

Caroline whirled around. Trish was coming toward her, her pretty face twisted in a grimace. She was wearing a chartreuse dress that looked as if it had been spray-painted on.

“My God,” Caroline said with a groan, “what’s that?”

“A good question.” Trish lifted her hair from her shoulders and turned her back. “Do me a favor, would you? See if you can zip me up.”

“I can,” Caroline muttered as she inched the tiny plastic teeth shut, “if you can do without breathing. There. How’s that?”

“Impossible—but who am I to complain?” Trish swung around and faced her. “It is beautiful,” she said coyly, “it is the most beautiful dress I will ever wear, until I surpass myself the next time.”

Caroline laughed. “You heard?”

“Yeah.” She stepped back, eyes narrowed, and surveyed her roommate dispassionately. “Too bad you couldn’t tell him the truth—that whatever class that dress gets it owes to you.”

Caroline tugged at the thin straps that held the red silk up over the generous curve of her breasts, then smoothed down the skirt as if her touch might somehow magically make it extend beyond her thighs.

“And you haven’t seen what I get to put on next,” she said with a shudder. “What the heck? Another hour or so, I can get back into my jeans and—”

“Not tonight, old buddy.”

“What do you mean, not tonight?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. The cocktail party after the showing? We’re expected to mingle.”

Color rose in Caroline’s cheeks. “I don’t mingle.”

“Hey! I don’t, either, remember?”

“I’m sorry, Trish. I didn’t mean—”

Trish sighed. “I know you didn’t. Look, tonight’s different. The party’s for charity. For kids.”

“So? We’re here to show Fabbiano’s misbegotten collection, that’s all.”

“Exactly. And he’s pledged five per cent of tonight’s take to the Children’s Aid Fund, which means—”

“Which means the old boy’s one clever manipulator.”

“Which means,” Trish said patiently, “that we’re on the books until the party ends. We have to smile pretty as we work our way through the ballroom so that the carriage trade will want to place orders.”

“And the men can try to finger the merchandise.”

Trish grinned. “I’ve never seen one of them manage that with you yet.”

“You’re damned right,” Caroline said sharply. “It doesn’t say a word in our contracts about us having to put up with being hit on by every male who thinks he’s got the price of our bodies.”

“Look, I agree. Some of these guys are jerks. And some of the girls—well, some of them seem to think the men are perks of the job.”

“They’re one of the horrors of it.”

“Uh-huh. But try telling that to Giulia. Or to Suzie. They’re both seeing guys who’ve promised to get them into films.”

“And I,” Caroline said with conviction, “am seeing no one but the cabdriver who takes me home.”

“Sounds good to me,” Trish said with a shrug.

“Signorine.” The girls turned. One of Fabbiano’s assistants was standing on a low stool, clapping her hands. “Ladies,” she said excitedly, “e ora di farlo. We are about to begin.”

Caroline felt a familiar knot forming in her belly. I hate this, she thought fiercely, I hate this!

“Hey. Are you okay?”

She looked at Trish, forced herself to smile. “I’m fine.”

* * *

IT WAS, he thought, one hell of a place for a man to spend a Thursday evening. Not that he didn’t like women. Nicolo Sabatini permitted himself a little smile. Damn, no. No one would ever accuse the Prince of Cordia of that.

The trouble was, there were too many of them packed into this room. Beautiful ones. Homely ones. Young ones. Old ones. And all of them had one thing in mind.

The Fabbiano Collection.

Nicolo shifted unhappily in the little gilt chair that had certainly not been made for a man’s body. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t interested in what women wore, either. He liked the softness of silk, the slippery feel of it under his hands as he slowly undressed a woman in a shadowed bedroom.

But to have to sit here and pretend interest in an endless parade of painted mannequins wearing bored looks and the ridiculous fashions he’d already glimpsed in the huge sketches plastered on the wall as decorations— Nicolo shifted again. No, he thought, no, he couldn’t do it, not even for la Principessa. He would do anything for his grandmother, his beloved nonna—hadn’t he proved that by accompanying her here tonight, to this benefit for her favorite charity?

But to sit here, like one of the effeminate fools smirking over there or, worse still, like Antonni and Ferrante and the others he’d spotted, who boasted of the conquests they made of the long-legged girls who dreamed of jewels and furs and sold themselves so easily—to sit here, to even be in the same room with such men, made him feel filthy.

And there was no reason for it. He could step out into the anteroom, smoke a cigar, even take a walk around the block, and still be back in plenty of time to escort la Principessa safely through the crowd and out the door.

Nicolo leaned toward the elderly woman seated beside him. “Nonna,” he said softly.

La Principessa looked up. “Si, Nico.”

“Would you mind very much if I stretched my legs?”

She smiled. “You are restless?”

“No, not at all. I just—”

“Restless, and out of your element. I should have realized.” She smiled again as she touched his cheek. “A man like you prefers his women one at a time, eh?”

He grinned, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. “You know me too well,” he said.

The Princess waved her fingers at him. “Go on, Nico.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. I shall be fine.”

“I won’t go far,” he said. “If you need me—”

“I won’t,” she said firmly. “Now, go.”

He rose from the ridiculous chair and made his way carefully down the crowded row, responding politely to those who greeted him by name, noting with carefully repressed surprise that two women who gave him private little smiles were seated next to each other, friends who had no idea they had something more than friendship in common.

It was less crowded at the rear of the room and he thought of pausing there, where he could watch la Principessa and still draw a breath of air that was not perfumed half to death, but then he patted the slender cigar in the breast pocket of the dinner jacket that had been hand-tailored to fit his sinew-hardened body and decided that only a whiff of tobacco would fully cleanse his nostrils of the mix of scents that hung in the overheated room.

He turned toward the door—and all at once the room was plunged into darkness and a whine of hideous music exploded from the overhead speakers.

“Dio mio,” he growled, and he leaned back against the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and prepared to wait out the boredom of the long moments ahead.

Lights on the ceiling blinked to life, spraying the stage with wild colors. The curtains parted, revealing a line of models wearing too much makeup, too much hair, and not enough clothing to stretch a man’s imagination. One of them stepped forward, bouncing frantically to the music, and the others followed her down the catwalk. The audience applauded, and the parade was on.

Nicolo’s mouth twisted as he watched the show, for that was certainly what it was, one in which the women were as much for sale as were the clothes. What was beyond him to understand was why any man in his right mind would want to buy. Nothing so readily available was worth having, not even women as beautiful as...

The breath caught in his throat. A woman was moving on stage, a woman wearing a red dress. No. God, no. Heat rose in his blood. To call the bit of silk that clung to her body a dress was ridiculous. His eyes skimmed over her. The dress curved over her breasts lightly, cupping them like a man’s hands. It flowed over her hips the same way, and over her buttocks. He felt his fingers flexing, and he balled his hands into fists and jammed them into his pockets.

She turned, swaying to the music. Her face was perfect: high cheekbones, a straight nose and a lush mouth. Hair, streaked with the colors of the sun, tumbled down her back and over her shoulders and swung in waves as she shimmied down the catwalk. Her hips moved slowly to a beat in the music only she seemed to hear. Her expression was cool, almost impassive, and Nicolo wondered if that was how she looked when she lay beneath a man, her flesh responding to his caresses but her soul forever untouched.

His body tightened, the muscles drawing in on themselves. The heat that had bloomed in his blood became fire, traveling straight to his loins. He felt himself quicken, felt himself focusing on her, on that dress of flame...

And suddenly, she looked directly at him. Her head turned; her eyes swept across the room, then fixed on his. Dio, what a face! It held the beauty of a madonna—and the promise of a courtesan.

“Her name is Caroline Bishop. She is an American.”

Nicolo jumped as if he’d been singed. Gianni Antonini was standing beside him, head cocked, a sly grin on his too-soft face.

“Antonini.” Nicolo cleared his throat, forced his attention from the woman. “I thought I saw you in the crowd. How’ve you been?”

“I can introduce you, if you like.” Antonini’s grin widened. “I have a—what shall I call it?—a special friendship with one of her roommates.”

Nicolo’s expression was chill. “I am sure you have.”

The other man laughed softly. “She’ll be at the party, of course. All the girls will—it’s where they’ll make their best contacts. Would you like to meet her then?”

Nicolo swung toward him. “Why?” he said, almost pleasantly. “Do you get a cut, Antonini?”

“Nicolo, Nicolo. You try and insult me when I’m only being friendly. You know how these American girls are. So far from home...” He smiled and nodded toward the stage, where Caroline was just disappearing behind the curtains. “This one is more interesting than most. She plays hard to get—but anything can be had for a price.”

Nicolo’s mouth curled with distaste. “That would make the buyer as cheap as the seller,” he said flatly as he stepped away from the wall. “Arrivederci, Gianni.”

The soft sound of the other man’s laughter followed him as he stepped into the foyer. When the door swung shut after him, he breathed deeply, drawing the cool, unscented air deep into his lungs.

Damn! Why had he let Antonini get to him that way? Let the man do as he liked. It was none of his business. There’d been no need to behave like a fool. He’d been working hard lately. Too hard. Perhaps that would explain it, why he’d lost his composure with Antonini, why he’d reacted as he had to the woman.

He smiled tightly. Although a man didn’t need an explanation for that kind of attraction. The reasons for it were as old and as primal as mankind itself. Still, the incident had been upsetting. It was as if he’d had a sudden glimpse of a side of himself he didn’t know, a side that was dark and uncontrolled.

It was an uncomfortable realization.

After a moment, he took a cigar from his pocket, lit it with his gold Cartier lighter, and shifted it until it was clutched between his teeth. Music spilled from behind the closed doors as the moments passed. The cigar was half-finished when he shot back his cuff and looked at his watch. Good. The showing couldn’t last much longer, and then he could collect la Principessa and leave.

He smoked the cigar down to a stub, then ground it out. The music was changing, rising in volume, approaching what had to be a climax. The show must be ending, at last.

He took a deep breath, marched to the doors, and flung them open. Yes. The audience was rising to its feet, applauding and cheering, as the models tugged a smiling Fabbiano on stage.

Nicolo shouldered his way through the crowd toward the Princess. She looked up when he reached her, her eyes glittering.

“You missed it all, Nicolo,” she said. She crooked her finger at him, and he bent down until her lips were at his ear. “The clothes were terrible,” she whispered. “You cannot imagine!”

He laughed. “But I can, darling.”

“No,” she said positively, “you cannot. Even she—what they dressed her in was so—so orrenda...”

He laughed again and followed the old woman’s pointing finger. “Who?” he said. “Who did they dress in something so dreadful...?”

The laughter, and the words, caught in his throat. There she was again, standing on stage with the others, that same cool, removed look on her beautiful face. The red silk dress had been exchanged for a slender column of midnight blue sequins that caught the light and spun it back in dizzying rainbows of color.

His eyes slipped over her. The gown was long, seemingly demure—but when she shifted her weight, he caught a flash of her thigh, and when she turned—God, when she turned, he could see the length of her naked spine...

“Nicolo, Nicolo?”

He swallowed hard and tore his eyes from the girl. “Yes, Nonna?”

The old woman clutched his arm and rose slowly to her feet. “That, at least, is more becoming. Still, it is not what she should wear, not with that face. Am I right?”

“I’m sure you are,” he said distractedly.

“Amazing that she should be here, no?”

He shot a last, quick glance at the girl before turning back to the Princess.

“Forgive me Nonna. Who are you talking about?”

“Arianna,” she said impatiently.

Nicolo stared at her. “Arianna?” he said slowly.

The old woman made a face. “Don’t look at me that way,” she said, “as if I’d suddenly become senile.”

“Darling Nonna,” he said gently, “Arianna is not here. She hasn’t been in Italy for a long time. You know that.”

The Princess touched her tongue to her lips. “Of course I do,” she said. “I only meant that the coincidence is amazing.” She nodded toward the stage, where Fabbiano was taking bows. “Don’t you see? It’s incredible how much she resembles Arianna.”

A cold fist clamped around his heart. There was no need to ask her who she meant. He knew, instantly; his gaze went to the girl who had so intrigued him and he was only amazed he had not seen it right away.

Yes. Of course. The resemblance was there, not so much in looks but in the way she held herself, the way she looked out at the world with that little smile that dared anyone to try and touch her, he thought, remembering. There would be a greater resemblance, too, one not just of demeanor but of morals—or their lack.

“Nico?” His grandmother took his arm. “We must meet her.”

“No,” he said sharply. He drew a breath, forced himself to smile. “No,” he said, more gently, “I don’t think it wise, darling. It’s late, and your doctors would want you to get your rest.”

“And you know what I would say to them! Nicolo, please, it will only take a moment.”

A roar went up from the crowd. The velvet curtains had dropped over the stage, and someone had thrown open the doors that separated this room from the next. Crystal chandeliers glittered brightly above a marble floor; a quartet of musicians played music—real music, Nicolo thought, incongruously, not the brain-frying stuff they’d played during the fashion show. Serving tables, set with white damask, delicate stemware, and hors d’oeuvres, beckoned.

“Nicolo?”

He looked down. His grandmother was clutching his arm, smiling at him with an almost girlish pleasure.

“We will not go near her, if you prefer. But it is so long since I went to a party,” she whispered. “Please, Nico. One little glass of wine—just five minutes—and we’ll leave. Yes?”

The crowd surged forward. Nicolo sighed.

“Five minutes,” he said, “and not a second more. Capisce?”

La Principessa laughed softly. “Of course,” she said, and, with sudden surprising firmness in her step, she moved toward the ballroom.




CHAPTER TWO


CAROLINE stepped back quickly as the heavy velvet curtain descended. She was always eager for her turn on the catwalk to be over but tonight she breathed an audible sigh of relief as the show ended.

Something had gone wrong. Perhaps that was overstating what had happened out there, but, for the first time in months, she’d suddenly felt at the mercy of the audience, aware of every whisper, every stare.

“Ladies, ladies! We must not keep our guests waiting.”

Caroline glanced up. Fabbiano was standing off to the side, his arm raised like a parade marshal’s as he directed the models off stage. His eyes met Caroline’s and he gave a fussy toss of his head.

“Do you hear me, signorina? Hurry, please!”

The ballroom, she thought. That was where he was herding them, and it was the last place she felt like going, especially now. It had been a long time since the mental barrier between herself and the watching audience had been broken...

“Remember, please, ladies. Smile and be pleasant, make your way through the ballroom so everyone can see you.”

...and it was definitely the first time she’d become aware of one person in that audience, one watching pair of eyes...

“Heads up, stomachs in, spines straight. The hair, the face, all perfect. Capisce?”

...and it had been disconcerting. Very. Like—like being watched, like having her privacy violated. She’d fought the sensation as long as she could and then she’d done something she’d never done before, she’d deliberately looked into the sea of faces, looked unerringly to the rear of the crowded room...

“You! Comb your hair, per favore. Signorina. The skirt. Over there! Is this a funeral or a party? Smile. Smile!”

...and found a man watching her, his eyes fixed to her face with blatant sexuality.

There was nothing new about that. Men had been assessing her hungrily for years, ever since she’d turned sixteen and changed from an awkward, gangly teenager to a tall, curvaceous young woman. Caroline had never grown used to it but she had learned to ignore it, even here, in Italy, where admiring a woman openly seemed almost a national pastime.

What was different was that there had been something else mixed in with the raw hunger blazing in his eyes. It was anger, she’d thought suddenly, anger as sharp and cruel as the blade of a knife, as if he’d held her responsible for the desire so clearly etched into his arrogant, handsome face...

“I asked you a question, signorina. Please favor me with an answer.”

Caroline blinked. Fabbiano was standing in front of her, staring at her like a disapproving schoolmaster. One of the girls giggled nervously as color flooded her cheeks.

“Well,” she said, “I—er—I—”

“Just nod and say yes,” Trish murmured from behind.

Caroline did both. The designer’s brows drew together and then he gave her a grudging smile.

“Exactly,” he said. As soon as he’d turned away, Trish slipped in beside her and Caroline angled her head to the other girl’s.

“What did I just agree to?” she whispered.

“The usual warning that we strain our brains and memorize the numbers of our gowns. I suppose he’s afraid he won’t be able to squeeze every lira out of the crowd unless we direct all questions to him personally.”

Caroline nodded. That was fine. It might be part of her job to parade through the ballroom but she surely didn’t want to have to prattle facts and figures for what she was wearing now, a skintight concoction of bugle beads and sequins that probably cost more than she’d make for the entire year.

The door to the ballroom opened. Music and laughter wafted out like an invisible cloud.

“Ready,” Fabbiano said, and for just an instant Caroline felt a clutch of something that was very close to panic. What if the man was still here? What if she felt him watching her again?

She gave herself a mental shake. What, indeed? She had a job to do, and no Italian Romeo suffering the effect of an overactive libido was going to keep her from doing it. She took a deep breath, smiled coolly, and sailed forward into the ballroom.

The room was enormous. High, frescoed ceilings looked down on a marble floor worn smooth over the centuries. She caught a glimpse of crystal chandeliers and gilt-trimmed walls covered in faded damask, much like the walls at La Scala. Had the same architect who’d designed the opera house designed the Sala dell’Arte?

She wasn’t going to find out tonight, Caroline thought with a little sigh. She was here to work, to wend her way among the clusters of people gathered around the groaning buffet tables, to smile like a wax mannequin and to stop when requested, to pirouette and offer the same answer to each question about her gown whether it dealt with size, color, fabric, price or availability.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” she kept saying, as if she were chanting a mantra. “Please direct your queries about gown number eighty-two to Fabbiano.”

She could say it in English and in French, in Italian, Spanish and German; she could do a passable job in Japanese. She could probably say it in her sleep. She could—

A hand reached out and caught hold of her arm. “What a terrible color,” the woman said irritably. Caroline offered a noncommittal smile. “Is it available in red?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” Caroline answered pleasantly. “Please direct your queries about—”

“And that high neck in the front.” The woman stabbed a bony forefinger just below Caroline’s breasts. “Can it be lowered to here?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Please—”

The woman turned away. “Honestly,” she said, “these girls sound like parrots!” Her companions laughed. “What can you expect? They’re paid to be pretty, not bright.”

Color stained Caroline’s cheeks as she moved off. She would not do this again, she thought tightly, and the agency be damned! At least you could tune out the gawkers when you did catwalk modeling, but down here, wandering through the crowd, people treated you as if you were—

“Hello, darling. How are you this evening?”

A man was blocking her path, an Englishman by the sound of his upper-class drawl. Caroline smiled politely.

“Fine, thank you. I’m wearing gown number eighty-two,” she said. “If you have any questions—”

“Well, yes, I have.” He grinned, showing yellowing, too large teeth.

Two other men crowded up beside him, grinning just as foolishly. “What’s your name, love?” one asked.

“I’m sorry,” Caroline said pleasantly, “but—”

“Come on, darling, all we’re asking is your name. Surely you could tell us that.”

“I could,” she said sweetly. “And now, if you’ll excuse me—”

The men laughed as she maneuvered past them with a fixed smile. She could see a couple of the other models standing near the buffet table, laughing as they accepted glasses of champagne from attentive gentlemen. Fabbiano would not mind if he saw the girls beginning to blend in with the guests. Orders came in just as easily that way as they did when you strolled around and worked the room as you were supposed to. Perhaps they came more easily. She had been at this long enough to know that, Caroline thought bitterly.

“Sociability sells,” the head of the International Models office in Milan said at every opportunity.

But Caroline had not hired on as a saleswoman, and she’d certainly not hired on to be sociable. She’d—

An arm shot out and snaked around her wrist.

“Here we are!” an American voice said happily. “The most provocative little number in the collection. Come here, cara, and let me get a closer look.”

Caroline’s smile stiffened. The man holding her was short and chubby. He swayed a little as he breathed fumes of wine into her face.

“Yessiree, that surely is somethin’, isn’t it?” he said. “Just take a look at those lines.”

He was looking at her, not the gown, but Caroline pretended otherwise.

“I’m wearing gown number eighty-two,” she said pleasantly. “Please direct your enquiries to—”

“By golly, you’re an American, aren’t you?” He chuckled. “I should have known, darlin’. Only a genuine American long-stemmed beauty could move the way you do. That pretty blond hair, those big blue eyes—how’d you get eyes the same color as those sequins, honey?”

Smiling, he ran a finger quickly down the curve of Caroline’s hip, then danced it around until it rested lightly against her thigh, just at the start of the slit that ran the length of the gown. When she flinched back, his arm tightened around her.

“Come on, darlin’, hold still.” His eyes met hers. “Otherwise, how can I judge what I’m buyin’?”

She felt herself flush, but she forced herself to show no other reaction.

“That’s easy,” she said, her tone still pleasant. “Just ask Fabbiano about item number eighty-two. He’ll give you the details.”

“Well, not all of them, darlin’.” He smiled. “For instance, I’ll bet he can’t tell me where you’d like us to go for supper.”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“Drinks, then. I’ll just bet modelin’ is thirsty work.”

“Thank you, but I’m not thirsty, either.”

His smile didn’t waver, but Caroline could see the sudden darkening of the pale eyes.

“Now, darlin’, you want to be nice to old Eddie,” he said softly. “I don’t think you realize who I am.”

A pig, she thought fiercely, that’s who you are. But she knew how to handle pigs. You didn’t run—that only made them eager for the chase. Instead, you looked straight into their eyes and made it clear that you had absolutely no desire to wallow in the mud with them.

“You’re right,” she said quietly, “I don’t. And, what’s more, I don’t much care.”

His smile diminished just a bit. “I’m a buyer, darlin’, and I’ve got a mighty fat checkbook. I can write this here Fabbiano a nice big order—if I like the merchandise.”

“Tell that to Fabbiano, not to me. I wear it, he sells it.”

The man grinned. “What is it, honey? Am I bein’ too subtle for you? I’m in a position to further your career if—”

“Perhaps I’m the one who’s being too subtle,” Caroline said coldly. “The dress is all that’s for sale.”

The little man squinted; the look in his eyes became furtive. “Come on, darlin’. You don’t really want Fabbiano to find out that one of his little girls cost him a whoppin’ big order.”

Caroline’s palm tingled. One good slap across that sweating face, she thought, that was all it would take to send the little SOB reeling. She was taller than he by at least four inches, and, even though he outweighed her, it was all gut and no muscle.

But the last thing she wanted to do was make a scene. This was humiliating enough without having an audience looking on.

“Listen,” she said quietly, “if you just let go of me, I’ll forget this ever happened.

“Forget?” His voice was creeping up the scale. Caroline looked around cautiously. A couple of faces had turned toward them, lips curled with anticipatory amusement. “Hell, darlin’,” he said, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to forget. I’m the one’s been insulted, the one’s been—”

“Is there a problem here?”

The deep male voice was cold, harsh, and touched with the faintest of Italian accents. Even though Caroline had never heard it before, she knew immediately to whom it belonged.

A little thrill of anticipation ran along her skin as she turned and looked into the eyes of the man who’d watched her with such intensity during the fashion show.

He was tall, even by her standards, and she stood five feet ten in her stocking feet. He wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, but nothing could disguise the strength or power of the broad-shouldered body beneath the elegant clothes. His hair was dark and curling, his skin lightly tanned. His features were almost classically Roman in their masculinity: a straight, aristocratic nose set above a sensual mouth and strong, squared chin.

But it was his eyes that were most compelling. They were a blue so deep that it was almost sapphire, and were thickly fringed with dark lashes. Promenading the catwalk, Caroline had felt their blazing heat. But it was the American who stood beside her who felt that heat now, she thought with a little shudder. He was on the receiving end of a look that was as coldly disdainful as any she’d ever seen.

“Perhaps you did not understand me, signore,” her rescuer said, very softly. “Is there some difficulty here?”

“No, no, there’s no difficulty at all,” the other man said in a voice that was just a shade too affable. “The little lady and I were just talkin’ about where to have dinner.” He looked at Caroline and grinned. “Isn’t that right, darlin’?”

The blue eyes swept to hers; that cool, glittering stare held her transfixed.

“Is that correct, signorina?”

Caroline looked back at him and suddenly she thought of an old fable, the one in which a traveler had to choose which of two doors to open, knowing that behind one lay safety while behind the other crouched a tawny black-and-gold tiger.

“Signorina?” The man’s mouth twisted. “If you are planning to spend the evening with this gentleman, you have only to say so.”

“I already told you she was, pal.” The American became bolder, his hand sliding up Caroline’s arm. His fingers were sweaty, his touch proprietorial, and all at once she wrenched free and turned to the man who’d come to her assistance.

“No,” she said quickly, “I’ve no wish to have dinner with this—this person.”

“You will if you want to keep your job,” the American said sharply, all pretense at good humor gone from his voice. “We all know how this racket works and—”

“Yes. We do.” The Italian’s blue eyes slipped to Caroline’s face again; for an instant, she saw something more deadly than disdain in their depths, and she thought again of the coiled black-and-gold power of the tiger. “Which is why the lady has already promised me the pleasure of her company tonight. Isn’t that so, signorina?”

Her mouth dropped open. “I—I—”

“There is no need to be shy, signorina,” he said coldly. “Business is business, after all. Surely this—gentleman—understands that a prior commitment must take precedence over his needs tonight.”

Caroline flushed. He had ridden to her rescue like a knight on a white charger and now he was insulting her. Well, he could just take his insults and his offers of assistance and—

“Caroline.” She spun around. Arturo Silvio, the modeling agency’s Milan chieftain, was bustling across the floor toward her. He was smiling, but there was no mistaking the harsh displeasure in his eyes. “I see you caught the attention of two of our most important guests. Mr. Jefferson—how are all those stores in Texas doing? And Prince Sabatini.” His smile became even more unctuous. “What a great honor to see you here tonight, sir. Is the Princess with you, perhaps?”

The Prince smiled thinly. “Why else would I be here?”

Silvio’s smile never wavered. “Of course. I see you’ve met one of our loveliest girls. Caroline, dear—”

“Model.” Caroline had spoken without thinking. All three men turned toward her. Her eyes lifted to Nicolo Sabatini’s and, for a brief instant, she saw something beyond disdain shine in their deep blue depths. Amusement. Yes, she thought furiously, it was amusement! Her chin lifted in defiance. “I prefer to be referred to as a model, Signor Silvio.”

“How delightful, Caroline,” the agency head said through his teeth. “Charm, beauty—and spirit, as well.”

“What you ought to do is teach these girls some manners,” the American muttered crossly.

This time, the Prince’s amusement was obvious. “Excellent advice,” he said pleasantly, “especially since it comes from such a paragon of good behavior.”

“Listen here, Prince—”

“Your Excellency, please—”

Sabatini held up his hand. “I am certain you gentlemen can entertain each other. As for the lady—she had already made her choice. She and I were about to have a glass of champagne.” He looked at Caroline and gave her a smile that never reached his eyes. “Isn’t that right, signorina?”

No, Caroline thought, of course it isn’t right. Why would she want to go with this man? His insults had been no less cutting than the American’s, they’d just been delivered with more urbanity.

“Signorina?” Sabatini offered her his arm. “Some champagne?” His polite smile did nothing to diminish the flat ultimatum in his eyes. Come with me, he was telling her, or accept the consequences.

And the consequences made her shudder. She had no wish to be left stranded with the horrible Mr. Jefferson nor with the oily Signor Silvio. As for Prince Nicolo Sabatini—his intentions were certainly not honorable. It wasn’t just the way he’d looked at her; it was more complex than that. Men, especially those with money and power, often saw women as either good or bad. There wasn’t much question into which category an Italian blue blood would place a long-legged American blonde living and working far from the protection of home and family.

But what did that matter? Surely only the most decadent of aristocrats would make a play for another woman while his wife was in the same room. Sabatini was only setting things up for another time. He had, apparently, seen the Texan making an unwanted play for her and he’d come to her rescue so that he could put her in his debt for a future evening.

He’d made a mistake in judgment, but that was his problem, not hers.

“Caroline.” Silvio’s smile strained at his teeth. “His Excellency is waiting for you, my dear.”

Caroline tossed back her head, curved her lips into the same sort of bright smile she wore on the catwalk, and took Sabatini’s outstretched arm.

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” she said. “Champagne sounds lovely.”

He smiled coolly, gave a nod in the general direction of the other two men, and set off across the ballroom with Caroline in tow. People glanced at them as they went by; the ugly little scene they’d played out had not gone un-noticed. A woman’s laughter rang out and Caroline flushed and tried to quicken her step, but the man beside her would not match it.

“Slowly,” he said. “There’s no need to run.”

“Everyone’s looking at us,” she hissed.

“Indeed.” His voice was curt. “And what would you expect them to do, signorina? They have just witnessed a performance as good as the one you gave on the catwalk.”

She gave him a quick, angry glance, just enough to see that his mouth was thinned with displeasure.

“If you didn’t want to be part of my ‘performance,’” she said sharply, “you should have kept out of it.”

“Perhaps I should have. But it is too late now for regrets, and so we will take our time.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that people are staring?”

He laughed. “Do I look as though I care, signorina?”

Caroline glanced up at him again. No, damn him, he did not. He looked like a man with nothing more on his mind than reaching the bar on the far side of the room—and yet she could feel a tension in the muscle of his arm, see it in the set of his mouth.

“Besides, it is you they look at, signorina.” He gave her a quick, chill smile. “But then, that is what you want them to do, isn’t it?”

She flushed. “If you mean I want them to look at my gown, you’re correct.”

“The gown, yes.” His mouth twisted with distaste. “And the body beneath, which you display to such obvious advantage.”

They had reached the bar. Caroline took her hand carefully from his and looked at him.

“Thank you for your help, Prince,” she said coldly. “But—”

“That is not how one addresses me,” he said, his teeth showing in a humorless smile. “You may refer to me as ‘Your Excellency.’ Or ‘Your Highness.’ As you prefer, Caroline.”

The arrogant bastard! Perhaps he expected her to curtsy. Caroline drew herself to her full height.

“And I,” she said more coldly than before, “am referred to as Miss Bishop.”

He made a little bow. “Of course. Forgive me for having addressed you so informally, Miss Bishop.”

Caroline’s gaze flew to his face. His smile was more genuine this time. Anger welled within her breast. Why wouldn’t it be? He was laughing at her, the rat! A flurry of harsh retorts sprang to her mind, but she bit them back. She would not lower herself to the level he clearly thought suited her. She would, instead, walk away from him with her head high—and his unsavory hopes for the future dashed to the ground.

It was enough to make her manage a tight smile.

“That’s quite all right, Your Highness. It would seem we’ve both made errors in judgment this evening. And now, if you’ll excuse me—”

His hand clamped on to her wrist as she turned away. “Not so fast, Miss Bishop.”

Caroline looked at him over her shoulder. “Let go of me, please,” she said quietly.

“Just where do you think you are going?”

“That’s none of your bus— Ouch!” She swung around and faced him, her eyes flashing dangerously. “You’re hurting me!”

He stepped closer to her, close enough so she could smell the scent of an expensive masculine cologne, see a muscle knotting and unknotting in his jaw.

“I am not finished with you yet, Miss Bishop.”

“Listen here, you. If you think—”

A man balancing two flutes of champagne jostled against him and Sabatini glared at him, then at Caroline, and his hand wrapped firmly around her wrist.

“We will not discuss this here,” he said grimly.

“We will not discuss it anywhere, mister. If you think you’re going to get some kind of reward for—”

“You have a short memory.” His fingers were like a circle of steel around the bones of her wrist as he began moving again. Caroline had no choice but to trot alongside as he strode toward an arched doorway. “You forget how to address me—”

“I didn’t forget anything,” she said furiously. “Americans don’t bother with such nonsense.”

“—and that you are in my debt. You don’t really think I risked making a fool of myself for a quick thank-you and a handshake, do you?”

“You must be joking.”

He thrust her through the archway and into a small anteroom where a fire blazed in an ancient fireplace, then swung around and faced her, his eyes glittering coldly like chunks of a harsh autumn sky.

“Do I look as if I am joking, Miss Bishop?”

Caroline twisted her hand from his grasp.

“You’ve wasted your time, Your Highness,” she said, her tone painting the title with contempt. “If you think what happened out there gives you a claim to me—”

“Would you have preferred I leave you to the tender mercies of your American admirer?”

“I would have managed,” she said with more conviction than she felt.

“Yes.” He smiled unpleasantly. “I am sure you would. After all, an hour with a man like that is a hazard of your profession, isn’t it?”

She had no awareness of trying to strike him. She knew only that suddenly her hand was upraised, that his shot out with lightning speed and caught it in midair.

“You—you son of a bitch,” she hissed, her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath the gown, “you—you bastard. You—”

“You must learn to sheathe your claws, gattina. If you do not, you will have to pay the consequences.”

“Really?” Enraged beyond endurance, she met his look of controlled anger with one of defiance. “What will you do if I don’t? Torture me? Throw me into a dungeon at the Castello Sforzesco? In case you’d forgotten, this isn’t the Middle Ages. You can’t—”

“No. I cannot.” She gasped as his hand tightened on hers and drew it swiftly behind her back. The sudden motion brought her forward a step, so that all at once they were barely a breath apart. His eyes moved over her face and he smiled tightly. “But then, there are far more effective ways of reminding a woman who is master, signorina.”

His eyes grew dark, as they had been when Caroline had first seen him from the catwalk. He shifted his weight so that his body brushed lightly against hers. She could feel the heat of him, the hardness of muscle that lay hidden beneath the elegant cut of his dinner jacket, and all at once there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, as if the anger that burned between them could, in the flicker of a heartbeat, become something even more primitive...

“Nicolo?”

Their eyes met, and Caroline’s heart began to race. He was going to kiss her, she thought wildly, he was going to bend her back over his arm and put his mouth to her throat, and she—she would close her eyes, she would arch her body to his...

“Nicolo, you have brought her to me! Ah, che bella. I must have fallen asleep—but then, that is the prerogative of an old woman, isn’t it?”

Nicolo Sabatini blinked. He looked at Caroline like a man rising from a deep sleep, and then his face hardened. He took a rasping breath, dropped her hand and turned toward the fireplace. Caroline, heart still pounding with anger and confusion, did the same.

A woman, leaning lightly on an ebony-and-silver cane, was rising slowly from the depths of the high-backed chair that had hidden her from view. She was small, obviously frail, with silvery white hair drawn back from her face and secured in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her skin had the beautiful, paper-thin translucence of great age. But her smile was bright and her eyes—as blue as Nicolo’s—glinted with happiness.

“Nico,” she said, her eyes on Caroline’s face, “I think perhaps you should introduce us.”

Caroline watched as the Prince’s face underwent a metamorphosis. A heartbeat before, he had looked at her with blind passion, then with something that bordered on contempt. Now, as he looked at the old woman, his expression became soft, almost tender.

“Nonna.” He smiled. “I did not mean to disturb you. Were you sleeping?”

“Resting, Nico.” Her smile broadened. “It is a long time since I have had so much excitement.”

“Yes.” He gave Caroline a cool look, as if the old woman’s admission were somehow her fault. “That is true, Nonna.”

The woman smiled at Caroline. “Pay no attention to my grandson, my dear,” she said. “He is angry because I did not keep my promise to go home early. But how could I, without meeting you first?”

Caroline managed a bewildered smile in return. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Nico? Where are your manners? Introduce us.”

“Forgive me, Nonna.” He gave Caroline a quick unpleasant glance. “Caroline Bishop, may I present my grandmother, la Principessa Anna Sabatini?” His mouth twisted. “Nothing would do but that she have the honor of meeting you, signorina despite my best efforts to convince her otherwise.”

The Princess laughed. “Quite right, Signorina Bishop. I sent him into the ballroom, with instructions that he was not to return without you.”

Caroline’s head swiveled toward Nicolo Sabatini. She had been wrong, then. He had not been determined to put her in his debt because he wanted to seduce her. His intentions had been honorable, even if his behavior had left something to be desired.

A pang of conscience sent a light wash of pink into her cheeks. She still didn’t like him. He was too arrogant, too proud, too ready to sit in judgment on her, but—

“Come, Miss Bishop.” Princess Sabatini smiled and patted the chair nearest hers. “Sit here with me, and we shall chat for a while.” Sighing, she sank into her seat. “I spent much time in the States when I was a girl. New York. Wash-ington. Florida...”

The old woman’s voice trailed off. Caroline hesitated, then took a step toward the fireplace, but Nicolo Sabatini swung toward her.

“She will want to talk forever, longer than is good for her,” he said, very softly. “You will not let her.”

“No. Of course not. But I don’t understand why—”

“What an expressive face you have, cara.” He smiled coolly. “Of course you don’t. And it disturbs you to realize that I did not come after you for the reasons you thought, doesn’t it?”

Caroline’s blush deepened. “Your Excellency—”

“I am sorry to have disappointed you. It must be a rare occasion when you meet a man who does not want you in his bed.”

Her face stung as if he’d slapped it, but her eyes held defiantly to his.

“Not as rare as it is for you to meet a woman who wants to be there.”

“Basta!” His hands shot out and caught hold of her shoulders, and in that same instant, his grandmother’s voice called his name.

“Nicolo? Are you still there? Be a good boy and get us something to drink, will you, carino?” The old woman peered around and smiled. “I am sure Miss Bishop and I would both like some champagne.”

Caroline took a deep breath. What she wanted was to slap Nicolo Sabatini’s face, to stalk out of the Sala dell’Arte and never look back.

But the Princess Sabatini was no more responsible for her egotistical grandson than she was for tonight’s overblown charity event. She was merely an old woman who wanted to spend a few minutes in nostalgic memory of long-ago visits to America.

Caroline gave Nicolo a final cold glare as she wrenched free of him.

“Champagne would be lovely,” she said, and she made her way to the Princess’s side.




CHAPTER THREE


TRISH YAWNED as she came padding into the kitchen the next morning. She headed straight for the coffeepot.

“Mmmf,” she said, wincing at the bright sunlight streaming through the window.

Caroline, who was seated at the table trying to make sense of at least the headlines in Osservatore Milano, looked up.

“And a cheery good morning to you, too,” she said mildly.

Trish made a face as she poured herself coffee. “There is no such thing as a good morning,” she grumped, burying her face in the fragrant steam rising from the cup. She took several gulping swallows before finally lifting her head. “Not until after I’ve had my first sip of coffee,” she said. “You should know that by now.”

Caroline grinned. “I do—but it doesn’t keep me from hoping that some morning you’ll come bouncing into the kitchen with a smile on your face—”

“And a song in my heart.” Trish shuddered as she collapsed onto the chair opposite Caroline’s. “Not unless you believe in miracles, I won’t.” She sipped at her coffee again, then put down the cup and propped her head on her hand. “Well?”

Caroline looked up from the paper again. “Well, what?”

“What do you mean, ‘Well, what?’ You know what I’m asking. What’s happening?”

Caroline searched the other girl’s face and saw the question there. A faint wash of color rose under her skin as she rose from the table and walked to the counter.

“The usual,” Caroline said, deliberately choosing to misunderstand the question. “Suzie and Giulia haven’t showed up yet.”

“It’s only 8:00 a.m.” Trish made a face. “They’re probably still partying. I meant, what’s happening with you?”

“With me?” Caroline hesitated. “Well, I don’t have anything scheduled until this afternoon, so I thought I’d try getting in to see Signor Silvio and see if I can pry my money free of his sticky grasp.” She filled her cup with fresh coffee. “Honestly, how they get away with such stuff—it’s bad enough they take a large commission, but to sit on the money as long as they do...”

“I didn’t mean that, and you know it.”

Caroline turned slowly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Come on, this is me, remember? I was at that party last night, the same as you.”

“So?”

“So,” Trish said patiently, “we left the Sala dell’Arte together, we bought gelati and gained a billion calories eating it, we came home, scrubbed the goo off our faces and plopped into our beds—and in all that time, you never said a word worth hearing.”

Caroline frowned. “What does that mean?”

“You know what it means. Everyone saw that gorgeous prince carry you off—”

“Oh, come on!”

“Well, he did! He saved you from the clutches of the greasy little man by carrying you off to that back room—”

“It was an anteroom.”

“—and closing the door. And—”

“It didn’t even have a door! Dammit, Trish—”

“And you didn’t come out again for an hour,” the other girl said triumphantly. “And when you did, you didn’t say a word about what had happened in there to anybody!”

Caroline’s brows lifted. “Nobody asked,” she said wryly.

“Well, I’m asking now. You can tell me. I won’t breathe a word.”

“All right,” she said, after a moment. Her eyes met Trish’s. “I had a chat with the Prince’s grandmother.”

The other girl stared. “You did what with who?”

Caroline grinned. “I met his grandmother, the Princess Sabatini.” She took a sip of coffee. “And we talked for a while.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. Want some more coffee?”

“What did you talk about?” Trish demanded, her expression a mixture of bemusement and incredulity.

“This and that. The States, what I’ve managed to see of Italy... Actually, I think I reminded her of someone. She kept saying I look like Adrianna. Or Arianna.” Caroline shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever. It was pleasant—and it was harmless. In fact, it was fun.”

“Fun,” the other girl echoed.

“Yeah. She sort of reminded me of my own grandmother, back in Vermont.” Caroline smiled slightly. “It was nice. Really. She’s a sweet old lady.”

Trish leaned back in her chair and grinned. “Well, that’s a novel way to get to a man’s heart. Some girls show a guy they’re terrific cooks—and my roommate shows him she can make friends with his granny! Interesting approach, kid. Did it work?”

Caroline grimaced. “What do you mean, did it work? I told you, it had nothing to do with Nicolo Sabatini. Once he’d introduced me to the Princess, he never said another word.” She looked at Trish across the rim of her cup. “As for finding his heart—the only way I’d want to do that is with an ice pick.”

Her roommate giggled. “I take it you weren’t swept off your feet by the guy.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Still, he was interested in you. Come on, come on, don’t try and deny it. Giulia told me he was looking at you the way a starving man looks at a plate of pasta.”

“An apt description if I ever heard one. Trust me, Trish. You’ve met the type before. He sees women as a movable feast—and himself as first in line at the table.”

Trish nodded. “He made a pass, huh?”

Caroline remembered that moment when she had thought Nicolo was going to take her in his arms. She remembered the heat in his eyes, the promise...

“Right?”

Shrugging, she turned away from Trish’s bright look of inquiry. “More or less.”

“And you, being you, set him straight.” Trish grinned. “I wish I’d been there to hear it. What’d you say? ‘Prince, I’m not interested?’”

“You don’t address him that way.”

“What way?”

“You don’t call him ‘Prince.’”

“No?”

“No.” The girls’ eyes met. “Now that I think about it, back home Prince is either the name of a rock singer—or a dog,” Caroline said slowly. “You know—’here, Prince. Stay, Prince. Sit, Prince.’”

“‘Down, Prince,’” Trish added helpfully.

They smiled, giggled, and all at once they were whooping with laughter. Caroline collapsed into a chair.

“Thank you,” she gasped.

“For what?” Trish said, holding her sides.

For putting last night into perspective, Caroline thought. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she smiled.

“For putting me in the right frame of mind for facing that rat Silvio. After all, asking him why my pay’s late is always good for a laugh.”

* * *

IT WAS ALWAYS difficult—sometimes impossible—to get an appointment with the head of the agency’s Milan office, or, at least, it was like that if you were one of the agency’s models. Silvio’s receptionist was always terribly sorry, but il signore was busy.

But not today. To Caroline’s surprise, the woman actually sounded pleased to hear her name.

“Signorina Bishop,” she said, “I was about to call you. Signor Silvio wishes to see you.”

Caroline stared at the telephone in her hand. “He does?”

“He has a job he wishes to discuss with you. Will ten o’clock be convenient?”

Caroline said that it would, then hung up. Silvio never discussed jobs, he simply assigned them. Her pulse gave a thud. She’d heard of an opening for a showroom model at one of the better fashion houses on the Via Montenapoleone; despite the agency’s insistence on scouting all jobs itself, she had gone around to the house and applied for the position herself, listing International Models as representing her. Could it be...?

It was too much to hope for. Still, as she made her way up the narrow staircase to the agency office at five minutes to ten, it was hard to contain her excitement. Modeling at Adorno’s would be steady work; it would pay well and, even after the agency took its cut, she’d have money left over. And the designers at Adorno’s had an eye for fashion. There’d be so much to learn about fabric, about draping...

The receptionist looked up as Caroline pushed the door open.

“Ah, Signorina Bishop. You are right on time.”

Caroline nodded. “Yes. Is Signor Silvio—”

“He is waiting for you.” The woman leaned across her typewriter and flashed a smile so chummy it was almost a grin. “There is nothing like an excellent opportunity to make a girl prompt, eh, signorina?”

An excellent opportunity. Caroline’s heart thudded again. She was right, then. Adorno’s had telephoned the agency. They wanted her. Oh, Lord, they wanted—

One of the doors swung open and Silvio emerged, both hands held out to her, his round face beaming.

“My dear,” he said. “Please, do not stand outside. Come in, come in, and sit down.”

Caroline fought back the urge to glance over her shoulder and make certain he was really talking to her. She smiled hesitantly, ignored the outstretched hands, and stepped into Silvio’s office. It was sparsely furnished and grimy. A smudged window overlooked an alleyway. To the right, a partially opened door led to a connecting office.

He motioned her to a chair opposite his desk.

“Would you care for some coffee? No? Tea, then.” He gave a forced laugh. “I never remember which it is you American girls prefer, my dear, coffee or tea—or is it chocolate? I am certain my girl can—”

“No,” Caroline said quickly, “thank you, signore, but I don’t want anything.” She swallowed. “I just—I’d like to talk about this job offer.”

Silvio’s smile seemed to slip a notch. “Of course. I simply thought you might wish to make yourself comfortable before we did.”

“I appreciate that.” She drew her breath. “But—but I’m just so delighted about it, that—”

“You know of it, then?”

“Well, yes. Sure.” Caroline hesitated. “It was my idea, after all.”

His eyes widened. “Yours?”

She nodded. “Yes. I know we’re not supposed to solicit jobs for ourselves, but—”

Silvio laughed a shade too heartily. “No, no, that’s fine.” He leaned forward. “But must we use that word, solicit? Such a nasty word, don’t you think? As for worrying about my displeasure...” He spread his hands. “If our girls are enterprising enough to find unique positions for themselves, who are we to object?”

She nodded again, all thought of her overdue money forgotten in her excitement. “I hoped you’d see it that way, signore. When do I start?”

Grinning, he tilted his chair back on its legs and folded his hands across his ample paunch.

“I must say, Signorina Bishop, your—enthusiasm—surprises me. You are not known for having such a cooperative spirit.”

“I think I’ve been very cooperative,” Caroline said quickly. “No designer has ever complained about me.”

“Well, not the designers, no.” He gave an expressive shrug. “But some of the clients...”

Last night. That damned buyer with honey on his voice and whoring in his heart...Caroline shifted in her chair.

“If you’re referring to what happened at the Sala dell’Arte,” she said, “I’m sorry. I never intended to make a scene, but—”

“You need not explain, signorina.” Silvio’s chair hit the floor with a thud as he leaned forward again. “It has all worked out for the best, yes? The gentleman was most pleased. He has made an excellent offer to us, and—”

Caroline blinked. “I thought it was a woman who ran the House of Adorno.”

“Adorno? What has Adorno to do with this arrangement?”

“Why—why that’s the job, the one I went after.” She stared at his blank face. “Isn’t that what we’re discussing?”

Silvio threw a quick glance at the connecting door. “We are discussing the offer made us this morning by His Highness, the Prince. He has agreed to—”

Caroline felt the blood drain from her face. “The Prince? Do you mean—Nicolo Sabatini?”

“Exactly. He had agreed to pay us more than our usual commission—well, I explained, of course, that we would need ample compensation to lend him one of our girls for such unusual services, and I must say—”

“Services?” Caroline leaped to her feet. “Services? Are you insane?” She slammed her hands on the desk and papers flew in every direction. “I don’t perform ‘services'!”

“Signorina, please. You must calm yourself.” Silvio looked at the door again. “I only meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant, you pig!” Her voice shook with rage. “You and that—that slimy Prince, that—that—that—”

“Slimy?”

Caroline spun toward the connecting door. Nicolo Sabatini, dressed in a navy pinstriped suit, white shirt and crimson silk tie, smiled at her.

“I am disappointed, Miss Bishop. I have seen enough American films to have expected something more colorful than that.”

“Yeah? Well, stick around, Prince,” she said, her tone making it clear that her deliberate misuse of the title was meant to insult him. “Give me a minute and I’ll come up with something that will turn your face the same color as your tie!”

Silvio rose to his feet. “Your Highness—”

“Get out, Silvio.”

“Excellency, I was just about to explain the details of your proposition to the signorina—”

“With all the subtlety at your command, no doubt.” Nicolo jerked his head toward the door that led out to the reception area. “You’ve done enough,” he said sharply. “Now, get out!”

Silvio’s chair scraped as he shoved it back. He rounded the desk quickly, made an apologetic bow of his head to Nicolo, frowned at Caroline, and scurried to the door. It opened, then swung shut.

Nicolo blew out his breath. “So much for leaving things to those who are the least capable,” he said. He walked slowly toward the desk. “Please, Miss Bishop, won’t you be seated?”

“No.” Caroline tossed her head. “There’s no point. If you think your—your wonderful offer is going to sound any better coming from you than from that—that pig—”

“He is not a pig at all.”

“No? Well, I suppose not, considering your part in this sleazy little scheme. But—”

“He is another animal entirely.” Nicolo scowled, leaned back against the desk, and crossed his arms over his chest. “The man is an ass.”

“I’m telling you, he’s—he’s...” She stared at him. “An ass?”

“Exactly so. And you, Miss Bishop, are a fool.”

Caroline’s brows lifted. “I beg your pardon?”

“Didn’t I make myself clear last night? Then let me do so this morning. I am not interested in buying your services.”

“Oh, please! I’ve just sat through the most incredible proposition, and now you expect me to believe—”

“A business proposition. I do not buy my women,” Nicolo said coldly.

“No?” Her smile was thin. “What do you do, then? Shower them with expensive gifts to keep the lie alive? Is that what Silvio was going to explain to me next, that you’d agreed to pay the agency a commission but that you were going to give me—what? Jewels? A diamond ring? A fur coat? After you’d enjoyed my services, of course.”

A cool smile curved across his lips. “I see you put a high value on yourself, Miss Bishop.”

Caroline’s head came up. “Believe me,” she said quietly, “you could never afford me, Your Highness.”

The smile came again, quicker and somehow more knowing than last time.

“I would not have to,” he said softly.

“Listen here—”

“Because, if I wanted you, you would come to my bed eagerly, carina.”

“That’s it,” she said, flushing with anger. She turned away. “Don’t think it hasn’t been interesting.”

He stepped away from the desk and moved toward her. His hands closed on her shoulders.

“Let me go,” she said.

“Why do you deny it?” A muscle moved in his cheek. “What is between us is—”

She twisted angrily against his grasp. “Is intense dislike!”

Nicolo laughed softly. “I agree.” His hands slid up her throat and cupped her face. “But what has that to do with desire?”

“My God, how you flatter yourself! I don’t desire you, Prince Sabatini. In fact—”

His fingers brushed lightly across her lips, tracing a path of flame that she felt even in the midst of her anger.

“I have heard that you play this game,” he said softly.

“It’s not a game, damn you! If you don’t stop this—”

“On the contrary. And it is most effective. It gives a man the feeling that you must be won.” He smiled as his thumbs skimmed lightly across her cheekbones. “Or taken. It cannot be a simple illusion for you to maintain, when you know you’ve given yourself many times before.”

Caroline caught his wrists. “You bastard! What gives you the right to talk to me this way? Is it because I’ve hurt that insufferable ego of yours? Was I supposed to fall in a heap when the great Prince Nicolo Sabatini made a pass at me?”

A deep furrow appeared between his dark brows. “You delude yourself, Caroline. I made no pass.”

“Liar!”

His nostrils flared. “I don’t lie. Ever.”

“Well, you’re lying now.”

His hands fell away from her. “If you were a man,” he said furiously, “I would—”

“Yes. That’s the trouble, isn’t it?” She showed her teeth in a taunting smile. “I’m not a man, and you can’t deal with the fact that I’m just not interested.”

“The only reason I so much as spoke to you last night,” he said through his teeth, “was because of my grandmother.”

“Really? Well, where’s your grandmother today? Or are you going to tell me you made Silvio this—this proposition on her behalf, too?”

“Yes. I did.” His voice changed; she could hear the sudden edge to it, the tone of imperious command. “La Principessa wants to see you.”

“My God, that’s pathetic! You’re hiding behind an old woman who’s not here to defend herself!”

“It is, unfortunately, the truth. I would prefer it otherwise, but she has asked for you.”

Caroline shrugged her shoulders. “Well, that’s nice. But I’m afraid you’ll have to tell her that the days when Rome ruled the world are over. I’m busy.”

Nicolo’s nostrils flared with distaste. “I am sure that you are. But her wish is important to me. I have promised to bring you to her.”

“How unfortunate for you.” She turned and started for the door. “Look, tell her that you tried, okay? Tell her you did your best, but—”

“She is ill.”

The words were delivered with a flatness that stopped her with her hand on the door.

“Ill?” she said slowly, as she turned toward him.

“Yes.”

There was only the one word, but something in the way he looked made her hesitate.

“She was fine last night.”

Nicolo laughed hollowly. “How fine can a woman be at La Principessa’s age?” He thrust his hands into his pants pockets, stalked to the grimy window, and peered out into the alley. “It is as much my fault as hers. I should not have let her attend that ridiculous affair, but she insisted.”

Caroline touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. “She’s probably just overtired.”

He sighed. “That is what I hope. A day or two of rest, some clear broth...” He turned and looked at her. “And a visit from you, Caroline. It would do much for her, I think.”

Caroline stared at him. Was he telling her the truth? Was his grandmother really ill, or was this only a ploy?

No matter what undercurrents had passed between them last night, it had been true enough that it was la Principessa who’d sent her grandson to collect her at the Sala dell’Arte. And even she had to admit that what she’d seen the Prince show the old woman had seemed to be genuine respect and affection—

“It is as Silvio, that fool, told you. But not as he made it sound. I will pay the agency’s usual commission for your services, plus a bonus for any inconvenience this causes them in their scheduling. And I will pay you your regular hourly fee plus fifty per cent. If you think there is a more equitable arrangement to be made, you have only to say so.”

“All this, if I’ll agree to visit your grandmother.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I can see why Silvio was so happy. It’s a generous offer.”

“Certainly it is.” A smile twisted across his lips. “You do not often spend your time with the elderly, do you?”

Caroline felt her cheeks flame. Damn the man! He was doing it again, saying one thing but making it sound like quite another. But then, he was a man used to buying whatever he wanted, a man used to having his own way.

“Well? Are we in agreement?”

“No.” The word slipped from her lips. “No,” she said more forcefully, “we are not. I’m afraid I’m not for sale, Your Highness. I’m sorry your grandmother’s not feeling well, but it has nothing to do with me.”

His eyes went dark. “I see.”

“Give her my best, please, but explain that I’m very busy, that I can’t possibly—”

“Oh, I know what to tell her,” Nicolo said sharply. “It’s what I should have told her last night, when she sent me after you.” He strode toward her, his shoulder brushing hard against hers as he headed for the door. “I shall explain that you’ve no time in your life for such nonsense. What is an old woman’s heart when compared to the joys of dancing half naked down a catwalk while the world watches?”

“That’s insane. I don’t dance half...” Caroline swung around and looked after him. “What do you mean, her heart? What’s wrong with her heart?”

“Nothing, except that you have somehow touched it. But then, I have never subscribed to the myth that wisdom accompanies old age.” His hand closed around the doorknob. “Good morning, Miss Bishop.”

“Wait.” She took a deep breath. “Did she really ask for me?”

A look of distaste fluttered across Nicolo’s face. “Why else would I be here?”

She hesitated. “I did like your grandmother. She was very sweet and kind, and...” Caroline took another breath. “All right. I’ll go see her.”

She saw the look of surprise on Sabatini’s face but then, he couldn’t have been any more surprised than she was. She had certainly not planned on saying that, it was just that there was no reason to hate an old woman just because you hated her insufferable grandson, especially when she reminded you, in some indefinable way, of your own grandmother—but why should she explain any of that to this man? She could see that he was at a loss for words—which was reason enough for her to be pleased with her impetuous decision.

He nodded, then shifted from one foot to the other. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I should say thank you.”

“And graciously, I’m sure,” Caroline said dryly. “But you needn’t bother.” She smiled tightly. “I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for your grandmother. Besides, I don’t want anything from you, Your Highness. Not a thing.”

Nicolo stiffened. “I could not have said it better myself,” he said coldly. “Now, let me get Silvio in here with a contract—”

“You misunderstood me,” she said sharply. “You can sign whatever papers you like with the agency. You’re quite right, they will lose money on me today.” Her eyes met his. “But I won’t take a penny from you for visiting the Princess.”

Nicolo’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

“It’s really quite simple. I don’t want to be paid for going with you to see your grandmother. It’s a visit, not a business deal. Do you understand?”

He stared at her while the seconds flew past, and then he shook his head.

“No,” he said flatly, “I do not.”

Caroline smiled slightly. “I didn’t think you would. But that’s the deal, Your Highness. Take it or leave it.”

He frowned, and his gaze moved slowly over her face. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Very well. If that is how you wish it—”

“It’s the only way.”

Nicolo nodded and pulled the door open. Silvio, crouched just outside, all but tumbled into the room.

“Oh,” she said sweetly, “be careful, signore. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Silvio nodded nervously, his eyes darting like black ants from her to Nicolo.

“Grazie, signorina. I appreciate your concern.”

“The lady is quite right, Silvio.” Nicolo smiled tightly. “If you’re going to get your neck broken, I want the pleasure of doing it.”

“Signore, please—”

“Come on, man, get moving! Where’s the contract? And where do I sign it?”

The agency chief almost groaned with happiness. “Right there, sir,” he said, whipping a document from the desk. He beamed at Nicolo. “The signorina is going with you, then?”

Nicolo’s eyes met Caroline’s. “Yes,” he said shortly, “she is.”

Scowling, he scanned the page, then scrawled his name at the bottom.

“Signorina?” Silvio said, pushing the paper toward her. Nicolo’s scowl deepened.

“She is not signing it,” he said.

“Not...? But—”

Nicolo brushed past Silvio and clasped Caroline’s arm. “Let’s get going,” he said brusquely.

She nodded. “Absolutely. The sooner I’ve seen your grandmother, the sooner I can say goodbye to you for the last time. And what a relief that will be!”

She had meant to put him in his place. He looked down at her, at her outthrust chin and flashing eyes, and, to her surprise, he laughed, really laughed, in a way he had not done before.

“Do you always speak your mind, signorina?”

“Yes,” she said. “Always.”

His eyes darkened just a little. “It is an interesting quality in a woman,” he said, “one I have not encountered before.”

“Well then,” she said as she swept past him out the door, “you’re in for a bumpy ride.”

“Yes,” he said, and he laughed again in that same, easy way.

For the very first time, Caroline wondered if she had let her instincts mislead her. But by then Nicolo was hurrying her down the steps, out of the building, and into a black Mercedes limousine.

It was too late to wonder about anything.




CHAPTER FOUR


A MERCEDES. Of course, Caroline thought as she settled inside the car. It would have to be something like this, an expensive limousine with a uniformed chauf-feur and darkly tinted glass that guaranteed privacy. What other sort of automobile would a man like Nicolo Sabatini have?





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