Roman Spring

“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.”