Sandra Marton - Roman Spring

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.

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.”