Sandra Marton - Roman Spring

“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.”