Roman Spring. Sandra Marton
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