Roman Spring. Sandra Marton
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.