Be My Bride: The Right Mr Wrong / A Most Suitable Wife / Betrothed for the Baby. Natalie Anderson
finder.’ He swiped and tapped at the screen. ‘I’m locating the nearest.’
‘Liam,’ she chuckled. ‘We’re leaning against the wall of a hotel right here.’
‘We are?’ He glanced up at the flag hanging on the corner of the building. ‘Thank God. Let’s get in there.’ He peeled away from the wall and took her hand in a death grip—but she was the one who led the way.
‘Together.’ She turned her head back to smile at him.
He stopped, tugging on her hand so she stopped too. He planted a kiss on her lips and then whispered, ‘Finally and for always.’
‘No. No, no, no, no, no.’ Vivi Grace shook her head at the woman who owned every minute of her existence.
‘Too bad,’ Gianetta growled, stretching out her hand, her fingers crab-snapping. ‘No option. She’s throwing one of her worst.’
No kidding. The current hissy fit would be heard three streets away and Vivi was only five feet from ground zero, her ears basically bleeding. Gritting back a helpless giggle, Vivi unclasped her bra and wriggled the straps out from the sleeves of her shirt. Good thing she stayed out back—she’d never be seen in public without boob containment. ‘The things I do for you.’ And for the spoilt brat who was the bane of her life.
‘You’re paid ridiculous amounts of money to do them.’ Gia took the bra and glided across the room in her inimitable hovercraft style.
Vivi watched, grinning at the woman’s élan. Impossible as it was, Gia was more mesmerising and unique than her million-dollar creations. But what she’d said was true and, not only did Vivi need the money, she was driven to nail every aspect of this job. It might be completely crazy at times, but she loved her work. And given her relative youth and inexperience, Vivi still felt compelled to prove herself. She had to be better than brilliant and she worked hard to be—twenty-four/three-sixty-five.
So if the brat wanted to wear Vivi’s bra, she’d wear her bra. Definitely one of the more mortifying things Vivi’d been asked to offer up in the last four years, but no real surprise. For the biggest events of the season—New York, Paris, London and this, Milan—she did whatever it took. Tonight Alannah Dixon, global supermodel du jour, would wear the ultimate haute couture design of Gianetta Forli, supreme fashion queen and Vivi’s ‘every-minute-you’re-breathing’ boss. It was the grande finale of the most fab collection and not a thing would go wrong. Not on Vivi’s watch.
As Gia handed Alannah the bra Vivi was unable to stop herself from stating the obvious. ‘You’ll need to sew it or something, I’m way wider round the ribs.’ She really shouldn’t apologise. Only an eight-year-old starving orphan would be narrower.
‘The point is you’re fuller,’ Gia muttered, already working a needle. ‘The dress needs breasts.’
So why had Gia designed it for boobs when she’d known it would be ironing-board Alannah wearing it? Vivi bit back the bitchy thought. ‘Got some stuffing?’
‘Plenty.’ Gia growled. ‘You’ve lost weight, Alannah.’
‘I couldn’t help it,’ Alannah whined as Gia deftly sewed a few last stitches into the fantasy frock. ‘I couldn’t eat last week.’
Vivi rolled her eyes. It was a guy. Alannah had lost her heart and her appetite with it. Again. She was master of the ‘crush from afar’, actors or musicians her favourite objets de lust, but when she actually met the guy in question, she was invariably disappointed in the reality. As a result, the world knew she was impossibly hard to please—which made her all the more attractive to many, many successful and overly assured men. Alannah the Unattainable.
If anyone bothered to think about it, they might call Vivi unattainable too. She didn’t do crushes, flings or full-blown affairs. She didn’t do anything. Definitely not during Milan Fashion Week. And she’d not eaten that much these last few days either, she’d been wired on nervous energy and a ‘to do’ list centuries long.
Braless and feeling as if she were bouncing all over the place, she stepped out to the main changing area to ensure everything else was going to plan. Some of the stylists saw her and immediately straightened and moved faster.
Good.
As Gia’s personal secretary she had serious kudos. She was the person responsible for organising absolutely everything and everyone knew it. If anyone wanted to get to Gia, to impress Gia, even talk to Gia, they had to get through Vivi first. She was Girl Friday, Bouncer, Therapist, Exercise Buddy, Travel Agent, Punch Bag, Publicist, Chauffeur, Cook, Calendar, Cleaner, Censor, Enforcer, Enabler, Receptionist and more, all rolled into one.
Vivi turned away from the hordes of hairdressers and stylists, mentally preparing for the clean-up and post-show party mayhem. She rolled her shoulders, uncomfortable without her bra. Not physically, but because she worked hard to maintain her scary ‘fail-me-and-you-die’ persona. There was only success or failure and she ensured all staff and contractors knew it—from her attitude, speech and image. Her crisp white shirt and tailored black skirt reflected her all-business approach. Inoffensive, unobtrusive, efficient—it wasn’t her job to look outrageous. Although just this second Vivi wished she’d worn some scarlet lace number that would’ve shown through the dress. But Gia knew Vivi always wore skin-coloured support under her starched exterior. She was nothing if not reliable.
Right now A-listers lined the front row, trying not to rip into the goody bags Vivi had ordered. She always had her pick of gifts to include; many companies sought an affiliation with Gia’s label. Most were rejected. Only the elite were accepted—ensuring they became even more sought after. For another company, getting Gia’s nod was like striking gold. Vivi didn’t go to watch their glee, she stayed out back, clipboard, laptop and phone in hand—one eye on the security screens, one eye on the models before they went to Gia for final inspection, one eye on the technicians, one eye on the clean-up already. Yeah, she needed a lot of eyes, a few ears and several extra arms as well.
Quickly checking the nearest monitor, Vivi saw the models strutting evening-wear. One second ’til Alannah claimed centre-stage with her Vivi-bra boobs. She walked back to the private dressing room to get ready for the next phase. The monitor in there didn’t capture audio but she could hear the applause thundering through the walls anyway. She paused from her manic paper-shuffling and smiled at the screen as Gia then appeared, owning the catwalk alongside Alannah, taking the adulation.
Vivi frequently pinched herself, still unable to believe she’d had the luck to land a job with Gia and then be promoted to such a coveted position. Hundreds would kill—or worse—for her job. She met amazing people, went to incredible places. But as the applause faded she sat on the leather sofa, more than a little tired. Her post-show crash was hitting too soon.
‘Vivi!’ Gia’s strident tones echoed down the corridor. ‘I need you.’
Naturally. Vivi inhaled deep, hoping for a hit of energy. Gianetta needed her for the most basic things. Not merely organisational skills and people management—being secretary to a creative genius meant hand-holding on a whole new level.
Other voices grew louder. A burst of Alannah giggles was underscored by deep male laughter. Great. Vivi frowned. Guests were coming already too? She glanced round for her jacket but it was nowhere to be seen and her bra was still sewn to Alannah’s dress.
‘We need drinks, Vivi!’ Alannah sang. ‘I’ve found a friend.’
Of course. Vivi shook her head. Time to forget about her boobs’ bounceability. She lifted one of the already opened bottles and filled a couple of the flutes on the nearby tray, briefly wondering about Alannah’s human appetite suppressant. Was he her usual elite A-list actor type, or an extremely wealthy