She threw herself into her work harder than ever, doing anything that was asked of her, from pinning hems to sweeping the design-room floor to helping the showroom models with their makeup, and all the while she counted the days until she could leave this city and go back to New York, where she belonged. The only thing she ever refused to do was to model.
But one morning, when she was only days from going home, two of the girls called in ill with summer colds. Raimondo, the designer, was frantic; an oil-rich sheikh was coming in for a private showing with his wives. There was no way to show the entire collection smoothly with two models missing.
“Caroline,” he pleaded in his rich Italian basso profundo, “you have modeled professionally, no? Per favore, you must help me just this once.”
Her immediate inclination was to turn him down. But he had been very kind to her the past few weeks, and she knew he was right, that the showing would be a fiasco if it went on this way.
She told herself she could manage this one last stint. It wasn’t catwalk modeling, it was a private showing; all she had to do was stroll through the small showroom, mount a carpeted platform faced with mirrors, look elegant and disinterested while the sheikh’s wives made their selections.
“Caroline? Just this once, yes?”
She sighed. “All right.”
Raimondo kissed her on both cheeks, then clapped his hands and began barking out orders. Caroline fell easily into the old, familiar routine. Out of her own clothing, into the clothing marked off for her on the design board, a quick check of hair and makeup, smile, toss back your shoulders, strut out from behind the curtain that separated the studio from the private showroom and stride the length of it to the platform and turn, step, step, turn.
It wasn’t as awful as she’d anticipated, partly because she greatly admired Raimondo’s talent, partly because the audience was so small, just the sheikh, his wives, a handful of retainers, and a couple of the sheikh’s Italian business associates brought along to translate—although one of the businessmen kept giving her glances that made her uncomfortable. She even thought he looked vaguely familiar, but then she realized it must be the type that seemed familiar. He was the sort of man she’d seen far too much of when she’d worked in Milan for International Models.
Afterward, Raimondo kissed her again.
“You see? That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” he said, and, when Caroline admitted that it hadn’t been, he said that in that case, would she please agree to do another private showing in midafternoon? The request had just come in.
Caroline sighed. She had survived this morning; how difficult would a repeat performance be?
But that afternoon, something made her hesitate just before she stepped out from behind the curtain. Her heart began to pound frantically, as if she were having an anxiety attack—but she wasn’t prone to anything like anxiety attacks.
“Andiamo, andiamo,” Raimondo whispered urgently.
Caroline nodded, drew a deep breath, made her entrance…
And came to a dead stop. Nicolo! Oh, God, he was here! He was in this room.
Raimondo’s voice hissed again from behind the curtain. She stumbled forward, her legs leaden, afraid to let her eyes sweep the room, afraid not to. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe…
She was none of those things. Once she’d stepped onto the platform, there was nothing to do but turn, step, step, turn and nowhere to look but straight ahead.
The room swam around her. There he was, Prince Nicolo Sabatini, standing at the rear of the showroom, completely alone, his arms folded over his chest, watching her exactly as he had the first time she’d set eyes on him, with such a fierce blend of desire and anger that her heart leaped into her throat.
Look him in the eye, Caroline told herself. But Gram’s advice wasn’t working. Looking Nicolo in the eye only made her knees feel as if they were going to buckle. She glanced away, but she knew Nicolo’s gaze never left her. She had no choice but to stand like a gazelle frozen by the cruel gaze of the lion.
She was barely aware of the other models joining her on the platform, followed by Raimondo himself, something he did only for very important clients.
He cleared his throat delicately. “Would il Principe like to see the gowns again?”
Nicolo stirred, leaned away from the wall, walked slowly forward, his eyes never leaving Caroline.
“I wish to see that one,” he said coldly, nodding at her. “The others may leave.”
The designer clapped his hands and the other girls exited the room. Caroline wanted to go, too, but her feet felt rooted to the platform.
Nicolo looked at the designer. “You may leave, as well.”
“I, Your Highness?” Raimondo said, surprise coloring his voice.
Nicolo waved his hands imperiously. “Sì. Parte! Get out of here! How many times must I say it?”
It was the arrogant gesture and the insolent tone, that freed her.
“How dare you order people around that way?” she said.
Raimondo turned white. “Caroline!” His eyes darted from her to Nicolo and he babbled an apology, half in Italian, half in English. “Signorina Bishop is not familiar with our ways—”
“No. She is not.” Nicolo’s mouth twisted as he stopped before the platform and looked up at her. “It is only her own customs she respects.”
“What—what would Your Highness like to know about this gown? The fabric? The colors? Just tell me, Excellency, and—”
“That was your friend who was here this morning, wasn’t it?” Caroline said. “I remember now—Antony, Antonio—”
“Antonini.” Nicolo smiled coldly. “Yes. He remembered you, as well, from that night at the Sala dell’Arte. He thought he would do me a service by telling me that the Ice Princess who had caught my eye was right here, in Roma.”
“Caroline. Your Highness.” The designer wrung his hands. “Please. If there is a problem—”
“I don’t know why you came here, Nicolo. We’ve nothing more to say to each other.”
“We have a great deal to say. Get some clothing on. I will wait.”
Caroline laughed incredulously. “Just listen to you.” Her voice dropped t
o a cruel low. “‘Get some clothing on,’” she mimicked. “‘I will wait.’” She stepped forward, her hands on her hips. “You’re damned right, you’ll wait. You’ll wait till hell freezes over, because I am not—”
“Would you prefer me to carry you to your dressing room, strip that gown from your body, and dress you myself?”
She stared at him, her face turning white with anger as she heard Raimondo’s indrawn gasp. He would do it, too; she knew he would. After a moment, she spun on her heel and stalked across the platform to the door that led to the large communal dressing room.
The models, who were clustered at the door, stepped quickly out of her way.
“Caroline?” one whispered. “What’s happening?”
“Something that should have happened weeks ago,” she snapped. “Apparently, some men need to have things spelled out for them.”
She pulled off the gown, kicked off the matching shoes, and dragged on the outfit she found most comfortable for working in the studio, a pair of worn denims and a baggy cotton T-shirt with “I Love New York” printed on it. She slapped a handful of cold cream on her face and tissued off the exaggerated makeup she’d worn for the showing, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, laced on her sneakers, and stalked back to the showroom where Raimondo was hovering over a glowering Nicolo.
“Signorina Bishop, per favore… If you would explain…”
“This has nothing to do with you,” she said kindly. Her chin rose as she looked at Nicolo. “You could at least assure him of that,” she snapped.
Nicolo’s eyebrows lifted, but he nodded. “She is right, signore. I apologize for my temper and any inconvenience I have caused you, and I assure you that my grandmother will adore the things you showed me today. She will want to order everything.”
“Everything?” the designer whispered.
Nicolo waved his hand. “Of course. I shall have her call you, yes?”
“Yes. Oh, certainly. Thank you, sir. Thank—”
“Basta!” Nicolo clasped Caroline’s arm. Raimondo’s words of gratitude faded as he hurried her out the showroom door to the street.