Out of the car and happy to stretch my legs, I strut across the tarmac one step behind Dante like I’ve done this a million times. What is it that Ava says? Fake it ‘til you make it? Something like that.
I’m not going to be some shrinking violet in his presence. I’m sure he’s had his share of women and I’m not trying to compete with any of them, but with the right tools, maybe I can give him something other than work to think about.
As soon as we have boarded the jet and settled in our seats, a flight attendant hands us each a mimosa. This is something I could get used to. Then my eyes catch a few more bodyguards sitting in the twelve-seater jet who look like they went to the same school as Mr. Secret Service. An hour later, the stewardess collects our empty glasses as we prepare to land. Looking out the window, I see snowcapped mountains in the distance and assume we must have flown north.
Following Dante down the narrow steps of the plane, I ask, “Where are we?”
“Hmm, I’m surprised you don’t know. I’ll give you a clue,” he jests, “The Last Supperis here.”
I keep up with his long strides across the tarmac and think quickly. “Oh, you mean Milan?”
“Very good, Juliet,” he replies with a smile. I love how my name rolls off his tongue and wonder what it would sound like if he moaned it instead.
So, this is Milan, the capital of fashion and design and home of the famousThe Last Supperby Leonardo da Vinci, located in the Santa Maria delle Grazie church. I couldn’t call myself an art student if I didn’t know that. It’s exciting to be here in person. Leo is one of my favorite artists, and Mom and I always watch the annual runway fashion shows on television, but I wish this trip was under slightly different circumstances.
I follow Dante as we climb into a large black SUV waiting for us outside the airport. This time, Dante is in the back seat with me, and it crosses my mind to make a break for it, but where would I go?
Part of me is intrigued by this mysterious man sitting next to me. I catch a whiff of citrus and salt with a manly hint of leather coming off him when the air-conditioning vent blows it past my nose. It’s like a breeze off the Mediterranean. I wonder at his intent. He sat in the front seat on the way to the airport this morning. Why switch it up now?
I know he thinks ahead, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s a master at manipulation. Meanwhile, the aroma is delicious enough to cause a tingling sensation in my crotch. In my nervousness, I squirm in my seat and my thigh rubs against his.
I can only imagine that he’s been watching and following me for some time. To know where I live, to show up at my university . . . judging from the new panties I received this morning, he even knows what kind of underwear I like. I find it unnerving and yet flattering that he’s taken the time to think of all these details, even if his hired goons actually carried out the tasks.
“You okay?” he asks with a smirk.
Damn him, he knows what he does to women. He’s enjoying this. I find it disturbing and yet thrilling.
This is crazy. I’m playing a cat and mouse game with a man who’s probably killed people. He already knows everything about me and my family, that my mom and dad are not my biological parents. How could they hide that from me for so long? They must have a good explanation for doing what they did, and one day soon, I’ll find out.
“Um, just fine.” I refuse for one minute to let him know that I find him attractive, even though it is probably becoming painfully obvious.
The car stops and Mr. Secret Service jumps out to open my door. Dante is at my side as we cross the cobblestone street and slides my arm through his. Normally, I would swoon at his gallantry, but I’m sure it’s more a calculated move to prevent me from fleeing. Not sure why he’s worried about that. We’re being followed closely by two armed guards the size of gladiators, so what would be the point?
We arrive at an enormous mall with more shops than I could have imagined, displaying names like Versace and Gucci and Louis Vuitton. Oh, how I’d love to have one of those handbags. I’ve never been able to afford a wallet let alone a purse, but I’ve loved the designers since I was a kid.
The vaulted ceiling is made entirely of glass and the floor is covered in marble mosaic. We stroll past beautiful women dressed like models and I suddenly feel underdressed, even though I’m wearing a nice pair of jeans.
I still have on my wedges and I’m happy to have Dante’s arm to guide me because I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking. I’m too busy looking at four stories of shops, bars, and cafés. My artistic eye can’t get enough of the sculptures and frescoes. I wish I had my phone to take pictures of all this.
Dante leads me into one shop after another. I finally work up the nerve to peek at a price tag and it’s over one thousand euros for a pair of pants. My head swims with the scent of his cologne when he leans close enough to kiss me and murmurs in my ear, “We’re spending lots of money today, get used to it.”
I don’t know which makes me more nervous—how much money he’s willing to spend on me or his close proximity. He not only smells good, but he also looks good in his tailored Armani suit. We’ve been walking in the heat for a while and I’m starting to perspire, but he still looks just-out-of-the-shower fresh. How is that possible?
The assistants in the shops are diligent in their efforts to bring me countless outfits to try on while I pop in and out for Dante’s approval. They bring different sizes, colors, you name it, it’s like a scene out ofPretty Womanexcept we’re in Milan. I can’t deny I’m having a blast, but I’m also not naïve. I know there will be a reckoning for this, and he will want something from me in return.
By the time I have accumulated four large bags of shoes and dresses, the place is swarming with people, like ants at a picnic. Looking at the goons carrying all our purchases makes me want to laugh. I should be concerned that I even have guards holding me hostage, but I’m having fun for the first time in my life.
“Can we please eat? I need water, food, maybe more caffeine.”
No sooner do I ask, a maître d’ greets us at the door of what looks to be the fanciest café in the whole place. Peeking inside, I see linen-covered tables and Murano glass chandeliers casting a warm inviting glow throughout the dining area.
The maître d’ asks if we’d like to sit inside or outside.
“Your choice,” Dante says. I like that he has given me control over something so trivial.
I reply, “Outside,” making the decision just the same.
Dante requests bottled mineral water, both sparkling and still. Two waiters attend to us even though the café is crowded. Somehow, I get the feeling there would be a table for us even if the place was filled to capacity.