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That previous sense of foreboding returned, and Vi made herself appear busy unwrapping the sandwiches while her heart hammered.
Returning her gaze to her host who, with an indulgent smile, watched the cat saunter out of the kitchen with a prized piece of salami in her mouth, Vi racked her brain to try to recall the train of thought their conversation, so rudely interrupted by whatever cryptic warning Chiara had imparted on her earlier, had been on.
When the topic came back to her, Vi wanted to mention that, lately, she’d had no way to appreciate Zizou’s great cooking, since her lunches always tended to disappear, but remembering how the last incident had gone, she chose to let it go and lighten the mood instead.
“He is surly, all right. And he’s aware you haven't been eating. Which isn’t surprising, I guess. Maybe he isn’t just a chef but also a spy and that’s why you don’t tell me more. Doesn’t matter, I don’t want to know anyway. La-la-la.”
Chiara’s smile brightened, and this time it reached her eyes as she bit into a large pear, juice coating her lips. Vi’s hands twitched, wanting to reach out, to touch, to lean in and taste those lips that were undoubtedly sweet, even without the fruit making them look more luscious and delicious.
She swallowed hard. God, ‘hopeless’wasn’t even close to how bad she had it. The dictionary didn’t have the words to describe how deeply and terribly Vi was gone for this woman. A woman who was now lifting fruit-stained fingers to her mouth, savoring the taste, making those absolutely illegal sounds of contentment, of satiation. If these sounds emanating from Chiara weren’t outlawed yet, they damn sure better be, and soon.
“Whatever else he is, Zizou has been on his corner in his bistro for quite some time. He saw us move Lilien Haus from the other part of town to Saint-Honoré a few years ago. And I appreciate his friendship. He has been very good to us from the beginning, feeding us, catering our events, and doing all those other super-secret things that you don’t want to know about. No, don’t look like that. The man caters like an angel.”
Vi faked a grin, happy for the banter and the distraction from all the nefariousness that may or may not be happening, and was about to launch into another litany of ‘la-la-las’,when Chiara reached across and covered Vi’s insolent mouth with her hand.
And suddenly both of them stopped, standing very still, skin on skin, their eyes full of each other. Vi’s, she knew, were all longing, and Chiara’s held something she couldn’t discern. Something hot was burning in those amber depths.
Chiara had touched her before. She’d had to, since she’d pretty much transformed Vi into her personal mannequin, and she had once silenced her in exactly the same fashion. But this was different.
As Vi inhaled the scent of the remnants of the pear, her lips moved ever so slightly over the warm, soft skin of Chiara’s palm. She felt like she would never sate this hunger, this need to feel, to taste, like she could do this forever…
Except the moment Vi’s lips moved, Chiara gasped, still unable to look away. And now Vi saw the regret and the gossamer apology staring unblinkingly back at her. So she was the one to turn her face, slowly dragging her mouth across the silky skin before breaking contact altogether, already missing the warmth and the connection.
Say something.
For once, Vi’s thoughts arranged themselves into somewhat coherent, if faltering, words.
“I’m… uh… I’m kind of sad that we won’t get to experience his catering at the Blackthorne Ball then…” She sounded foreign to herself, her voice infused with so much fake cheerfulness. Still, it seemed to work, since Chiara finally snapped out of whatever stupor had come over her when she’d touched Vi.
She moved away to examine the gown in the garment bag, and Vi wanted to weep, to shake her hands at whomever was up there in the clouds for putting her in this situation, where she was so hopelessly, helplessly attracted to someone who froze the moment she touched her skin. God, what must Chiara think of her?
“I don’t think you will miss Zizou and his, granted, excellent cooking. Neve Blackthorne is known for her hospitality.” Chiara seemed to have moved on from their awkward moment.
She unzipped the garment bag and was carefully extracting the chiffon and gauze. It hadn’t occurred to Vi that she herself hadn’t even peeked at the dress Gwyneth had handed her. The gown was less important than rushing over to see Chiara, to be with her, to bask in the time they spent together.
Now, seeing the material spilling out, Vi chewed her lip. Silver wasn’t really her color. It clashed with her auburn curls and put even more focus on her much detested freckles. She bit her lip harder to avoid saying something that would sound like she was ungrateful or complaining.
Silver it was.
She was going to the ball, where she would enjoy herself and take the best pictures of the Lilien collection she possibly could and do it all in an ill-suited gown. Nobody cared about the photographer anyway. She wasn’t in the foreground.
Moving on, then.
“I would have never put Neve Blackthorne and hospitality in the same sentence. She always seems so… I want to say ‘aloof,’ but it’s probably more like ‘majestic’. She’s just so… everything. A touch scary, I guess.” Vi shivered a little, and Chiara smiled.
“Neve is an interesting individual. And power can be scary. But it can also be sexy…” Chiara looked directly at Vi then, and Vi almost gulped, because now there was a mystery lurking behind those eyes, alight with a sort of mischief that Vi was entirely powerless to face. Aoife had been right. Shewasa rather useless baby gay.
“Yes, it can. But she is also very imposing. I mean, people say she rules over the whole of Hollywood.” Vi’s thoughts were scrambling in her head, jumping from one realization to the next, to the next, and she had no time to catalog them all.
And with Chiara’s gaze on her, one eyebrow raised in the kind of expression one has when they read a book that is both amusing and puzzling, all Vi could hope for was that some of her pages would remain off limits, or that Chiara would get bored before she got to the salient parts, the ones that held all those secrets. Secrets that all, bar one, weren’t even hers.
And despite Vi’s fear that Chiara would be able to read her and unravel everything, the fact that she was falling for this woman was the secret Vi held closest. Tightest. Safest.
Oh, please, don’t look!
Still, Chiara seemed content to stick to the surface and not examine things too deeply.
“You’ll meet her and then you’ll draw your own conclusions. I’ve stopped listening to what people say, Ms. Courtenay. They’re cruel. Sometimes just for sport. And sometimes, they can’t help themselves.”
