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“I do. Very much so.” Chiara leaned into Vi, just slightly, feeling her body heat, and it was enough to make her knees go weak. “But you knew I would. I could feel your eyes on me with every click of the shutter. I felt beautiful. You always make me beautiful.”
She hadn’t realized she had changed the subject. She wasn’t even sure where the words had come from, but it seemed imperative that she said them. Because even five years ago these words were the one truth that had kept her sane. That she was not imagining it. That, under the light of Vi’s eyes, she felt beautiful, special, unique. She felt like she was Chiara Conti, the one and only, the conqueror of many a catwalk and pretty much all the fashion magazine covers. The one whose collections were universally acclaimed and whose talent was celebrated, even incognito. She felt… invincible.
“You are beautiful. And unique. To me. To everyone.” Vi’s smile was once again shy, and Chiara had an overwhelming need to touch it, to feel it and so she did, not caring who saw them. She traced her fingertips gently over the corner of Vi’s mouth before allowing her thumb to linger on the lower lip. Just for a second, to satisfy this indulgence, to have Vi’s breath on her own skin. And when she spoke, she simply told the truth.
“I don’t care what I look like to anyone else.”
The gray in Vi’s eyes darkened to black, possessive and hot, and Chiara could sense her heart speed up. The things Vi could do to her, with just one look, the power this woman had over her… But this wasn’t the time, nor the place, and now that the shoot and the editing work were done, they had all the time to do as they pleased. And Chiara wanted toplease, very much.
Her breathing grew shallow, and she knew she was getting ahead of herself, realizing that if she let the reins go, she’d be a runaway train within seconds. Chiara inhaled deeply and willed herself to be professional.
“I think I’d like something cold now, darling. Because this is getting out of hand.”
“Oh, but this is where you’re wrong…” The shyness was gone, scorching heat taking its place. “It is very much in hand, or will be. Hand, fingers, mouth, whatever you want.”
“Vi!” Scandalized, Chiara pushed at the velvet shoulder, and Vi lifted her hands in surrender. Her face didn’t look repentant for one second though.
“All right, all right, I’ll go get us some champagne, and then we can continue this conversation.”
Even as Vi turned to leave, Chiara couldn’t resist having the last word.
“There won’t be a lot of talking once we get out of here.” With Vi’s eyes hot and hungry on her once again, Chiara turned and started in the direction of Renate.
The ballroom was well-ventilated, and she didn’t feel warm, but as she made her way towards her former sister-in-law, a flash of something, both familiar and unwanted, especially here and now, instantly made her turn around, her cheeks flaming.
Frankie Lilienfeld could wear the hell out of a suit, yet this one didn’t fit. Too tight, too revealing. The cocky grin did nothing for Chiara either, except maybe make her want to roll her eyes.
“I can’t believe you were invited to my party.” She tried to keep her voice down, but in the noisy room it was difficult and only spurred Frankie to lean too closely into her personal space. Tobacco and whiskey.
Great.
“My companion was.” Frankie waved at some buxom blonde ambling towards them and wiggled her eyebrows.
“Seriously? After all that talk of wanting me back, you are here, flaunting a woman in my face at my own event?” Chiara wanted to laugh.
“Say the word, and I will never see her again. But you won't, because you just can’t let me up off my knees, Chiara.” Frankie’s face contorted into ugliness, all veneer of sophistication gone. “I see you’ve let Courtenay get back up easily enough. Or should I say, allowed her to work her way towards atonement on those very knees?”
“God, you never quite knew when to stop and not lead the conversation straight into the gutter.”
Frankie laughed and tipped the fedora at her as she disappeared into the crowd with the blonde on her arm. Chiara stood still for a second, collecting her thoughts, trying not to focus on the one thing Frankie said that hit her square in the chest and slithered into her psyche.
Let me up from my knees…
Was this what she was doing to Vi? But before she could embark on that train of thought straight to hell, her peripheral vision caught another unwelcome sight.
In yet another silver gown, Gwyneth Courtenay appeared resplendent, even if Chiara hated seeing her. Charles, at her side in a burgundy tuxedo, looked dignified and distracted, giving the ballroom a thorough appraisal. Suddenly Chiara knew without a doubt who he was looking for. And she would not have it. She wouldnothave these people who treated their daughter like dirt—worse than that—ruin this evening for Vi.
“Gwyneth, Charles.” She made her way towards them, all pretense at protocol abandoned. After what she’d witnessed the other night, she despised these people. They would not have her respect. And if she hated them just a bit too much than strictly appropriate for people she’d met only once and barely exchanged more than a dozen words with, this was not the time or place to analyze why.
“Ms. Conti.” Charles wrinkled his nose, his displeasure oozing from every pore.
“It’s a surprise seeing you here.” She spoke nothing but the truth. And what exactly was it that they wanted to go to such lengths to be here? She had seen the guest list the night before, and they certainly hadn’t been on it. Granted, several people had large groups indicated alongside their names with no details as to who would join those parties. Cue the reason why Frankie was here.
“Vi invited us to attend this particular personal triumph of hers.”
Charles' attempt at smoothness did not land and skittered on the edges of Chiara’s memories with the effect of sandpaper, rustling a particularly recent one.
“I cut them off. After Paris.”
