Page 33

In the glass, Marcelo slowly lifted his eyes.

Those gray-green depths held no professionalism. Only dark fire and dangerous amusement. He watched my flushed face and heaving chest in the mirror, lips curling into a wicked smile.

"Waist, 36 inches." He withdrew his hand, then lightly tapped the tip of the tape against my burning cheek. "Want me to keep going, Ms. Caldwell? Hips?"

"No!" I snatched the tape from him before his hand could drop lower and shoved it at the young shop assistant. I hissed through clenched teeth. "Let this lady measure my lower half! Mr. Moretti, please sit down on the couch!"

Jean-Pierre burst into shameless laughter behind us.

Marcelo stepped back leisurely, shrugged, adjusted his cashmere sleeves, and walked to the leather sofa in the lounge area.

❦ ❦ ❦

Marcelo

"For God's sake, Marcelo." Jean-Pierre wiped his wide-bladed shears with oiled cloth, jerking his chin toward the red velvet curtain hiding the back room, voice low. "Where the hell did you find this little wildcat? In front of that mirror just now, I thought your eyes were about to rip that dress clean off her."

I lifted the cold espresso and took a sip. Bitter char scraped down my throat. My gaze drifted through the gap in the curtain to the figure holding a color swatch book, head bowed, fingertips brushing silk.

"She's my employee." I set the cup down. The porcelain clinked sharply.

"Ha! Like hell she is." Jean-Pierre scoffed, shears snapping a dangling thread in midair. "Twenty years, and I've never seen you personally measure any woman's measurements. All those model girlfriends in Milan and Manhattan—their agencies just sent over size charts. You never even remembered their shoe sizes."

I didn't answer.

My right index finger tapped rhythmically against my knee. On the kraft paper notepad, the string of numbers Jean-Pierre had scrawled in thick ink gleamed under the spotlight—43.5 - 36 - 45.5.

These weren't the skeletal, assembly-line stats of runway models. Every full curve, every breathtaking rise and fall—raw, scorching, oppressive sensuality. The feel of the tape pulled taut across the shocking drop from her waist to her hips still burned into my knuckles.

"Midnight blue. Heavy double-sided silk." I pulled my gaze back, all laziness gone. "No extra lace or gathering at the hem. Full bias-cut flow. I want that fabric to move like water over her waist and hips when she walks."

Jean-Pierre put down his shears, eyes glinting with knowing. "Don't worry, my Don. At tomorrow's palace show, every eye in the room will be nailed to her."

Half an hour later, the bolt of matte deep-blue silk disappeared into the cutting room. Ruby and I sat in the back seat of the returning sedan.

Rain thickened outside. Wipers scraped across the windshield, mechanical and wet.

The cramped cabin was suffocatingly quiet.

Ruby had nearly disappeared into the shadow by the car door. She clutched her faded black canvas bag, chin tucked, back of her head pressed against the window glass, staring unblinking at the gray street outside. Her tattooed wrist was clenched so tightly in her other hand that the skin went white.

She was wound tight as a drawn bow.

Since we left Jean-Pierre's workshop, she'd been even more guarded than before.

"If you have something to say, Ms. Caldwell, say it." I shifted, stretching my legs slightly. "You're about to burn a hole through that window."

She didn't turn. Her shoulders hunched. "I have nothing to say, Mr. Moretti."

"No?" I laughed softly, fingertips brushing the crease in my trousers. "When you were flipping color swatches earlier, your hand shook so badly you couldn't hold the pencil."

That lit the fuse.

Ruby whipped around.

Those amber eyes were hot and red-rimmed. "What the hell do you want, Mr. Moretti?"

I raised an eyebrow, watching her flushed face.