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"I'm fine, sir." I forced out the words through clenched teeth, neck stiff. "I'm just reviewing those Italian workshop jacquard loom model numbers in my head."

"Loom models?" Marcelo finally set down his phone, turning to look at me. He laughed softly, shaking his head. "You think those old men tonight care about machine rpm? Listen, Ruby. Most people at the expo are Florence's biggest artisanal silk suppliers. Half of them are cranky as hell and hate theory-spouting engineers. Last time, some Harvard engineering grad tried to convince an old man named Brandt to upgrade to more advanced machinery using depreciation rates—Brandt threw hot espresso in his face."

I turned my head, somewhat surprised. "Really?"

"God's truth." Amusement flickered in Marcelo's eyes. "The old man even declared that if one more person who doesn't understand fabric insulted his silk with Excel spreadsheets, he'd arm his weaving women with shotguns. So when you see a little old man dressed like an eighteenth-century farmer with breadcrumbs in his beard, do not discuss jacquard loom models with him."

I couldn't help it—my tense mouth quirked upward.

"What should I talk about then? The weather?"

"Talk about his proudest proprietary twill technique, or directly point out that last year's batch of velvet was lazy—missing one fixative step in the dyeing process." Marcelo glanced at me, his expression gentle. "If he gets all huffy, tell him Mr. Moretti shared that secret with you. He'll immediately consider you a kindred spirit and pull out his best goods."

"Are you teaching me to blackmail business partners, Mr. Moretti?"

"It's called business strategy, Ms. Caldwell." His lips curved slightly, voice low and light. "Madam, I swear you'll win everything tonight—but only if you never let your opponents see you're nervous."

I froze, suddenly realizing that the suffocating tightness in my throat had completely evaporated during his absurd banter.

He'd been calming me down.

I bit my lip, sincerely hoping my heartbeat wasn't loud enough for him to hear.

The car slowed gradually.

"We've arrived, sir." The driver's voice came low from the front.

The black Bentley stopped smoothly before the Grand Palais's magnificent glass dome. Outside the window, countless camera flashes tore through the night, the red carpet flanked by fashion media from around the globe.

I looked out the window.

On the red carpet, the women entering on men's arms were each as polished as porcelain dolls in shop windows. They wore flawless haute couture backless gowns, prominent collarbones, limbs slender and willowy as early spring reeds, almost no excess flesh, perfectly conforming to this era's sick definitions of "fashion" and "elegance."

If this were yesterday, or a few days ago, I probably would've wanted to crawl under the car and hide, or desperately tugged at my clothes to cover my arms.

But now, I looked down at the deep emerald velvet gown I wore. Beside me, this dangerous, powerful man watched me quietly, not rushing, just silently observing.

I lifted my chin, drew in a deep breath of Paris's cool night air, and the fire that had been suppressed too long in my chest finally ignited quietly.

I had nothing to fear.

I opened the car door and took Marcelo's arm as I stepped out.

Chapter 10

Ruby

The doorman pulled open the heavy etched-glass doors, and the Grande Palais exhaled its signature mix of lilies, expensive cigars, and hundreds of haute couture perfumes straight into my face.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling overhead, slicing the exhibition hall into a gilded labyrinth. Everywhere I looked—French cabinet advisors in tuxedos, old-money matrons dripping emeralds, and size-zero supermodels clutching flutes of champagne. They moved like elegant white herons, chins tilted, showing off knife-edge collarbones and backs without an ounce of spare flesh.

For one brief, brutal second, that bone-deep inferiority complex jabbed into my heel like a needle.

Every memory came flooding back—being mocked at my high school locker, Chad's casual cruelty ("lose ten pounds of fat first"), Mary's shrill warnings over the phone. They all shrieked inside my skull. My feet stopped moving. My right hand jerked toward the hem of my emerald velvet gown, trying to hide my full thighs.

But I didn't get to retreat an inch.

A strong hand locked around my elbow.