CHAPTER Two
The drama of the week continues on Friday morning. Two of the models Luca hired from the local agency don’t show up. We are now left with one female and two males. The original plan was to have three females and two males since the director made it clear there’d be more female dancers than males. They’ll need three wardrobe changes to cover each rotating group.
Can my luck get any crappier?
“You will have to do it,” Luca says, staring at me. The bright blue shirt he wears matches his eye color.
I scoff a laugh. “So you want to be a comedian today? That’s so funny.” I bend over and slap my thighs for emphasis. But I straighten up at once when my gaze moves back to Luca’s serious face. My grin fades. “Right. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“You are gorgeous. You know this. Why shouldn’t it be you?” He moves around me and picks up the dress I’ll be wearing. It’s a red and black number with a skirt that rides high up on the dancer’s thighs leaving little to the imagination. I went for a gothic ballerina kind of look, complete with a black tutu, stockings, and red ballet shoes to emphasize the mystery. The bodice is made of brocade and the V-line dips too low for someone with as much boom in her boobs as I have. “I cannot squeeze this body into an outfit I designed for a toothpick,” I say through a forced smile. Luca twists his mouth to the side and passes his tongue across his lip ring.
“Oh no. What are you thinking?” I ask.
Moving close to me, he glances in my eyes and gives me a charming, dimpled grin. His coiffed, dark blonde hair and striking blue eyes sparkle, and I just know I’m in trouble now. “Dear sweet, lovely Erin. Your boss needs you to do this. I’m almost certain we can make a few adjustments, so the skirt covers your, er, proportional backside.”
I roll my eyes. “Just say the tutu won’t cover my fat ass and get the humiliation over with. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”
Luca cradles his chest and gives me an incredulous look. “I wasn’t going to say that. But since you’ve put it out there so elegantly…” He looks me up and down and waggles his eyebrows. I slap at his arm as he ducks playfully.
“Alright already. I’ll do it. But my ass isn’t really that big. It’s my boobs I’m worried about,” I say before I realize who I’m saying it to. Carla walks into the room and giggles as she catches the end of my statement. I glance back at Luca who now has a come-hither look on his face. Holy hell. I probably just made his entire week. His expression changes once his gaze drifts over to where Carla stands. She’s wearing her light brown hair in a high ponytail, and she has on a black tee shirt and jeans. She almost passes as my twin minus the tight ballerina bun, of course. Oh yeah, and my jet black hair paired with my fair skin makes most Goth girls look tanned.
I think of the assistant I met the other day, the Adonis who helped me out with my asthmatic attack. I can’t help but to get a little giddy inside when I think of him being at the showing today. I can’t believe I’m really doing this, my first truly big break.
* * *
Inside La Scala’s dressing room, I prepare to get dressed in the costumes Luca and I prepared for the coordinator of the show. He’s a big-time child prodigy named Alek Dostov. Carla assists with putting my makeup on.
“Boy how I wish I had your eyelashes. There are enough hairs in them for you and me both. You don’t even need mascara,” she says as she carefully moves the brush over my lashes.
I move my head back a bit and narrow my eyes. “Are you coming on to me? Because if you are, then I should probably tell you that I prefer blondes.”
“Signora Angelo,” she gasps, her cheeks turning a fiery red. “I mean, Erin.”
“What? Gentlemen prefer blondes. Why can’t classy women prefer them?” I tease. Her body is so tense that I’m thinking she’ll pass out if I don’t tell her I’m kidding. “Carla. Relax. Like, I’m joking, okay?” A disappointed look crosses her round face. I turn so I can stare directly at her instead of a reflection in the mirror. “What’s wrong? I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t. Not really. It’s just...I. My parents don’t know that I...”
What she’s trying to say hits me like a rock. “Ah, I get it. You were hoping I wasn’t joking because you like women. And you’re afraid your parents will disown you if you tell them. Am I close?”
Sighing, she moves around to face me. “Oh, Erin. I’m so afraid they’ll hate me. In my home, these types of things aren’t taken so lightly. And my girlfriend, Trina grows more impatient with me every day.”
I take her hands in mine. “Tell them, as soon as you can. Your parents will still love you. They won’t risk losing you, even if they get angry for a while, they won’t really turn their backs on you. Family bonds run deep. Disowning a child is like stabbing your own heart. They should be thankful you’re still around.” I’m staring off into space as I think of my parents and especially my mom. Blinking a few times, I refocus on Carla.
“Grazie, Erin.” She takes my hand and shakes it hard. “I’ll tell them soon. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“You do that.” I inhale and we both laugh. “Now back to making me beautiful so I can compete with the giraffes. And hold that chin up, Carla. Remember confidence is the key to all the world’s treasures.”
“Got it.”
I scoff a laugh. “I sound like a mom, don’t I?” She starts fidgeting. “Tell the truth now.”
“Maybe a little bit. You’d make a good mom.”
“Uh-huh, I’m sure I’d make a great mom at my ripe old age of twenty one,” I tease.
* * *
By the time Carla finishes my makeup, my nerves kick in. I have this awful habit of bouncing my left leg up and down when stress gets the best of me. Luca says my fidgety leg issue distracts him in our meetings. Rafe, one of his two older brothers and my former Fashion Design and Apparel instructor, says the same thing. If I’m not bouncing one of my legs, then I’m biting the right side of my lower lip. Today I’m doing all of those things at once.
Me along with the Martuccio brothers have all put tons of money into getting Black Butterfly Designs up and running. My dad left me a sizable trust fund. The money covered my three years of design school, and there was enough left over to pool my resources with one of F.I.T. Florence’s top instructors to start our own design house. The Martuccio’s even let me choose the name, Black Butterfly, something I drew for my sister a long time ago.
My mind drifts back to thinking about the assistant. What will he think once he sees that it’s me in the costume? Will he think we’re hopeless because we’ve screwed up, yet again? I certainly hope not. And I wonder what design he has on the tattoo I’m dying to see, the one that was partially hidden by his tee shirt.
I’m caught up in thoughts of sexy assistants when music that’s being played in the distance drifts through my room. Violins, tubas, cellos, and synthesizers are tuning up. In order to do so, they keep playing little snippets of melodies that they’re about to play this evening.
Right away, I think of Jada. “F*ck!” I curse my trembling fingers as I fight off the attack on my nerves. “Screw this up Erin Angelo, and I’m making you eat clam chowder for the next two months. Reaching behind me, I fumble with the laces on the bodice I designed. Yeah, the ties usually go in the front, but I wanted something different. So I put the damn things in the back instead.
“Carla! I need you.” Where did she get away to? The vest isn’t going to work. I toss it on the chair beside me and grab a flimsy robe off the hanger beside me. It barely covers my ass, but I have no idea where Carla put my street clothes. “I cannot believe I let Luca talk me into doing this.”
Opening the dressing room’s door, I tiptoe out into the hallway. Carla just walked out of the room, so I know she couldn’t have gone too far. The red carpeted hallways are long. Walking to the supply room might get me caught. I have to risk it because Carla knows how I feel about being late to anything and especially this gig. I trudge down the hallway, thanking the heavens that it’s empty.
Rounding the corner, I collide with a wall. I stumble backward and land flat on my ass, my legs sprawled in the air. The flimsy robe thingie I’m wearing catches on a hook of some type and rips away from my body leaving my breasts fully exposed.
I glance up at whatever thing I ran into. Holy moly! My wall is actually the assistant, and my robe that was covering my naked torso now hangs from his belt buckle. I make this little squeak sound and my insides clench up. Horrified doesn’t even exist in my vocabulary right now.
The look on his face rotates between primal and shock and just a touch of amusement. And even though I’ve probably turned about ten shades of purple at the moment, I still feel that tightening in my nipples and a heated tingle working its way through my body.
How long has it been since I felt that kind of throb down there? And what the f*ck are you thinking? This is the director’s assistant, a man who has already saved your ass once. Now look at you, screwing things up again.
I manage to shuffle to my feet. At least I’m still wearing underwear. He hasn’t made one move to hand over my robe. Yeah, well, the damage is done now. So I might as well just roll with it. Besides, Europeans see boobs and ass in ads every day. My American mentality cripples me sometimes. We hold each other’s gaze s for a long moment. Normally a man would be wearing my hand print after I slap him for being rude. But something about this guy hits me in a thousand different ways.
And I like every single punch I’m receiving.
I cross my arms over my boobs, squishing them together. “Would you kindly remove your pants, please?”
Oh no, no, no, you didn’t just say that. I close my eyes and wince. He laughs this time. My cheeks heat to a scorch. “I meant to say could you remove my robe, please. I wanted to say...never mind.” I glance at the floor.
There’s this muted brown diamond pattern inside the carpet, and it’s an all around terrible distraction. I turn and scurry back around the corner.
Holy hell. I’ll be fired now for sure.
I make a heated trot back to the dressing room and turn the knob. It doesn’t budge. Locked. “No freaking way. This is not happening to me.” I lean my forehead against the door and start laughing. “I think I’ll just go bat shit insane now.”
“There’s no need for a woman of beauty to have such a colorful vocabulary,” a honey-smooth accented voice says behind me. I feel a jacket going over my shoulders.
Something in my mind makes me want to turn toward him. Don’t even think about taking your eyes off that doorknob. Something tugs at me. Warmth I haven’t felt since, well, a long time courses through all the right places. Well, maybe just one peek at him won’t hurt.
I’m warning you: Righteous Me says.
He’s so close to me, and I’m not even ticked off about his staring problem. I turn my head and glance into those gorgeous light brown eyes with the blue speckles inside them. Beautiful irises highlighted by a tangle of luscious black locks that are wild on top of his head. His hair is shorter around his ears and neckline. He gives me a smile, a confident one that tells me not only does he know he’s model-shock gorgeous, but he also realizes I’m checking him out. I didn’t know assistants came this gorgeous.
Will someone tell me where I can find one for myself? The bad girl in me wants to know. But the good girl sits in a corner with her little lips pursed as she shakes her head and taps her foot. Remember what happened the last time you went all foolish in the head over an accent and a pair of ripped abs? Screw you! But still, her reminder works.
My smile fades and I put this version of me back behind the wall, a place where no one can see the real Erin. I like it there. It makes me feel safe.
Breaking our spell, he lifts a set of keys and dangles them between our faces. He’s so close. Why does he have to brush against me that way? But I’m still wounded and remembering where I stand gives me the power to look away. A small sigh escapes his lips, and he shoves the key into the lock. I stare straight ahead until the door creaks open. I rush inside, stand behind the door, and remove his jacket.
The scent of his cologne tingles my nose just before I reach through the opening to hand him his coat. His fingers briefly brush across mine, setting off all kinds of fluttery chick things in my chest. “Thanks again,” I manage to say in a stiff voice. I don’t dare attempt to look at him. Instead, I close the door before he has the chance to say anything else.
* * *
I inhale and hold my breath until my racing heart slows down a bit. “Here we go.” Adjusting the black tutu Luca and I designed; I step out into the auditorium, praying that Luca sent for the other two girls from the agency. I run through a mental list of my power-woman qualities. Bad ass attitude? Check. Woman who knows that her designs rock? Check. Confidence at the moment? Needs improvement. I’m still reeling from my experience with the drop dead gorgeous assistant. He wears dressier clothes today than the last time I saw him.
Standing in the middle of the stage, two girls and one guy wait for me. The whole purpose of today’s showing is to prove to the musical production’s organizers that Black Butterfly’s designs pack a heavy punch.
The style has to be versatile, something that can go along with the non-traditional selection of music the Maestro has selected, Requiem for a Dream. Why I get to be the designer chosen to create the line remains a mystery. Even Rafe doesn’t have a clue. I just know that one day Luca received a call from a mysterious client and the next week I was scrambling to think of a new line designed specifically for this production.
Tonight’s showing is the one and only time I’ll have the chance to prove to the director that I’m the right designer for this show, and getting caught butt naked by the assistant is not a good start. I shudder and walk to center stage. Luca has come through at the hellish last minute. The other models wear black leather vests on top of silky red mini dresses, highlighting the black and white number I’m wearing. Together the outfits create just the right look for the type of production I’ll be outfitting.
In the pit, a small ensemble waits for the director to arrive. My shaky insides better not betray me, or else. Carla pokes her head through the door behind me. I’m full of nerves, and I honestly wonder if I might wet myself by the time I finally meet the director. I walk toward her.
“Where were you earlier? I needed you,” I whisper furiously.
“Forgive me Signora Ange—I mean, Erin,” but I had to make sure my brother and sister were behaving for the babysitter. My big brother disappeared on me at the last minute again.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask. She gives me a smile that doesn’t convince me that there’s any truth in her words. Carla’s parents attend religious conferences in Rome on a regular basis. She’s pretty much responsible for taking care of her two younger siblings and one lazy older brother who can’t ever seem to stay out of trouble.
“I’m great. Concentrate on you, right now,” she says.
I don’t get a whole lot of time to dwell on those thoughts. My gaze drifts toward a strong male’s voice that booms throughout the room. A voice like that can only belong to someone who is used to being in control. The Maestro. But when I turn toward the middle of the stage, there’s no maestro. Instead, the assistant stands there waiting as two guys finish setting up his podium.
“What’s going on here?” I ask no one in particular. I walk back toward the other models, my eyes glued on the assistant.
“Alright, take your positions and give me your warm up notes,” he orders the small ensemble that sits at the front of the stage.
Luca sits in the second row. He’s immersed in a conversation with an older woman dressed in a vest made of fur even though it’s June and almost eighty degrees outside.
There’s a trio of violins, a tuba player, a cymbal girl, a drummer, keyboardist, and one viola who makes me think of Jada. One by one they all sound off, playing in warm up exercises. By the time the drummer finishes his over the top display of skill, I’m fuming.
Assistants don’t usually lead mini ensembles. I’m assuming the real maestro will step out at any moment. But he never does. Instead, the assistant takes over and leads the mini ensemble through a song that makes it easy for the models and me to go with the flow.
Since Luca didn’t fill me in on what exactly it is I’m supposed to do while I’m posing as the Gothic ballerina, I just lose myself in the tune. I rip back in time to a day when Jada and I spent the afternoon sitting in the corn fields while she practiced an extremely hard tune. I danced for her, using the techniques I learned in ballet class, something I was forced to quit doing because of an injury. The viola that now plays reminds me of that day.
When the final note echoes through the building, I stop and open my eyes. All gazes are glued on me. My cheeks burn; and I can’t help but to feel like the maestro will probably think I’m a loon now. The assistant steps down from his podium and strolls over to where I stand among the other models that tower over me.
He stares at me for a long moment before he says, “Fascinating. You dance as well as design, I assume?”
I clear my throat. “It was a long time ago.”
“You missed your calling, I do believe.”
“I could say the same thing about you. You make a mean maestro, for somebody who’s an assistant.”
He gives me an amused grin before he glances at the model standing beside him. He really is stunning. “The outfits most definitely work. The job is yours. That is if you come with that ballerina getup you’re wearing.” His mischievously sexy grin triggers something inside my brain. My smile fades.
“Right. You’re the maestro, aren’t you?”
“At your service, Madam Angelo,” he says, bowing.
I scoff a light laugh. “You are Aleksandr Dostovsky, the world renowned maestro from Russia?” I sing the last few words, emphasizing my annoyance, but failing to hide my intrigue. It doesn’t even matter that all eyes are now hanging on our every word. I still feel duped and a bit humiliated. I don’t understand why he didn’t just tell me who he really was the first time we met.
“Alek Dostov works for me, yes. It’s much easier to pronounce,” he says and turns back to the model who has now closed the distance between the two of them.
Suddenly I feel claustrophobic and confused.
“Fantastic job. Your seamstress came through,” he says as he runs his fingers over the model’s silky red dress. The girl he’s giving attention to makes sure to lift her skirt higher than necessary, revealing her long limbs as she explains how easy it is to move in my creation. For some reason, I get annoyed. She catches me mentally beating the crap out of her and offers me a smile. I smirk and steer the conversation back to me.
“That’s all for the day, thanks. Luca will be in touch regarding your compensation,” I inform her.
She bows and says, “Madam,” but her eyeballs are all over Alek the entire time. The Maestro is a man of both art and hard work. I can tell. He doesn’t pay skyscraper legs any mind, even though the model is practically undressing him with her eyes.
Musical and gorgeous.
Oh God, kill me now before I’m too far gone.
The last time a guy set my chest on fire this way, things didn’t turn out so good for me. I was in high school, and he was on a short term visit to the States. I was in love, and he was just pure horny. End of story. This feeling rushes through me, a heat that grabs me and clenches inside my stomach. The sensation knocks me off balance in my head.
“This is only two sets of outfits, yes?” he says and stares into my dark eyes with his light colored ones that remind me of brown sugar. I find myself thinking of all the rumors I’ve heard about Alek Dostov being a swinger. This man who has already seen me in two of my worst moments cannot be the tyrant everybody makes him out to be. And then he opens his mouth. “There are six acts. We will need four more sets of outfits, one for each.”
The accent, those eyes, and the thick black hair along with a body that most maestros only dream of in their next lifetime: he’s everything I would never have imagined a conductor to be. Stop this, Erin Angelo, right now, before you lose too much of yourself in this song. “I’m not sure if we have enough staff to handle such a big job.” I glance over at Luca who is still chatting with the fur lady who reminds me of Rachel Zoe. I make a mental note to chew him out later on.
“Oh, I’m certain you can handle large things,” he steps closer to me, amusement swimming in his eyes. Suddenly I remember that I’m supposed to be angry about him deceiving me over the past couple of days. This helps me knock my heat level down a notch to where I no longer feel like a hormonal school girl.
“Your observation skills are impressive,” I say. “Now maybe you can work on that credibility issue of yours.” What the hell is wrong with you?
“I promise to try, at least. Do you accept the job, Ms. Angelo? You like challenges. I can tell. You most definitely have what I need.” He runs his fingers over the lacy part of the bodice I’m wearing, smiling as he stares deeply in my eyes. “Much better than that flimsy call-girl robe you wore earlier.”
I think I’ll just die on the floor now. “It’s not really my decision to make. Luca’s the boss in this gig, but I’m sure he’ll agree.”
“Excellent. Join me for a celebration dinner?” he asks, ignoring the drummer who has been trying to get his attention for the last five minutes.
Holy moly. The sexiest Maestro alive is asking me out. Say yes! “I’m sorry, but I don’t date bosses, of any type.” I turn around and head back toward the dressing rooms, exhaling only after I’m safely back inside my room.