Roman Spring. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
have realized.” She smiled again as she touched his cheek. “A man like you prefers his women one at a time, eh?”
He grinned, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. “You know me too well,” he said.
The Princess waved her fingers at him. “Go on, Nico.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. I shall be fine.”
“I won’t go far,” he said. “If you need me—”
“I won’t,” she said firmly. “Now, go.”
He rose from the ridiculous chair and made his way carefully down the crowded row, responding politely to those who greeted him by name, noting with carefully repressed surprise that two women who gave him private little smiles were seated next to each other, friends who had no idea they had something more than friendship in common.
It was less crowded at the rear of the room and he thought of pausing there, where he could watch la Principessa and still draw a breath of air that was not perfumed half to death, but then he patted the slender cigar in the breast pocket of the dinner jacket that had been hand-tailored to fit his sinew-hardened body and decided that only a whiff of tobacco would fully cleanse his nostrils of the mix of scents that hung in the overheated room.
He turned toward the door—and all at once the room was plunged into darkness and a whine of hideous music exploded from the overhead speakers.
“Dio mio,” he growled, and he leaned back against the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and prepared to wait out the boredom of the long moments ahead.
Lights on the ceiling blinked to life, spraying the stage with wild colors. The curtains parted, revealing a line of models wearing too much makeup, too much hair, and not enough clothing to stretch a man’s imagination. One of them stepped forward, bouncing frantically to the music, and the others followed her down the catwalk. The audience applauded, and the parade was on.
Nicolo’s mouth twisted as he watched the show, for that was certainly what it was, one in which the women were as much for sale as were the clothes. What was beyond him to understand was why any man in his right mind would want to buy. Nothing so readily available was worth having, not even women as beautiful as...
The breath caught in his throat. A woman was moving on stage, a woman wearing a red dress. No. God, no. Heat rose in his blood. To call the bit of silk that clung to her body a dress was ridiculous. His eyes skimmed over her. The dress curved over her breasts lightly, cupping them like a man’s hands. It flowed over her hips the same way, and over her buttocks. He felt his fingers flexing, and he balled his hands into fists and jammed them into his pockets.
She turned, swaying to the music. Her face was perfect: high cheekbones, a straight nose and a lush mouth. Hair, streaked with the colors of the sun, tumbled down her back and over her shoulders and swung in waves as she shimmied down the catwalk. Her hips moved slowly to a beat in the music only she seemed to hear. Her expression was cool, almost impassive, and Nicolo wondered if that was how she looked when she lay beneath a man, her flesh responding to his caresses but her soul forever untouched.
His body tightened, the muscles drawing in on themselves. The heat that had bloomed in his blood became fire, traveling straight to his loins. He felt himself quicken, felt himself focusing on her, on that dress of flame...
And suddenly, she looked directly at him. Her head turned; her eyes swept across the room, then fixed on his. Dio, what a face! It held the beauty of a madonna—and the promise of a courtesan.
“Her name is Caroline Bishop. She is an American.”
Nicolo jumped as if he’d been singed. Gianni Antonini was standing beside him, head cocked, a sly grin on his too-soft face.
“Antonini.” Nicolo cleared his throat, forced his attention from the woman. “I thought I saw you in the crowd. How’ve you been?”
“I can introduce you, if you like.” Antonini’s grin widened. “I have a—what shall I call it?—a special friendship with one of her roommates.”
Nicolo’s expression was chill. “I am sure you have.”
The other man laughed softly. “She’ll be at the party, of course. All the girls will—it’s where they’ll make their best contacts. Would you like to meet her then?”
Nicolo swung toward him. “Why?” he said, almost pleasantly. “Do you get a cut, Antonini?”
“Nicolo, Nicolo. You try and insult me when I’m only being friendly. You know how these American girls are. So far from home...” He smiled and nodded toward the stage, where Caroline was just disappearing behind the curtains. “This one is more interesting than most. She plays hard to get—but anything can be had for a price.”
Nicolo’s mouth curled with distaste. “That would make the buyer as cheap as the seller,” he said flatly as he stepped away from the wall. “Arrivederci, Gianni.”
The soft sound of the other man’s laughter followed him as he stepped into the foyer. When the door swung shut after him, he breathed deeply, drawing the cool, unscented air deep into his lungs.
Damn! Why had he let Antonini get to him that way? Let the man do as he liked. It was none of his business. There’d been no need to behave like a fool. He’d been working hard lately. Too hard. Perhaps that would explain it, why he’d lost his composure with Antonini, why he’d reacted as he had to the woman.
He smiled tightly. Although a man didn’t need an explanation for that kind of attraction. The reasons for it were as old and as primal as mankind itself. Still, the incident had been upsetting. It was as if he’d had a sudden glimpse of a side of himself he didn’t know, a side that was dark and uncontrolled.
It was an uncomfortable realization.
After a moment, he took a cigar from his pocket, lit it with his gold Cartier lighter, and shifted it until it was clutched between his teeth. Music spilled from behind the closed doors as the moments passed. The cigar was half-finished when he shot back his cuff and looked at his watch. Good. The showing couldn’t last much longer, and then he could collect la Principessa and leave.
He smoked the cigar down to a stub, then ground it out. The music was changing, rising in volume, approaching what had to be a climax. The show must be ending, at last.
He took a deep breath, marched to the doors, and flung them open. Yes. The audience was rising to its feet, applauding and cheering, as the models tugged a smiling Fabbiano on stage.
Nicolo shouldered his way through the crowd toward the Princess. She looked up when he reached her, her eyes glittering.
“You missed it all, Nicolo,” she said. She crooked her finger at him, and he bent down until her lips were at his ear. “The clothes were terrible,” she whispered. “You cannot imagine!”
He laughed. “But I can, darling.”
“No,” she said positively, “you cannot. Even she—what they dressed her in was so—so orrenda...”
He laughed again and followed the old woman’s pointing finger. “Who?” he said. “Who did they dress in something so dreadful...?”
The laughter, and the words, caught in his throat. There she was again, standing on stage with the others, that same cool, removed look on her beautiful face. The red silk dress had been exchanged for a slender column of midnight blue sequins that caught the light and spun it back in dizzying rainbows of color.
His eyes slipped over her. The gown was long, seemingly demure—but when she shifted her weight, he caught a flash of her thigh, and when she turned—God, when she turned, he could see the length of her naked spine...
“Nicolo, Nicolo?”
He swallowed hard and tore his eyes from the girl. “Yes, Nonna?”
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