Eye Candy (City Chicks) (31 page)

Satisfied, I returned to Ferrero's side.

"Everyone," he called, "everyone please gather around."

Most of the bodies in the backstage area, with the exception of the stage managers—stern looking women dressed all in black and shouting into headsets—moved into a close circle around Ferrero.

"Before the show begins, I want to thank everyone involved. This is the best collection yet, and it would not be possible without the help of each of you."

Everyone applauded, including Ferrero, who inclined his head at the group as a whole.

He raised a hand to quiet them. "The time approaches. Let the madness begin. And I expect to see every last one of you at the after party tonight."

A huge cheer erupted. The crowd dispersed to their pre-show positions, leaving me alone with Ferrero.

"Thank you, Lydia," he said, his voice heavy with sincerely and without a hint of accent. "For being my inspiration and my sanity."

He waved me off when I started to protest. "Are you ready to experience the reason I became a fashion designer?" When I nodded, he smiled like a guilty little boy. "Brace yourself for the adrenaline rush of a lifetime."

On cue, the stage manager's voice announced over the speaker system, "Places please."

Models lined up on the steel stairway leading to the catwalk. Make-up artists, make-up kits in hand, walked the line of models, touching up porcelain pale skin and cherry red lips. Ferrero moved to the curtained doorway that marked the last step before models emerged on stage.

From beyond the curtain, the announcer's voice welcomed the guests attending the show and gave a brief history of the fashion house. The music started. The stage manager counted down, slapping her hand against her thigh in time to the beat.

"... three ... two ... one ... go!"

The first model stepped through the curtain. Ferrero fussed with the collar on the second.

"Go," the stage manager ordered.

The second model went.

Ferrero aligned the hem on the third.

"Go."

The third model went.

The first model emerged seconds later on the opposite side of the stage, climbing down the steps and heading to the garment racks for her wardrobe change.

Without pause, this procession continued. Ferrero perfected the clothes on one model, she walked the catwalk, she changed her outfit, she lined up to do it all over again.

My head spun.

The entire year I'd worked with him, I had counted Ferrero as a bit of a flake. A gifted and talented designer, without doubt, but I doubted his reliability. Watching him work every model, assuring perfection time after time for the hour-long duration of the show, erased my doubts.

By the time the stunning shantung and organza wedding gown closed out the show and Ferrero took his walk with the models smiling and the crowd cheering, I was in awe. My mind began imagining what it would be like to have a show of my own. To go through that kind of insanity with my own line of jewelry. Sure, jewelry shows were not nearly as big and overwhelming, but any show would come with a certain amount of pressure and excitement.

The trouble was... I didn't know if I wanted that or not.

Why did it seem like the decisions I had to make got harder every day?

My heart was still racing with the thrill of the show when I walked out front to meet Elliot. After standing for over an hour in my heels I had changed into the flats, both to save my aching feet and in anticipation of tooting around Milan on a moped again.

But when I got to the sidewalk, all I saw was a row of cars waiting to rush the fashion show guests to their next event. A parade of black sedans led by a white Ferrari. Must be a celeb. They loved to drive those flashy cars.

When the door to the Ferrari opened, I turned back to the entrance to see which celeb the car belonged to.

"Lydia."

Spinning to the sound of my name, I found Elliot standing next to the white Ferrari, an unsuppressed grin on his face and an ivory orchid corsage in his hand.

He was dressed for an evening of elegance. The black tuxedo—one of Ferrero's own, if I had to guess—fit his frame perfectly. Not a single pucker or stretch. Like it had been tailored to him.

By a tailor with an appreciation of the male body.

"What the—"

"Ferrari 612 Scaglietti. Like it?" he asked as he moved around the car, dragging his fingertips across the gleaming hood, and chivalrously opened the passenger door for me.

"It's, um, wow." And I wasn't just talking about the car.

"Yeah," he agreed as he lowered me into the soft leather seat, "that's kinda how I felt, too."

He knelt on the sidewalk, the knee of his two-grand tux scraping against the concrete, took my right hand in his, and slipped the corsage onto my wrist. The ivory flower matched my dress perfectly.

"Wha—whe—we—wo—" I struggled to find an actual word from my vocabulary, finally coming up with, "Why?"

"Why?" he repeated, rising and not bothering to dust off his knee. "Because it's your birthday. Because I wanted our last night in Italy to be special. Because you're special."

I sighed as he shut the door. I didn't think my poor heart could take any more unexpected tugs without giving up on me completely. But, as Elliot slid into the driver's seat and at least a few hundred horses purred to life, I had a feeling I was in for a few more.

"I hope you don't mind," he explained as he navigated the narrow streets, turning at a sign for the A9 motorway, "but I thought we might get out of the city for a while."

He would turn the car around if I wished. Thankfully, I didn't wish. "Sounds great. Where are we going?"

"That," he said, grinning enigmatically, "is a surprise."

If there was one thing I had learned to count on with Elliot, it was surprise.

Sinking back into the plush seat, I watched out the window as the city faded into countryside. The flat expanse of Milan gave way to lush green hills. In the distance I could make out the snow-capped peaks of the Italian Alps in the moonlight.

"How has your birthday been so far?"

"Wonderful," I sighed. Then, when I feared he might think I was speaking 
only
 of my time with Gavin, I hastily added, "Especially the fashion show. I don't know if I can go through that on my own."

"Are you thinking of going it alone?" He asked, apparently picking up on the undertones.

"I was," I explained. "Starting my own jewelry line and striking out on my own. But then Ferrero offered me a creative position within the house. Designing my own line under the umbrella of his name."

"Then it wouldn't really be yours?"

"It would." Mostly. "But more like Ferrero by Lydia Vanderwalk or Lydia Vanderwalk for Ferrero."

I looked at Elliot, gauging his reaction. His eyes never left the road, but he squinted like he was concentrating on bending a spoon or something.

"Doesn't sound like a good deal to me." He glanced at me, his eyes full of sympathetic concern. "Seems like Ferrero gets all your talent and you get nothing."

"I get security. And the use of his name. A lot of designers start out under the name of an established house. It gives them instant name recognition." At least until their own name becomes recognizable on its own. "Alleviates some of the risk."

"Why would you want that?"

"What? To reduce the risk?" I asked.

"Risk is what makes life worth living."

Elliot pulled the car to a stop. I looked out the window, pondering his philosophy on risk, to find we had arrived in a small, Medieval village. The buildings, weathered limestone with red tile roofs, stacked around us like children's blocks.

When Elliot opened his door, a rush of cold wind chilled the inside of the car and goosebumps popped up all over my body. I tightened my cardigan around me, struggling to keep my teeth from chattering as he opened my door and I climbed out.

"Welcome," he pushed my door shut and clicked the locks with the remote, "to Bellagio."

"Bellagio? You mean it's a real place. I thought they just made that up for Vegas."

"Nope, it's real. And you're in it." He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and I sank into his body heat. "This way, Madame."

I let Elliot lead the way, across the narrow, cobblestone street and through the pair of doors beneath a sign proclaiming, 
Trattoria del Lago
. The host, a friendly man with a knowing smile, led us down a hall hung with elegant landscapes depicting a beautiful lake surrounded by tree-covered hills.

"How did you find this place?" I asked.

"The concierge at the 
Regina
 was happy to assist." He leaned close as we emerged in a large room full of guests dining at cozy tables. "Especially when I told him a birthday was involved."

"Oh Elliot," I exclaimed. "It's breathtaking."

The entire far wall of the room consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake depicted in the landscapes. A gorgeous view from every corner of the room, but the host led us to the central window. The best in the house.

"Just wait until you see what I have planned for dessert."

Sweet Saltwater Taffy. I didn't think things could get better than this.

It was nearly seven when we finished the last bite of 
tiramisu
. Though I didn't think that was the dessert Elliot had in mind, I was pretty sure a person couldn't leave Italy without having native 
tiramisu
 at least once.

"Are you ready?" Elliot asked as he held up my cardigan.

"That depends. Does it involve more food?"

"Definitely not."

I shrugged into the sweater and buttoned up for the chill night outside. Prepared to return to the car, Elliot surprised me by heading the opposite direction. Toward the lake.

"This," he stated as we descended a length of uneven steps, "is my birthday present to you."

A man bundled up in layers of warm clothes met us at the base of the steps and led us along the lakeside walkway to a small boat dock. He climbed aboard a small tour boat, complete with several rows of seats and a small captain's cabin. Turning, he indicated we should follow him on board.

"Oh no," I argued, already imagining the frigid temperatures that must sweep across the lake itself and shivering harder at the thought. "I'm not going on that. I'll freeze."

"
No. No frio, signorina. 
" The little man ducked into the cabin and returned with an armful of blankets. He handed them to Elliot and waved me onto the boat.

"Here, here," he said in nearly indecipherable accented English, heading to the front of the boat and pointing to a bench seat situated against the front wall of the cabin.

Elliot climbed on board behind me and urged me forward, not letting up until I lowered onto the bench. He set the blankets down next to me and thanked the captain.

"Grazie."

"Sit. See." The captain pointed at Elliot and then the bench. And then waved his hand in a sweep of the lake. He grinned as Elliot moved the pile of blankets and sat by my side. "
Amore. 
"

Then the captain disappeared, leaving us alone on a bench on a freezing lake on a freezing night. I was about to complain, but when Elliot hooked one arm around my shoulders and began wrapping us in woolen blankets my body and my heart warmed. I could definitely see the possibilities in this adventure.

"We go." The captain's voice crackled over a tiny speaker above our heads, followed by the romantic strains of a Verdi composition.

"That's your problem," Elliot said as he tucked the last blanket behind my hip, "you need more risk in your life. You're a Marilyn trying to be a Norma Jean."

"What? What does that mean, I'm a Marilyn?"

"You think you're this nice, reserved, 
tame
 woman who dresses safe, takes the safe job, and keeps her heart safe and locked away. But you're not. You're a firecracker, Lydia Vanderwalk." He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "You're an Atomic Fireball trying to be a Tic Tac. You just don't know it yet."

It might have been the night air or the brush of his breath against the ear, but when my entire body erupted in shivers I had a feeling it had everything to do with the challenge of his words.

22

Q: What did the candle say to the fire?
A: I'm at wicks end.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #184

Elliot whisked us back to Milan and the hotel in no time—the guy sure got used to driving a quarter million dollars’ worth of speed in a hurry. As we changed for Ferrero's after party, I considered what he had said about me.

Was I really waiting to explode just beneath the surface? Or was I really just a plain and dull as I always imagined myself to be?