The Prelude (4 page)

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.

R
ounding 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 fuck 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 sing
le 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.

M
y 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.

T
he 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 t
he 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.