The Secret Heiress

by Judith Gould

  “Hey, Merilee,” she said to the receptionist in a breathy voice. “I’m late. How long have they been shooting?” She unknotted the black cashmere scarf at her throat and left it dangling loose, then shrugged out of the black feathered-mink coat she was wearing and put it around her shoulders. She swept her shoulder-length jet-black hair back away from her face, then let it remain where it fell.

  “They’ve barely started,” the orange-haired woman replied, flapping a hand airily. “You know how it is, Bianca. High drama. Last-minute hysteria. Always.”

  “What kind of mood is Greg in today?” Bianca asked. Greg was a pro—of that there was no question—but he could be very temperamental. He was a perfectionist and expected the same level of participation from everyone involved, from the models to the hair stylists, makeup artists, and clothing stylists, down to the lowliest lighting assistant.

  “No major dramas so far,” Merilee said, “but, like I said, they’re just getting started.”

  “I’d better get in there,” Bianca said. “See you later.” She hurried toward the tall ebonized double doors that led into the first studio, and opened one of them quietly, peeking inside to see what was happening. Perhaps she could sneak in without distracting Greg or any of the models from their work, but it was not to be.

  “Bianca, cara!” Greg gushed. He left his post at a tripod-mounted camera and greeted her at the door, his hair in wild Einsteinian disarray, his eyes bright with energy, his wiry body virtually throbbing with excitement. He came alive on a shoot, putting everything he had into it, then deflated like a balloon afterward. He gave her air kisses in the direction of both cheeks, and she returned them in kind. “You look divine as always, cara.”

  “Oh, thank you, Greg,” she said. “Sorry I’m late, but you know what the damned traffic’s like.”

  He waved her apology away. “Why don’t you sit over there?” he said, pointing to an empty chair to his right. “Do you want something to drink? Hard? Soft?”

  Bianca shook her head. “No, thank you, pussycat,” she said. “I’ll go sit and be a mouse.”

  “If you change your mind, tell Gretchen,” he said, pointing to a blond-haired assistant. “She’ll get it for you.”

  “Thanks.” She patted his shoulder, then headed to the seat he had indicated. She sat down and crossed one long, slender leg over the other. Great expanses of white fabric hung from the ceiling all the way down the wall, then spread out onto the floor for thirty feet or more. Three male models stood in the middle of the white “ground,” awaiting instructions from Greg. She was disappointed to see that Frans wasn’t among them. Glancing around the studio, she didn’t see him among the plethora of assistants and stylists.

  Where could he be? she wondered nervously. Surely he’d come in today. Even if he was sick, she thought, he’d have dragged himself out of bed to get to this shoot. He was one of the hottest new male models in town, but he could ruin his reputation in an instant if word got around that he was late or didn’t show up for scheduled shoots. She began nervously drumming her fingernails on the black alligator Dior handbag in her lap, then forced herself to stop.

  The three models in the shooting area were attired in spring clothing that would be featured in one of the PPHL garment subsidiary’s ad campaigns three months down the road. The outfits were nothing short of stunning, she decided, and not simply because the models were so good-looking. The stylists had done an artful job of dressing them with the clothing that the garment company had provided, and had added a few accessories of their own choosing. Mixing and matching, using a hat here, a pair of boots there, a belt or necklace, and so on.

  Over the roar of the music, she heard Greg’s voice. “Frans! Get your ass out here. Now!”

  Bianca’s stomach gave a lurch, and she looked toward Greg. His face was red with barely suppressed fury. She knew that it would turn a full-fledged purple before he let go and really lashed out, ruthlessly berating anyone who dared to hold up his shoot, no matter the reason. She hoped to God that Frans wasn’t going to be a problem.

  She had little time to worry about it. From a door that led into another part of the immense studio, Frans sauntered into the room, taking his time, dragging the shirt and jacket he was supposed to be wearing along behind him. Bianca felt her heart leap when she saw him. He had such a dazzling presence that she didn’t think she would ever become accustomed to his extraordinary handsomeness. Each time she saw him she was shocked anew. He was over six feet tall, muscular but lean, so that every movement he made, even the slightest, was accompanied by the visible motion of a set of muscles. He was born with perfect proportions: wide shoulders, a long torso, narrow waist and hips, and long legs. His dirty-blond hair hung well below his neck, and his blue eyes were startling, mesmerizing even. She watched as he slid the shirt on, covering the tribal tattoos on one arm, then lazily tucked half of it into his trousers, deliberately leaving the other half out. Finally, he put his jacket on.

  Greg began shouting instructions to the lighting assistants, then to the four models. The camera began to flash, over and over again, as the models moved about according to Greg’s orders, and Bianca couldn’t help but notice Frans’s magnetism. He oozed a brooding sexiness through every pore, she thought, qualities that came across in the photographs of him. She’d often seen men and women who were stunningly good-looking in person but didn’t photograph well. The camera, happily, loved Frans. Bianca thought part of his particular magic was that he didn’t seem to give a damn about the appeal he had. It was as if he was totally unaware of his striking presence, and this, she thought, was a refreshing quality in a model. Most of them were hyperconscious of their beauty, and seemed to live for the attention it brought to them.

  The shoot dragged on and on, but Bianca didn’t move from her chair. She was absorbed in Frans’s every movement, his every gesture, the sound of his German-accented English when he queried one of Greg’s instructions, his laughter when he or one of the other models made a silly mistake. She was love struck—there were no two ways about it—and she couldn’t get enough of him.

  So what if I’m twice his age? she thought as she saw one of the makeup artists step in and carefully stroke blusher on one of the men’s cheekbones. He’s a grown-up. Eighteen years old. That’s old enough to know what you’re doing, isn’t it? Of course it is. She knew that in her circle eyebrows would be raised when word got out that she was seeing a male model. But seeing an eighteen-year-old? It was like compounding a felony. She could hear it now. The vicious gossips that populated the worlds of fashion and business would crucify her, a thirty-six-year-old seemingly sane and responsible business executive, for robbing the cradle. Not only that, but dating a male model, a species that everyone knew was unreliable and unintelligent and therefore unpromising and undesirable as boyfriend, let alone husband, material.

  Well, Bianca had decided, let them talk. She was concerned about the reaction of only one person and that was her father. Angelo Coveri would be apoplectic—of that there was no doubt. He would storm and rage, call her names, and invoke the memory of her saintly mother. But Bianca knew that her father would come around to her side in the end. Despite whatever his initial misgivings might be, Bianca knew her father better than anyone, and she knew that under his thick skin Angelo Coveri was a romantic. He would eventually give her his blessings when he realized that Bianca was in love.

  She’d wondered if this was true, if she was really in love. She was obsessed with Frans, and she knew it. But was she in love with him? Yes, she’d decided. That, too. She was in love with his long dirty-blond tangle of hair, his penetrating blue gaze and sensual lips, his prominent nose and lean, muscular body. Even his tribal tattoos had become imprinted on her mind as erotic touch-stones, and she loved nothing more than to lightly trace them with a fingernail. Even now, as she sat in the uncomfortable chair in the studio, Greg’s shouted instructions and the loud music faded into the background, and she felt her pulse begin to race and a ru
sh of electricity run through her body as she remembered the warmth of his flesh against her own, the distinctly masculine aroma that he exuded, enveloping her in its erotic potency, and the powerful yet tender way he made love to her.

  Bianca was jerked out of her reverie when Frans sauntered off the white ground and directly toward her, his walk cockier than ever and his arrogant, brooding expression more pronounced than usual. When he reached her, he abruptly came to a halt and thrust his groin toward her obscenely. Followed by the flash of a thousand-watt smile, exposing his perfect white teeth. Then he blew her a kiss before striding back to the white fabric within camera range.

  “Frans, you motherfucker!” Greg screamed at the top of his lungs, the veins in his throat extended with the effort.

  Bianca immediately made a decision and rose to her feet. She quickly tiptoed to the door and left the studio, closing the door as silently as possible behind her. She was obviously too much of a distraction for Frans, and she’d better wait for him downstairs in the limo.

  “Leaving already?” Merilee said, gazing up at her.

  Bianca nodded, slipping into her coat.

  “Greg getting a little too worked up for you?” Merilee said with a glint of mischief in her eye. “I could hear him screaming some of his sweeter profanities, even over the music.”

  Bianca shrugged and pushed the call button for the elevator. “I’m not in the mood to listen to it today,” she replied. “Besides, it looks like it’s going to be a great shoot.”

  “Okay,” Merilee said. “See you later.”

  “ ’Bye.” Bianca sketched a wave in the air as the elevator arrived. On the way down, she checked her wristwatch. She was surprised that so much time had passed since she’d arrived, but she knew it might last another hour or so. Even longer. Frans had her cell number, so she would run some errands and swing back by for him when he was ready.

  Nearly three hours later, Frans opened the limousine’s door and slid onto the leather seat next to her. Wrapping an arm around her, he kissed her long and passionately, as if he had been starving for her. When he drew back at last and gazed into her eyes, his expression was that of a man deeply in love, Bianca thought.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” she said. “So much.”

  They began kissing again, disregarding the chauffeur, who made an effort to ignore them by staring out the window. When they drew apart again, Bianca brushed the side of Frans’s face with a hand. “I want to make a stop on the way to the apartment,” she said. “Is that okay with you?”

  “It won’t take long, will it?”

  She shook her head. “No. Just a few minutes. Besides, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a surprise,” she replied mysteriously. She turned toward the front of the limousine. “Azad?” she said to the driver. “Take us to the address I gave you before.”

  The handsome Kurdish driver nodded, and the big limousine began moving through the busy streets toward midtown. Frans took Bianca in his arms once again, peppering her face with kisses, his tongue darting out to flick at her ears and neck. When the car pulled over at the curb, Azad rushed out and opened the door on Bianca’s side.

  “Let’s go,” she said, drawing back from Frans.

  “Okay,” he said.

  She exited the car with him following close behind her. On the sidewalk, Frans blinked at the heavy filigreed iron and glass door and the sign beside it. Harry Winston.

  “What’s this?” he asked, taking her arm. “The jewelry store?”

  Bianca nodded. “Hmmm,” she purred with a smile. She led the way, and before Frans could open the door, the uniformed doorman swung it wide for them. Bianca knew her way around the exclusive shop and went directly to the glass showcase where she would find what she wanted. Once there, she stared down into it, and Frans followed suit.

  “It’s all rings,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” she replied.

  “May I help you, madam? Sir?” a middle-aged gentleman asked. The beautifully groomed and dressed Bianca seemed ill matched with Frans, a mass of tangled hair in an old surplus Russian-army greatcoat, leather jeans, and beat-up boots.

  “I want to try on a couple of rings,” Bianca said.

  “Yes?” the salesman said. “If you’ll point out which ones—”

  “I love that. . . . Is it a canary?” She was pointing with one of her carefully lacquered fingernails.

  “You have exquisite taste, madam,” the salesman replied, removing the diamond ring from its velvet display case. “It is a canary yellow diamond, round cut, set in platinum.”

  “Whoa,” Frans said. “That’s some rock, Bianca.”

  “Some rock indeed,” the salesman said with a smile. He held it out for Bianca to try on.

  She slipped the ring on and held her hand steady, fingers splayed, then moved her hand from side to side, watching the diamond flash in the light. “How many carats is this?” she asked, her eyes remaining on the ring.

  “Two,” the salesman replied. “And perfect, I might add.”

  “What do you think?” Bianca asked Frans.

  “It’s hot,” he said, smiling.

  She returned his smile, then peered back into the glass display case. “May I see that one . . . there?” she said, tapping the glass. “The emerald-cut white one.”

  “Of course.”

  Bianca tried it on, then repeated the process with four more rings, consulting Frans each time. His responses were variations of his first one until she slipped on a perfect marquise-cut white diamond of five carats set in yellow gold. “Wow. Supercool zonker,” Frans enthused. “Makes the rest look like river rocks.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She waved her hand back and forth, watching the marquise-cut white diamond flash its fire in the light. “It’s less traditional than the others,” she said, “but I love the cut and the yellow gold. And the size.”

  “Size matters,” Frans said with a lewd laugh. “Even with diamonds.”

  Bianca punched his chest lightly. “Especially with diamonds,” she said, “and this one is big.”

  “Five carats,” the salesman said.

  “You don’t think it looks too . . . flashy?” she said.

  “Oh, come on, Bianca,” Frans said, “how can a diamond be too flashy?” He grabbed the hand on which she wore the ring and kissed it. “Flash is what you’re after, babe. Why else bother?”

  Bianca laughed lightly. “Oh, well. I’m Italian. I can get by with it, right?”

  Frans put his arms around her and kissed her on the lips. “You bet you can,” he said. “It looks just right on you.”

  Bianca looked at the salesman, and he nodded almost imperceptibly, a small smile on his lips. “Well . . . ,” she began, “it does fit.”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem, madam,” the salesman said. “If it doesn’t fit perfectly, we could size it for you, of course.”

  “No,” she said. “It fits perfectly.” She splayed her fingers again and glimpsed back up at Frans. He smiled, his sensuous lips spreading, and his intense blue eyes sparkled.

  Her mind was suddenly made up. “I’ll take it,” she said.

  The salesman nodded. “An excellent choice,” he said. “It will only take me a moment to box it and get the GIA paperwork together. How do you wish to pay, if I may ask?”

  Bianca retrieved her wallet from her pocketbook and slid out her American Express card. “Here,” she said, handing the card to him.

  He nodded and took the card. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  “What paperwork?” Frans asked. “What’s he talking about?”

  “From the Gemological Institute of America,” she replied. “You know, guaranteeing the weight and color. That kind of thing.”

  “Oh,” Frans said. “So you’ll know you didn’t buy a fake or something.”

  She nodded. “Exactly.”

  The salesman returned with an
envelope of paperwork, a velvet box for the ring, and the credit card receipt for her to sign. Bianca took the pen he offered, signed the receipt, and slipped her copy into her wallet.

  “Do you want to put it in the box, madam?” the salesman asked.

  “No,” Bianca replied, smiling. “I’m wearing this zonker out of the store. I’ll put the box in my pocketbook.”

  Frans led her to the door and back out onto the street. The limousine, which hadn’t been able to idle at the curbside while they were in the shop, pulled over almost immediately. Azad started to jump out to open the door, but Frans waved him away. “Got it,” he said, opening the door for Bianca. They slid onto the luxurious black leather, and Frans put an arm around her shoulders. “The ring looks beautiful on you,” he said as the chauffeur pulled out into the traffic of Fifth Avenue.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “It’s nice,” he said, “but you know you don’t really need things like that to make you beautiful.”

  “But I need it for something else,” she said, studying his face. It was adoring, his face. That was the best way to describe it, she thought. And it had been since they’d first met.

  “Need it for something else?” He gazed at her quizzically. “What?”

  “If I want to get married, then I need an engagement ring, don’t I?”

  “Get married!” he replied. “But—but . . . I mean . . .” His shoulders slumped, and his features turned glum.

  “What?” she teased. She loved seeing his disappointment at her news.