by Avery Aster
Lex walked through the aisles, and he watched in admiration as she glanced over silk and cotton. Her legs were longer than he’d remembered.
“Is this where the fabric is treated, as well?”
“Sì. We dry-spin your fabrics with the elastin fabrics and blend the cotton.”
He walked her from room to room, passing the consumer showroom, a large department store mockup. His team had designed it to resemble Selfridges in London.
“I’ve seen your showroom in the magazines. The write-up in Vogue Italia three years ago prompted me to call your sales office. I can’t believe I’m here in person, with you.” Her grin stretched ear to ear.
“It is my honor to share this with you.” It made him feel good to see her happy after yesterday’s pique. But he still couldn’t give in to her demands.
“What’s this?” Lex walked into a space set up to resemble a boudoir.
“This is our new branded retail line going to the States next season.”
“This is your Easton Essentials knockoff?”
“I would not say it’s a copy, Lex. You are here to witness how different our concept is. Maybe we are using the fabric the same way, but mine is more fitting to the female form.”
“How…different it is. It’s interesting,” Lex’s face turned sour. With each garment she picked up, a deeper frown pressed.
“What is it? Why are you making such a displeased look?” He stepped closer. Massimo expected her to be unenthused, but not repulsed.
“It’s nothing, and you’re right. These designs are not copies.”
Lex took one off the hanger and went over to the mannequin in the room’s corner. “This dress form is about a size four.” She slid the Girasoli over the mannequin and spun the form around, pulling the garment’s bottom. Stepping back, eyeing him with a questioning pop in her eyes, which annoyed him, she tested, “Do you not see it?”
Never one to be quizzed, he attempted to retain composure. “I see a very sexy dress from compression fabric. It will go into production in six colors and be available with a scoop-, X- or V-neck.” Not a copy reverberated in his head as he put his hands in his pockets to play with his loose change. What was she getting at?
“Let’s continue the tour.” She slipped the garb off the mannequin and put it back on the rack.
He put his hand up, blocking her from leaving the boudoir. “You see something. Tell me.” He took her waist in his hand as she passed, pulling her back into him. “Please—”
Staring into his eyes, Lex smiled without a flinch and then turned back to the rack. “These are designed by Jemma. I’m sure she looks hot in them. But these are not appropriate patterns for anyone larger than a size six.”
“These dresses will be made up to a size large, a size eight,” Massimo boasted.
“For starters, in the States, a size large is a size ten, not a size eight. And on your hanger is a small. But the sizes can be worked out later, when you start production. Two, four, six, eight is not what I’m getting at.” She sighed in annoyance.
“Pardon?” he asked, his concern growing. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Do you see the cut on the dress?” She held up the garment again.
“What is wrong with it?” He grabbed the hanger from her.
Lex pulled a booklet from her bag. “Here’s our catalog from last season.” She flipped open the pages. “See the models wearing soft shapes? Look at the dress form. How it’s fitted but flowing at the same time, you see?”
“Yes, but Easton’s look is not Girasoli’s.”
“Massimo, if Girasoli is going to sell into the mass market channels, you’re going to have to go even softer on the lines than what I’ve done with Easton.”
He admitted it. Lex was right. Jemma designed garments for herself and her friends in Milan and Tokyo who wore haute couture. Not for the North American women buying apparel. He tried to imagine the dresses Jemma created in a catalog and realized they were wrong.
“What do you suggest?” He knew the minute he asked he’d owe a return favor.
“Use this elastic fabric in areas where the consumer wants to contour. But in areas they want to be loose, you have to incorporate another fabric and piece the look together.”
His unease settled deeper. He’d been mistaken all along and maybe even a little self-righteous. Massimo was surprised she didn’t rub his nose in it.
She flipped her catalog over to the blank backside, took a pen from her purse and sketched the outfit on the hanger. “This is what you have.” She held up the article and he nodded to confirm.
Then she drew a flowing bottom to the dress, made the bust looser and changed the V-neck to a scoop. “This is what the consumer wants to buy from you.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“My mom is the ‘accentuating the positive and eliminating the negative’ queen. You know?” Lex sang, “Ac-Cen-Tchu-Ate the positive.” She paused to see if she should keep singing.
Massimo enjoyed her voice, nodding for her to continue.
“Latch on to the affirmative. Don’t mess with Mister In-Between.”
Massimo questioned what she sang about.
She dropped her a cappella performance. “With this getup, you’re messing with Mister In-Between. Don’t get me wrong; Mom’s figure stopped traffic when she was my age. At least Mom’s Playboy photos say she did. But years later, she found a few imperfections.”
“How has she carried on without your father at her side?”
“Fashion is therapy for Mom, and for me, too. She still creates her own clothing—weaving, cutting, deconstructing and bringing them to life. She always looks amazing. So if there’s one thing I’m certain of…”
He gave her a sidelong glance filled with utter curiosity, “What?”
“What a woman wants to buy when she goes shopping. It’s the mantra for Easton Essentials, ‘accentuate the positive’.”
“Are you and your madre close?” Massimo wondered what his mother would be like if she were alive. A small part of him also desired to know what his mother would think of Lex.
“I’m a daddy’s girl.”
“Why?”
“Dad’s stardom became supernatural. People were intoxicated being around him. He enchanted everyone—his fans and even his family.”
Massimo noted Lex must’ve inherited Eddie’s star quality. She could take center stage and hold a crowd anytime she wanted.
“And your madre?”
“In ’82, Hugh selected Mom as a playmate. Her singing career soared with two chart-toppers, Am I Wicked and Lucifer’s Mistress. Soon after, she met my dad, gave birth to me, married and became obliterated in comparison to my father’s success.”
“Birdie sounds like a…neat lady.”
Lex inhaled, gave Massimo a smile then admitted, “She’d tell me over and over again how I inconvenienced her and ruined her career. I was five or six. No clue what she meant ’til I turned twelve. And my resentment for her increased as hers dissipated. You could say we took turns hating one another,” she joked.
He didn’t find it amusing.
She continued, “But something changed when…” Her voice became fragile and shaking.
“What is it?” His mother was suppressed into nothing more than a shadow by his father’s own doing. His childhood memories were few, but his mother he’d worked hard to remember. He’d journaled his dreams over the years to keep her memory fresh.
Her grip on the Easton brochure tightened more than she may have realized. “When Dad died, we sorta became society outcasts, bankrupt. People turn on you when you lose your money. A few friends stayed close, but Mom and I realized we were it—just us two, together.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Lex.” He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know anything about her family. “I knew your father’s songs and your mother’s, too. I never connected them to Easton Essentials. No one at Girasoli did.”
“We’ve worked ha
rd to make sure the brand sells itself without any celebrity BS.”
“How did you come up with the concept?”
“Thrift shopping at La Boutique Resale, we didn’t fit into the European cuts. So we picked up the Girasoli elastic fabric in the garment district and started stitching it with the clothing we wanted to wear but couldn’t. You know, due to our physical imperfections.” She put her hands on her hips.
“I don’t see any flaws.” He noted Lex’s hips resembled Jennifer Lopez’s signature physique. Holding on to Lex’s body excited him.
“Hello!” Lex snapped her fingers.
“Scusi,” he offered.
“Easton stemmed not from commerce, but a new friendship and need for better garments.”
Lex gave him a glare to say she was the real deal.
He realized his objectives for launching his line were quite different from hers. Her story spoke authentic. His did not.
“Grazie for sharing with me.” He reckoned her journey was much more than he’d expected. “I didn’t know this about Easton. All we tracked were your sales numbers.”
“I came to Italy for Easton’s betterment.” she smiled, looking up at him, “and for my own livelihood.”
Lex was smarter than he’d given her credit for. He’d been uncomfortable with Jemma’s designs since he first laid eyes on them. Something about Jemma’s work never quite settled right with him, but he’d overlooked it. He was never one to micromanage, and he trusted his design team. But he needed to go with his instincts, which told him Lex knew fashion.
“We have much work ahead.”
She put the catalog in her bag. “Yes, your girlfriend has tons to do prior to production. These samples will need to be redone.”
“Jemma isn’t my girlfriend.” He’d been single for a year. His cock’s hiatus extended out past six months. “Let me show you the other offices.” He turned and headed to the next building.
Lex thought back to the pool orgy the day before. “You guys flocked lovebird-style out by your garden,” she accused.
“I’m single, Lex. I do not have a girlfriend to speak of.”
“If she’s not something more official, then she’s your lover.” As they headed down what appeared to be a connecting walkway from building to building, she wondered why he would bother to lie to her.
“Sì, we dated a while back,” he confirmed. “But we are not an item. Not an exclusive one, anyway.”
“I get it. You’re not monogamous.” It made sense to her now. The prince made love to the women in the summer and then put them to work in the factories in the winter. He had a real racket going. Pig!
“No. If you must know, we’re not even sleeping together. She’s turned her energy toward Luigi and the girls. They have an open relationship going.” He kept walking toward the passageway’s narrow ending.
“You guys are a tight group?”
He stopped and glared at her. “Milano runs in a piccolo social circle. We see the same people over and over again.”
A small circle. His response sounded familiar. The singles’ scene in Manhattan worked in a similar fashion, which was why she never slept with the men she met unless she dated them. Dating for Lex was ages ago, though. If he’s truly single…No, girl. Don’t go there.
“Tell me.” She pulled on her purse strap. “You don’t believe—”
Massimo covered her mouth with his large hand. “Must we talk about this?” he whispered in her ear, as if they were having the conversation in a public forum.
Is monogamy a sore subject? She pulled his hand from her lips. “I’m sorry. Your personal life isn’t my business.” But Lex wanted to make it her business. “And I couldn’t care less who your lovers are.” Perhaps true yesterday, but today? Indeed, Lex’s interest was in knowing what made his heart tick, not what made his dick rise. Still, she couldn’t let him see how much she wanted him.
She stood facing him in the dark hallway, stale office air mixed with musky cologne making her nose itch.
He studied her face then answered. “My motives and monogamy have nothing to do with one another,” Massimo clarified. “For your inquiring records, mia padre, my grandfather, and his father included lovers and friends in addition to wives. The women are either mistresses or Tittoni wives who accept their royal duties.”
You’re delusional. She wondered if Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, put Kate through this shit behind Kensington Palace’s closed doors. Good luck in finding your princess.
Lex turned the corner after him and they entered the second building. There, on a crate in shrink-wrap and tagged “Easton Essentials”, was Lex’s order. A large neon orange sticker read “Arresto”.
Jesus Christ in a box. Panic nearly closed her throat. She stared at the delivery, imagining what lay inside. Her future—a destiny she’d never have if she couldn’t get the fabric. Knowing her designs brought joy to her mother, wholesale clients, and her consumers made it even worse.
When she could finally manage to speak, she said, “And here it is. The freight needed to start my season’s collection next week.” Her eyes were bothered with tears despite her effort to hold them back. The order wasn’t enough fabric to send to Asia or to go into retail production. But it was just enough to get the samples done for the runway and publicize the concept. “Massimo, please. I’ll do anything—”
“Stop. Don’t.” He stepped closer and placed her hand in his. “Girasoli must get its own line off the ground.”
Embarrassed, she wiped her eyes. “Why can’t I continue with my brand in the prestige market?” Her breath shortened with each word. “You can sell yours in the mass channel.” She waited for a response then added, “Girasoli will make more money in mass than prestige.”
She’d give him some trade secrets, but not the trade secret. She’d never. Then he’d become her ultimate rival. It was one thing to do a knockoff concept in the lower-end channels, but it was another to do an identical concept to her premium product.
“Bella, you drive me crazy. You show up during my holiday, demanding I give you these fabrics. You’re impossible to dine with, you don’t eat Italiano food. You ridicule the collection slated to boost my business—though your calculations on the designs are correct.”
“And?”
Lips tensing, he spoke again, nostrils flaring. “And now, you want me to change my course and give you the fabrics after I have stated no on paper, over the phone and in person.” He quirked his eyebrows, resembling a devil taunting his prey, and she felt her breath hitch.
His lips pursed again. Fighting a grin? A calm washed over his face as every tense furrow lifted in ease. Was he maybe going to…?
“Let us go to my office. I have a proposition, a business one, I would care to discuss with you. My real reason I brought you here today.”
I’m so over this. “I should be going to Donatella’s offices. If you’ll get my bag from your limo, I’ll be on my way.” Avoiding eye contact, she didn’t care about anything other than her shipment. No more free fashion advice for Girasoli. She’d bill him and Jemma by the hour.
“We’ll discuss how we are going to ship your freight to JFK this week.” Massimo pointed at her shipment.
Thank you, God, Gianni Versace and Alexander McQueen for answering my prayers.
Arms wide, she hugged him. She wrapped herself around his upper chest and held on as if he were an old friend. “Thank you, Massimo. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She shook a little from the stress, the trip, getting the collection off the ground. She wondered if Massimo could feel her tension melting. “You’ve saved my company. You’ve saved my life.”
He kissed her. At first, his lips were dry and still, but with one fast lick they became wet, his tongue fierce inside her mouth, locking them together—inviting her to explore his desire.
From cold to warm to blazing hot, the graze worked itself into a euphoric frenzy. Leaning into his embrace, she felt small in comparison to his mighty build. She opene
d her right eye once to see, as she followed his lead, snapping her lid shut when she noticed him looking, too.
His cock grew hard against her torso. Reaching down, she rubbed his dick through his slacks. Oh, Masi.
“You want my cock, bella?” He leaned in for more, pressing his groin into her palm as she tugged at his zipper.
Everything she desired, the fabrics, but also something more than she’d ever imagined—enjoyment from the very prince she’d fantasized over. Being in Massimo’s arms caused her to forget to breathe. She felt faint.
He cupped his hand over his mouth to savor the moment then spoke. “We are not in the clear yet. Come.” He motioned her down the hall. “I have a proposition for you.”
Sweet Tiramisu Melts in Your Mouth
“Wowzers! Your CEO’s wing is gorgeous.” She held his arm for a minute. This man does everything sooo first-class. Why can’t my showroom be as fierce as this? Hell, we don’t even have health insurance—yet.
Similar to his personality, Massimo’s office was decorated with dignified and masculine artifacts. He had a grand desk boasting spiral and bobbin motifs, carved from mahogany with gold hardware holding court in the middle. Racks spiraled with tapestry were thrown against each other and pinned with call tags. Tittoni’s dynasty pictures lined his workspace. Some were in black and white, others in sepia tones and a few in color. They were nobles, she could tell. Each lady sported a royal ascot hat, statement jewelry in diamonds with pearls, and the men in armor.
“History galore in these pictures.” She held up a heavy frame for closer inspection. Compared to her itsy family tree, she couldn’t imagine such an extended royal unit filled with aunts and uncles. “I can see where you get your good looks from,” she stated, admiring who she assumed must be his grandfather.
“Family heroes,” he commented as she held up a photo for better examination. “They were nobles from Sardinia, Croatia and Savoy.” He took the frame from her hand and returned it to its place.
Massimo hung his head. “I am not sure about this, Lex. If I give you the fabrics, what am I getting from this?”
