He held it up to Sandro. “La signorina pazza,” he said. The card belonged to the crazy lady. She must’ve dropped it when she was fishing for it in her purse earlier in the evening. “Well, this is awfully convenient.”
“Throw it in the trash,” Sandro said, pretending to crumple up some paper and toss it into a nearby trash bin.
Luca shook his head. “No way,” he said. “This cat is going to have some fun playing with that timid little mouse.” Timid? he thought. Hardly. More like feisty. Nevertheless, this could be awfully fun.
He placed the card in his pocket, leaned over to kiss the tall, beautiful model whose name he’d already forgotten, and they headed off to Sandro’s to party till dawn.
~*~
Larkin was corralled with the press pool in seats to one side for Bernardo Lucchese’s show. She didn’t know what to expect from this event, having never attended a fashion show in her life. She sat in silence as guests streamed in for the show, most dressed in chic outfits, appearing as if they wanted to one-up the other attendees with their fashion savvy. Mission accomplished in this case; one outfit looked like it was constructed of aluminum foil, another as if it was made from a birds nest, and she was pretty certain a third had electrical wires woven through the bodice. She laughed to herself, thinking that was shocking. A joke only she would enjoy.
Larkin was perfectly happy in her simple black leggings, topped with an equally black slouchy sweater that she may or may not have even bothered to wash more than once over the past several weeks. Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun, and she’d worn her ever-so-practical Tom’s flats, in black, natch, though she’d already walked enough that day from the Metro to the designer’s showroom to yearn for greater arch support. She paused for a minute, worrying she might be mistaken for a granny if anyone were to identify that sad-sack thought that just drifted to the surface of her brain. Arch support?
For a fleeting moment, she considered trying to add a pair of sexy heels to her wardrobe sometime soon, only to remind herself that heels were super uncomfortable and caused blisters and made her walk like she had a stick up her behind. In Larkin’s world, it would always be comfort over fashion, every time.
She tried to tamp down that slight hint of envy at the many women who looked effortlessly gorgeous, happily ensconced in their killer stilettos and over-the-top outfits; she reminded herself that she had other strengths besides natural beauty and that was good. She’d rather be a gifted writer than a supermodel, anyhow. Though the fat bank account and luxurious world travel that went hand in hand with the latter wouldn’t be too shabby a fate to have to suffer through. But that was okay because she got paid decently, thank you, and was lucky enough to live in Rome and wander all over Europe writing all sorts of interesting pieces. Besides, she was totally fine traveling on the down and dirty. In total, her life was pretty darned good.
She noticed a thicket of people parting for another group making their way through the crowd when she unexpectedly locked eyes with the man in the lead: the very one who helped her get into the party yesterday evening. What was his name? God, had she ever even gotten it? She tried to probe her memory and finally she remembered: Luca something.
She looked at him for a moment as he took a seat alongside several other people, including that dark-haired man who was with him last night. It appeared everyone was quite deferential to that Luca person as if he was something special. Oh, well. No doubt half the people here thought they were some big deal. He could get in line behind the rest of them.
He was engaged in conversation with a generically gorgeous woman with cascading red hair and a pair of ta-tas that were clearly not God-given. No one that thin had boobs that huge. She hated those cheater boobs. Work with what nature gave you, would ya?
Larkin couldn’t help but stare at Luca, though, what with his chiseled chin, two adorable dimples that made his smile all the friendlier, and how he filled out his designer suit so perfectly. Oh, and those eyes that were pretty mesmerizing, the shade of deep blue that settles over the ocean at twilight. He was not bad-looking at all, she hated to admit. In fact, he was essentially handsome enough to be so out of her league he was practically in it. Men who looked like that never gave a second glance to women like Larkin.
Nevertheless, for a man who attended fashion shows, he sure was easy on the eyes. If that sentence even made sense. It’s just that she simply couldn’t imagine why any man would want to sit through a yawn-inducing parade of weird clothing, unless, of course, he was either gay or a serial womanizer, in which case, where better to pluck young, gorgeous ingénues to have your way with but here? Talk about low-hanging fruit. Which annoyed her as she presumed that was his modus operandi, so instead of smiling back at him as he did to her, she glared. But no sooner did she throw the man some shade than his face fell. And she felt sort of bad about that, wishing perhaps she hadn’t quite prejudged him, but before she had a chance to backpedal to make amends, the lights went down, and a hush descended on the crowd, indicating the show was about to begin.
Bernardo Lucchese stepped out to the front of the stage, which was buffered on either side by rows of folding chairs covered with moss. They looked like they were salvaged from the bayou as if that would disguise the fact that they were simply uncomfortable metal chairs. He stood with open arms extended, an impresario, the P. T. Barnum of the fashion world. He looked a bit like a eunuch from one of those horrible Victorian freak shows, slightly malevolent and indiscernibly gender-neutral, with hair shaved on either side of his head and a long braid reaching down his back. What little remained after the barber (or his vengeful friends after a night of heavy drinking) had gotten hold of it was pulled into a severe man bun atop his head. He was dressed in a long, black, Matrix-style cloak, his terrifyingly whitewashed face accented by brilliant red lipstick. He seemed to either be a dead Keanu Reeves come to life or the grim reaper ready to collect on his promises. Either way, his appearance was disconcerting. Note to self: judging by his appearance alone, don’t think you’ll be investing in a Bernardo Lucchese wardrobe anytime in the near future, Larkin thought with a small laugh.
The silence was finally broken by a sixty-something woman who also could actually have been a man—androgyny being the evident theme this morning—plying a bow against what sounded like a musical saw but the program indicated was a Chinese erhu. There was a slight hint in the sound emitted by the instrument of a cat’s tail being crushed beneath rocking chairs and the subsequent screeching that would ensue, at least as played by the musician at the helm.
But Larkin didn’t have time to process the musical choices because a cadre of models began pouring out onto the stage, one after the other, an androgynous army of tall, lithe, freakishly dressed models strutting in clunky shoes that looked like paper bags had been pulled over to protect the expensive footwear that surely was beneath the cement boots they were clopping along the stage in. Their costumes brought to mind impoverished Europe, circa World War II, in shades of brown, dark brown, and even darker brown. Their faces were veiled in brown netting, obscuring all but their brilliant red lips.
Larkin couldn’t help but jot a few notes questioning why her own outfit would be considered any less drab than those masterpieces on stage that reminded her of the story of the emperor who had no clothes. Most everyone in the audience seemed transfixed by these costumes, oohing and aahing a decibel or two beneath that of the dulcet strains of the crushed cat’s tail music, scurrying to jot down details about whatever getup caught their eye. Yet these were about the ugliest clothes she’d ever seen anywhere. And people were ready to pay small fortunes to own them.
She glanced over at Luca-the-rescuer, who seemed preoccupied with stroking his fingers along the bare back of the woman he sat next to. Guess he scored with the redhead last night.
Instead, Larkin returned her gaze to the far edge of the stage where models were now peeking out from behind enormous, feathery dried ferns that made it look as if they’d all been dr
opped into an episode of Land of the Giants, the ferns so large they looked like they could feed a brontosaurus. Now the women donned fat fur cuffs; fur being, after all, the practical fashion accessory for spring and summer.
This thing is so surreal, Larkin thought as she took notes, trying to figure out how she’d be able to write objectively about something so inherently not her thing. She had to remind herself that nuclear power plants in France also weren’t her thing, but she managed that story just fine. She was just going to have to adopt a sense of humor about this, which she did by trying to imagine herself going out in public with those huge flower pot shoes and the fur muffs and well, looking like the star of some French existential film from the fifties. Which made her laugh. Which was probably not the best thing to do in a highbrow fashion show where everyone else was concentrating intently on the clothes or the atmosphere or the show or who knew what.
Luckily, the screeching feline noise was loud enough that no one could hear her, so no one was the wiser. But then she noticed that Luca person watching her intently, and when her eyes met his, he winked at her with a broad smile. He winked at her. While stroking the back of the big-boobed redhead. Larkin couldn’t believe the audacity of the man!
She had no way to shut him down without making a scene, not that she would do that anyhow. So she did the only thing she could think of at the immediate moment—not one of her most shining of moments as a grown-up. She stuck her tongue out him. She’d show that Luca-who-thought-he-was-a-big-shot-but-was-probably-a-big-fat-nobody. That would teach him.
Chapter Six
She bloody stuck her tongue out at me, Luca thought, completely miffed at that vexing woman. Here I was trying to be friendly and nice, passing on a genial little wink, and she sticks her tongue at me. What in hell have I done to earn her wrath?
He was bored out of his mind at this thing. He couldn’t even tell which model was Gia, they were so hidden in their storm trooper wear. This was one of the weirdest fashion shows he’d ever attended. Not that he always made a habit of showing up at these events, but he’d attend every now and again when his friends wanted to do something different—that is when they wanted to look for gorgeous hookups.
Lately, Luca hadn’t been all that into the hookup scene. Well, he certainly wasn’t immune to it, but he’d grown more mature over the past year or so. And for a while, he’d been reeling from the devastating break-up with his long-time girlfriend Eleanor, who’d pulled the rug out from under him when she announced she was pregnant by a German barista named Gregor and was leaving Luca to open a coffee shop with the man in Bulgaria or some such nonsense.
Being royal, Luca wasn’t particularly used to being dumped, but under the circumstances, he tried to convince himself that she must’ve really loved the guy to ditch a kind, steady, reliable, and, well, let’s not mince words here, royal, Luca, for a guy with a pretty gnarly (and not in a good way) hipster beard who aspires to latte performance art for a living. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It just didn’t seem like the most stable of futures, making foam milk hearts in coffee drinks in Bulgaria. Nevertheless, it left him feeling betrayed and not all that enthralled with women.
After Eleanor, he’d lost his taste for relationships (and for coffee), which was likely when his reputation as a womanizer probably took on a more epic form. When you’re not in a relationship and you’re a guy, well, you tend to put yourself out there, try on different women for size, if for no other reason than to have some fun. But even last night with Inga—or was it Louisa? He’d lost track—well, the one-night stand thing had lost its luster, he just knew it, which was why he never even let it happen with her. He couldn’t muster up the ability to even care, much to her dismay. It had been coming on for a while; he hadn’t been feeling very good about himself, bedding a different woman in every city he visited. Once the charm of the chase wore off, it really just meant he was hooking up with someone just for the hell of it, and he wasn’t establishing a relationship or building a friendship or anything that seemed the logical progression of meeting a new woman, at least if you were interested in her.
Of course, he was well aware that as much as he might have been using some of those women, they were often using him right back. After all, it could be an impressive notch on a bedpost to have a fling with a prince even if he was fairly far down on the family totem pole. His older brothers had schooled him well about what to look out for with such women, and it was a fine balancing act between picking up a strange woman and ending up with a woman who might want to cling a little too tightly because of Luca’s pedigree. And yeah, he recognized a bit of a double standard there: it was fine enough for him to sleep with a woman for her good looks but he was wary of a woman hooking up with him because of his royal status. In part, that’s why he was starting to feel a bit squeamish about being so shallow and why it was all ringing awfully hollow now.
He supposed this was why he was so intrigued by the feisty mouse. She clearly had no interest in him, which was, on the one hand, somewhat insulting, but on the other, all the more compelling. He loved a good challenge, and she seemed that and more on so many levels.
But then she stuck her tongue out at him. And not in a coy, come-hither sort of way, but rather in a “go away, you big jerk” manner. What the ever-loving hell?
As he mulled this dilemma, the lights finally went up and the show mercifully ended. But not without a thoughtful yet unnecessary shout-out from Bernardo.
“Thank you all for coming to my show,” he said with his lilting Italian. “And a special thank-you to Monaforte’s Prince Luca whose presence here has helped me launch my new line in style. Grazie mille,” he said, blowing air kisses and giving the obligatory hipster Namaste prayer bow toward Luca, who responded with a discreet nod, not wanting to be the object of everyone’s attention. Luca had hoped, however, to catch Larkin’s eye, but instead, it looked like he was doomed to catch only shit from her as she looked his way with a deeply furrowed brow and a tight frown on her innocent face.
Well, crap. What’s a guy have to do to impress a woman seemingly determined to hate him?
~*~
She still couldn’t believe the man was royalty, for goodness’ sake. Royalty. And here she was grimacing at him and sticking her tongue out and basically acting immature and irritating and the man was a damned prince. All the more reason to think he was a complete jerk, all smug with his entourage separating the crowd for him like he was Moses parting the Red Sea. Or was that Jesus parting the Nile? She could never get those biblical stories down.
Either way, she felt like a complete schmuck having reacted as she had toward him not once, not twice, but what was it now, four different times? When chances were good she was supposed to curtsy or bow or supplicate at the altar or some other equally submissive thing she sure as hell wasn’t going to do because, hey, she was American and her ancestors got rid of royalty for a reason! Besides, hadn’t she read about him in the tabloids? He had a reputation for banging a new, idiotic, gullible woman every night of the week, at least according to Blitz! magazine. That’s not the sort of man she wanted to have any part of, even if he was only trying to be polite and help her get into that ridiculous party last night.
Yes, she was glad she didn’t defer to him simply because he was rich and famous. It was nice to turn the tables for once, to not be the girl serving punch at the prom behind the cafeteria counter but instead, to be the woman who stood tall and proud and didn’t capitulate to someone so much higher up in the pecking order than she.
Only why did she get that nagging feeling maybe she was being a bit of a judgmental prick?
Chapter Seven
Larkin had been getting the play-by-play on Piers from a colleague all morning long via text message as she sat through yet another launch of even stranger fashions. This was her fifth show in two days so she’d stopped expecting anything but the most out-there clothes to be on display. It was entertaining in its complete peculiarity, this whole
fashion world.
Paolo’s first text came in just as the fashion show got underway.
Be glad you’re in Milan; you’ve been spared the wrath of cranky Piers. He’s just opened the bottle of acetaminophen and dropped several pills into the palm of his trembling hand. Now he’s throwing them back with a large swig of water. He told me when he arrived (late) that he had a bitch of a hangover, and well, we all know he what he’s like the morning after.
Larkin glanced up from her phone to see a woman strut by with a space suit on. Or at least she thought it was a space suit.
She wrote back: Don’t know what’s worse: Piers nursing a ferocious hangover and the incumbent repercussions from that or watching women pretend to be stylish while dressed as if starring in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Paolo sent her a frowny-face emoji. Trust me, absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or in this case, still beat, because at least he can’t kill you when you’re not in his presence.
Larkin shook her head. Piers was usually a pretty even-tempered man, but on the occasion that he did imbibe a bit too much the night before, he wasn’t always the most genial. Thank goodness I’m here, not there, she thought.
~*~
Luca finally got around to contacting Larkin’s editor the morning after he saw her at Bernardo’s fashion show.
“Piers here,” a gruff voice snarled into the phone.
“I need to get hold of someone named Larkin Mallory,” Luca said. “Might you be able to help me?”
“Why? Is there a problem with her?”
Luca shook his head. Strange question to ask. “No,” he said. “Not at all. I seem to have stumbled upon a press pass with her name on it and thought she might need it. It said she worked for the International Chronicle, so I figured I’d track her down to get this back to her.”
“Huh,” the voice sort of grunted over the telephone line. “I’m her boss. Let me take your name and number and I’ll have her get in touch with you to retrieve it.”
A Court Gesture Page 3
