Sweet Seduction

by Anthology

  “Our happiness is with you, Jemma.” In a numb voice, I reminded her how important she was to us, and then kissed her on the lips.

  When her mouth broke from mine, she whispered in my ear, “Can we go on…with what we have?”

  I pulled back and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “The three of us, loving each other. Even if that means you won’t be calling me your wife or the mother of your children?”

  Alarmingly, my pulse skittered. Clenching my jaw, I realized we were making compromises about our relationship. My eyes snapped shut, trying to block out the truth that I wanted marriage, to see Rocco be a padre. Lying through my teeth, I answered, “Sì, I’m sure.”

  I don’t have the heart to call it quits. Not now. Probably not tomorrow, either.

  “Grazie, I love you.” Her slender hand slinked behind the back of my neck as relief graced her lips in the expression of a smile.

  Chest rising, inhaling through my mouth, I attempted to return the gesture but couldn’t.

  Sad. Pissed off. This wasn’t how love was supposed to go. Was it? However, I couldn’t see my life without her.

  Together, we faced Rocco.

  His nose shiny, red.

  “Bello, can’t we just keep things the way they are?” she asked.

  “Give me some time to process this—” He turned into himself. “I don’t know what I want. But I do know I don’t want to be without you two.”

  A yearning of wanting it to work, more than ever, rocketed through me. Rocco was so vulnerable. He needed us, and we needed him. Didn’t Jemma see how we couldn’t live without her?

  As we watched Jemma head back to our private oasis on the beach, I slipped the diamond into my front pocket. The ring would never adorn dolce’s finger.

  The pain in my heart, as if I’d just been stabbed, made it hard to even look at Rocco. I should’ve stood my ground. But who gives their girlfriend an ultimatum when proposing marriage? I didn’t expect it to turn out like this. Such a disaster.

  The hand he’d been nervously biting started to bleed. I reached for it, giving him a squeeze.

  “One day this isn’t going to be enough for me. I want more for my life. I deserve it, too,” he said and hugged me.

  “I know you do, bello,” I muttered. “I do, too.”

  We’d just said our piece to move on in our own life directions. Maybe not that day. Maybe not the next. However, someday, the notion of not getting married and having children with Jemma might destroy Rocco and me if we stayed in the relationship for too long.

  Chapter Two

  Damn Vive Farnworth! My career is O-V-E-R

  Jemma

  Present Day

  The Girasoli Garment Company Corporate Office, Milan, Italy

  Merda!

  On a scale from one to ten. One being…craporama. Ten being…the effin’ fudgesicle worst day of my cat-litter stinking life. That day, the day after my couture fashion collection had hit the European runways, I, Jemma Fereti, former runway supermodel turned fashion designer, was having an eleven.

  Yup. That’s way worse than smelling cat pee. Trust me.

  Damn that Vive Farnworth at Debauchery magazine and her nasty ass editorial.

  With my cell in my hand, I glared at the article on the screen so hard I thought my corneas would surely catch on fire. Or worse, my eyeballs might just pop out of their socket and soar across the room as two Ping-Pong balls, bouncing off Lex, Taddy, and Blake, who stood before me.

  Vive’s headline read, “Jemma Couture’s NEW Fashion Collection is Shit.”

  That was exactly what it said. Shit. Clear as the Tuscan sun and to the point. I plus fashion equals…poop.

  My fashion collection that season which I’d so fondly titled Death Star Galactica was a failure.

  This was bad. So very bad.

  Almost as horrific as the time I’d learned my career as Europe’s highest paid runway model was over. Dead in the water. Overnight, I’d become…unbookable. Why? Cause I’d turned thirty-frickin’-five. The fashion industry was ruthless. Hence why that afternoon I was freaking the fudge out.

  Almost as bad as the time my madre had passed away and I’d told my padre at the funeral that I was in a poly relationship with two of the most wonderful men on the planet.

  I’d thought he’d be happy for me. Didn’t he want to see my needs were being taken care of? That I was A-Okay.

  Umm. No!

  Giving an ultimatum, he’d argued, “I didn’t spend over a million dollars, put you in Milano’s best schools, and raise you to be a signora to have you turn into the laughingstock of Italy. You’re not a whore. Either they go or I do.”

  Cool as gelato, I’d kept calm, but had eventually lost my patience and declared, “Padre, I didn’t survive a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery in my thirties to have you tell me how to live my friggin’ life. Arrivederci.”

  The Big C and little ta-ta was what I had. But the Big C and little ta-ta isn’t who I am. No fucking way, my darlings. I refuse to let it define me. I’m a fighter. I’m a survivor.

  Regardless, my heart broke that day my padre had protested my relationship. He’d never understand, so we hadn’t talked since. Did I miss him? Sì. But I had to live my life by my rules, not his. Maybe I was selfish. After my diagnosis and treatment, I realized life goes by in a blink, and it’s too short to not do as you please. And I am doing exactly that.

  Which leads me to the third worst moment of my so-called fabulous life. I already told ‘ya what it was…

  That day was almost as scary as the time the doctor had said, “Jemma, you have breast cancer.” Mentally, I’d never recovered from the mastectomy. Physically, Milan’s top plastic surgeon had reconstructed my breasts after I’d kicked the Big C in the ass. To be honest, they looked better than they did before the diagnosis. Implants. Never thought I’d have two artificial silicone pillows put in me, but damn, they look fucking fabulous.

  I have been cancer-free for the two years. Knock on wood. My breasts seem and sometimes feel real, but having mine removed wasn’t just a shock to my system. Cancer had destroyed my sense of self. My boyfriends don’t see the fear I have: that it’ll come back, that one day I could get sick again. I wouldn’t survive the next time around, I already knew it. More about that later. Much later. I need to keep my mind on work.

  One would think after having their father disown them, experiencing the career highs and lows I have, and battling breast cancer I wouldn’t get that stressed out—not anymore. After all, this is Death Star Galactica. Only fashion, not world peace. Regardless, I was indeed stressed.

  Sì, it was the fourth worst day of my life. For sure.

  I stood in front of my colleague’s desk, Lex Easton. The day before, she’d flown in from Manhattan to help me with the fashion show.

  “This is…horrible.” Slouched over the keyboard, she glared at the local newspaper and shrieked for the umpteenth time, “Horrible!”

  Oh, all right. I should be honest and state it wasn’t only Debauchery magazine which had slammed my latest work. No, my darlings! How about the Milano News, New York Times, London Herald, and Paris Tribune to boot. Pretty much every blog, newspaper, magazine, and TV station from New York to Timbuktu had ripped my latest creations to pieces. I’m ruined. Ruined, I tell you.

  “Say something!” I shouted around the room at everyone, resting my eyes upon Taddy Brill.

  Strikingly gorgeous. Think Rita Hayworth. Unusually tall. The woman radiates beauty even during moments of high client drama, such as this one. Figures. That’s why she works in public relations.

  Taddy owns the PR firm the Girasoli Garment Company retains to promote our brands, Easton Essentials and Jemma Couture. In hopes of saving me from the catastrophe, she’d jetted in from New York after the Milan show tanked with her business partner, Blake Morgan. Miracles do happen, so per favore, God, I for sure need one.

  “Give me a minute. I’m...thinking.”

 
She wouldn’t even make eye contact with me.

  You know it’s bad when your own publicist can’t even stand the sight of you. I’d love to curl up into a ball right now, stuff my face with a fist full of Mint Milano cookies, and die. Just die, I tell you.

  She hid behind her thick, wavy, gorgeous red hair, and picked at her long acrylic nails. I wanted to shake her like a piggybank but instead of coins falling out, I’d be loaded with ideas on how to fix my fashion line.

  “Tsk. Tsk.” Blake, Taddy’s cohort, stood next to her. He kept making this annoying noise, shaming me with his beautiful lips as if I were a poodle who’d just taken a whiz on the carpeting. I was tempted to smack his cute face.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. The silence was choking me, so I had to ask.

  “Are you going to fire me?”

  Air caught in my throat the second that question left my mouth. In fear my legs would buckle, I leaned against the edge of Lex’s desk and crossed my arms. I was either going to black out or vomit. Hopefully not pass out in my own vile. God, that would suck.

  Girl, brace yourself.

  While I waited for Lex’s reply, the room started to spin and my peripheral vision blurred. I could already hear her saying, “Fuck yes, you stupid cow.”

  The woman has a major potty mouth, FYI.

  Without notice, Lex inhaled so loudly, I thought her nostrils might snort up the ivory damask wallpaper decorating the office. Then she said, “If you weren’t my hubbies life-long friend, a woman I respected, and cared for as family…then yes, Jemma, I’d have no choice but to terminate your role as the lead designer on Jemma Couture.”

  “On the very label I created?”

  She nodded. “If Perry Ellis can fire Marc Jacobs for his grunge collection, we can definitely terminate you over Death Star Galactica.”

  “Jil Sander has left her own line three times already,” Blake added.

  “That’s by her own accord,” I clarified, wondering if she’d been pushed out of her own company. Sure, I’d heard of it happening in our industry. But to me? I mean really!

  This was complete and utter malarkey. I called bullshit.

  Jemma Couture had been a huge hit when it launched a few years back. It had all started on a scandal: a see-through, nude dress bedazzled in thousands of Swarovski crystals which Lex had worn the night she got caught screwing Prince Massimo by paparazzi. That dress and those images had launched her as a fashion icon and me as the designer who’d created it.

  Gowns start at around ten thousand dollars. We’ve dressed the First Lady of the United States as well as Meryl, Julia, and many other starlets for the Academy Awards. Using only the best Italian fabrics was our trademark. That and sexy, revealing silhouettes. We were hot.

  Were being the keyword there.

  Frickin’ A.

  “The one my husband and I funded.” Lex pulled her shiny blonde hair back behind her ear and cleared her throat. “You know in this fashion industry, one bad season may ruin a brand.”

  “Then I’ll resign from the company—” Hot, wet tears streaked down my face. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “Let’s not be drastic,” Blake interrupted and made his way over to me. “I may not have a vagina, but I know why women buy this brand.”

  Spearheading many of the lifestyle accounts alongside Taddy, Blake was a branding guru. Aside from his wit and intelligence, he was rather famous amongst New York City’s society.

  “Why?” Taddy and Lex asked simultaneously.

  “Because they want to feel feminine and beautiful when wearing Jemma Couture. Tell us what exactly you were thinking with those military jumper pants?”

  Insulted, I tried to stay strong and answered, “Those are raspberry mocha space gowns. Not pants. There’s a seam up the front.”

  “Yes, Miss Thing, a seam which splits the bottom of the dress into a pair of pants. Hello.” His bright blue eyes rolled dramatically at my reply. He sassed on, reading me to fashion designer shame.

  “Err…I guess I kind of went off on one of my creative tangents and lost track of the Jemma Couture consumer.”

  Usually when I veered off course, the ending would come out fabulous. The previous year’s ostrich feathers with gold-plated caviar beading was a colossal hit, and Harper’s Bazaar had hailed it the gown of the century. But the military trooper dress, not so much.

  “What was your inspiration for this collection?” The head of Brill, Inc. dipped her head in my direction.

  “Star Wars is coming back to the big screen this year and I got excited about the outer space fantasy, so I ran with it. I wanted us to be edgy. You know…different. Hence Death Star Galactica.” I said the name of the season’s collection proudly. Dammit, I still had a sense of pride.

  “Ohhh. The collection is different all right. Try ‘not wearable’. And having the models carry machine guns was over the top,” Lex stated.

  “Those were laser guns,” I defended. “They shot confetti, adding a layer of surprise to the show.”

  Everyone stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.

  “Hey now.” I sighed. “It’s not my fault when the guns went off the entire front row of attendees got scared and hit the floor, hiding under their seats.”

  “Bitch, please. I peed my pants,” Blake added.

  Lex covered her mouth, hiding what appeared to be a giggle. It so wasn’t a good time to laugh.

  “This season isn’t you,” Taddy declared, throwing her hands in the air as she stood from the high-back chair. “Jemma Couture is a formal evening gown line, not active-wear. More importantly, I’m pissed at myself for not seeing the press samples and the collection before the show started. From here on out, Brill, Inc. will need to clear all garments before they hit the runway. You’ve lost the right for final approval.”

  “Mi spiace.” Mortified, I apologized. “Truly, sorry.”

  In reality, I never let anyone see my work before show time. Those were my rules. But would I mind designing by committee? I wasn’t so sure about that.

  Taddy paced the room like a lion trapped in a cage. Swaying her hips, the heavily jeweled bangles on her arms jingled. The noise added with Blake’s ‘tsk-tsk’ and Lex’s sighs of ‘horrific’ was causing my attention-deficit disorder (ADD) to go wonky. The littlest sounds set me off.

  Oh, God, I wish she’d just spill it. Otherwise, I might climb the walls.

  “Signorina Brill, per favore, what should we do?” I begged her for an idea.

  Brill, Inc. had built the media messages for Girasoli’s two brands: Easton Essentials, which was a line Lex had started, and my brand Jemma Couture, from day one. I may have created a bad collection that week, but I wasn’t stupid. We’d be nowhere if it wasn’t for Taddy and Blake getting our dresses onto the bodies of every mover and shaker in the world.

  “I have a strategy to save your gorgeous bum. Totally out of the box. It’s going to require you to be a bit exposed and vulnerable.”

  “Ugh…” Two words which were so not me. I chewed my bottom lip for a second before saying, “Sì, all right. Let’s hear it.”

  “It’s clear you’ve lost your mojo. Your sexy, girly ways went out the window with those military space pants and laser guns.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed, unsure of where she was going with this.

  “It’s normal for designers to take sabbaticals, traveling abroad to get inspired for their next collection.”

  “My darlings, I can’t leave Rocco and Luigi behind for that long. They can be…how do you say in English…possessive.”

  “When was the last time you had a romantic night of crazy monkey sex with them?” Blake asked, his manicured brow arched high.

  Needing to stall to come up with an answer, I couldn’t remember when, so I asked for clarification. “Toe-curling?”

  “Pussy-eating, clit-shaking, butt-fucking, fantastical fun,” Blake added.

  “Hmmm…” Oh, dear. These New Yorkers can be crass at times. “I don’t
recall. Maybe three months ago when we were on the Isola di Girasoli. We celebrated my second year of being cancer-free.”

  When I’d first met Luigi and Rocco, we’d fare l'amore in the middle of the night, early morning, middle of the freaking day, and before bedtime. So, a few times a day.

  Then lovemaking sorta went to twice a day, to once a day. A few times a week. Followed by once on Sundays. I couldn’t tell you the last time I had my pussy eaten, clit shaken, butt fucked, or anything fantastically fun happen between us.

  Dannazione.

  “I dunno…”

  “Exactly.” Taddy turned to face me, her green eyes finally locked with mine. “No sex in your life equals bad fashion designs. This is easy to see how this happened.”

  “It is?” I wasn’t following them.

  “You have two lovers for a reason, honey. You used to be an insatiable woman.”

  “Really?” Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I ran a hand over the back of my neck.

  “You oozed sex.”

  “I did?” With my hands, I rubbed a tense spot on my shoulder. I didn’t need sex. Christ, I just needed a day at the spa.

  “You radiated pheromones which drove all men, and some women, wild.”

  “Get the fudge outta here.” I giggled. For the first time in twenty-four hours, I’d laughed, and it felt good. The week’s fashion show nearly killed me. I folded my arms, realizing how lame I’d become, and tried to remember the old me. “I guess you’re right. I used to be a sex goddess.”

  “Yes, Miss Thing. It sorta freaked me out.” Blake laughed, too.

  Taddy shushed him. “Listen, I spoke with Vive on the plane ride over here. The rehab facility let her come to Europe just for the show. Then she went right back in for treatment at that detox farm. She is an honest journalist and wrote what she saw.”

  Their bestie had been sobering up for a while. Personally, I cared for Vive more when she was tipsy. Her articles weren’t as vicious then. So I reminded them, “Signorina Farnworth said my collection was s-h-i-t.”