by Susan Stoker
Bella offered him a slight smile, then glanced at his sister, who plopped down in the desk chair with an irritated sigh. “Does her highness have a brush?”
“Her Serene Highness,” said Nico, winking at her, “has a brush in the bathroom. I will get it for you and take care of the coffee.”
Her serene highness. Ha! As if!
Bella grinned at his joke before crossing the room to stand behind Valentina. She gathered the damp hair in her hands, running her fingers through it. “You have lovely hair.”
“Grazie,” answered Valentina, looking at herself in the mirror over the desk. Her eyes were sad. Heartsick, even.
“We’ll make it look very beautiful,” said Bella, hoping to make her feel better. “Don’t worry.”
Valentina searched Bella’s eyes in the mirror, then looked at herself. “Are you…married, signorina?”
“No, I’m not,” answered Bella, shaking her head and continuing the soothing movement of her fingers through Valentina’s long, blonde hair. “I’ve just turned twenty-two. I don’t know if I’m ready yet.”
“I’m nearly twenty-seven,” said Valentina, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, “and I don’t know if I am either.”
“Are you planning to get married?” asked Bella.
“Sí,” answered Valentina. “Next weekend.”
Bella sectioned the hair, gently untangling each of the smaller sections and letting the air remove some of the moisture as she gently pulled the unruly strands straight. “Do you think you’ll be ready by then?”
Valentina took a deep breath and sighed. “I doubt it.”
“Can you postpone?”
“The wedding? No. Assolutamente fuori discussione.” It’s out of the question.
“Do you love him?”
“I don’t”—Valentina’s voice trailed off as Bella moved to another section of hair—“know him.”
Bella’s bottom lip slipped between her teeth, as it often did when she was faced with a puzzling circumstance. Why in the world would you marry someone—bind your life to someone—you didn’t love?
Not that she knew very much about love personally, but her parents had loved each other very much, and that was all Bella needed to know. She wanted a marriage like theirs or none at all.
“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Bella.
“No.” Valentina sighed again, her eyes tightly closed. “Be silent, stylist-girl. Do my hair. Let me to relax.”
Honestly, thought Bella, swallowing a scoff but rolling her eyes at her reflection in the mirror. Being rich didn’t entitle one to act like such a spoiled brat.
There was a knock on the suite door, and Nico appeared from the bedroom to answer it. A waiter that Bella recognized from the kitchen entered the room with a linen-covered tray that bore a silver coffee service and two teacups.
“Hey, Bella,” he said, winking at her as he placed the tray on the coffee table.
She nodded at him. “Hi, Marco.”
“You’re working late.” Marco looked up at Nico. “Shall I pour, sir?”
Nico’s eyes, which tracked the distance between Bella and Marco, were slightly narrowed. “No, thanks. That’ll be all.”
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, took out what appeared to be a twenty-dollar bill, and offered it to Marco.
Marco took it with a grin. “If you need anything else, sir, please let me know.”
Nico nodded at him, gesturing to the door, then turned to the coffee service, pouring a cup and bringing it over to his sister. He placed it on the desk before her.
“Bevi, Tina.” Drink.
“Lasciami in pace,” mumbled Valentina. Leave me alone.
He shrugged, placing his sister’s brush on the desk and looking at Bella in the mirror. “Do you want some coffee?”
Bella had assumed the second cup was for him. “Don’t you want some?”
He shook his head, glancing at the tray, then back at her. “No. But I thought you might.”
Touched by his unnecessary thoughtfulness, she smiled at him. “I’d love a cup. Thank you.”
***
As Nico returned to the coffeepot, he glanced back to see Bella raise her arms and reach behind her neck. One by one, she plucked pin after pin from her hair, placing them into a quickly growing pile on the desk where Valentina sat in quiet misery. Holding the coffeepot, Nico stood frozen, watching in rapt fascination as her mane of black waves was freed, the longest of the tresses extending well past her waist. As she pulled the final pin, she shook her head back and forth, and he realized that her hair was so long, it tumbled in waves past her shoulders, ending just south of her ass.
His mind processed this new information to the lowest common denominator, imagining what she’d look like completely naked except for that dark hair falling over her creamy white shoulders, covering her breasts as she rode him, his hands holding her hips as she—
Whoa.
Wait.
He blinked rapidly, looking back into the mirror, where he found her staring at him, only this time, he was the one with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, his trousers just starting to tent as he locked his eyes on hers.
“Nico, get my black Chanel dress out of the closet? And my light-pink Manolo Blahniks? They have a black buckle.”
Spurred into action by his sister’s request, he reached for the remaining coffee cup, poured her coffee, and crossed the room to place it on the desk. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. I’ll just…”
Avoiding Bella’s eyes, he turned briskly and headed to Tina’s room, quickly finding the items she needed and laying them out on her bed. Her black dress looked so stark and small against the light-blue satin duvet; it was a reminder to him that she’d be growing out of it very soon.
He winced as he reentered the living room.
“You don’t have to marry him, Tina.”
“Yes, I do. I have to marry someone,” she said.
“It doesn’t have to be him.”
“What difference does it make?” asked Valentina in Italian, a note of desperation squeezing Nico’s heart.
“How can you build a life with him? You won’t reconsider your options, sorellina?”
“Lui è ricco.” He’s rich. She looked up at her brother meaningfully, and his jaw ticked with quiet anger. He and Valentina hadn’t squandered the family fortune, and yet they were the ones expected to recover it through loveless marriages. It made him furious.
“Vorrei che le cose erano diverse,” he finally said softly. I wish things were different.
Valentina shrugged, then sniffled softly, nodding at her reflection, which was more refined and elegant with every flick and twist of Bella’s nimble fingers.
“It’s all arranged,” she said, practicing her English. “Leave it be, Nico. Va bene.”
Looking up from his sister, he found Bella’s brown eyes searching for his in the mirror, a myriad of questions brightening them. Because discussing his twin sister’s shame wasn’t something that interested Nico, he raised his chin and asked, “Do you have everything you need? We’re running out of time.”
The softness in her face instantly tightened, and she nodded. “I’ll be finished in a moment.”
“What else do you need, Tina?” he asked his sister.
“A new life?” she quipped.
“All done,” said Bella, twisting a final piece of hair into the elegant arrangement and securing it with the final pin from the desk.
Valentina opened her eyes and stood up, checking out Bella’s quick work. Though she still wore a towel, she had a regal coronet on her head now, and while she didn’t exactly look the picture of a blushing bride-to-be, it was certainly an improvement on the mess she’d been when she’d first returned to the hotel suite an hour ago.
“Okay,” she said softly, nodding at her reflection. She turned to Bella, offering the hotel stylist a sad smile. “Grazie.”
“Prego,” answered Bella, her eyes sympathetic.
Valenti
na headed to her room to get ready, closing the door behind her, and Nico checked his watch again. They’d only be a few minutes late if she was quick.
Bella reached down to the desk to gather the leftover pins into her palm, then pivoted to face Nico. “Was there anything else?”
He looked closely at her—at her dark hair tumbling in waves around her shoulders, her dark eyes and soft lips. She’d saved his ass tonight—and his sister’s too. “I owe you.”
She grinned at him, shaking her head and pushing the chair back into the desk. “No, you don’t. It only took a few minutes.”
She was kind. And decent. And she’d made him laugh. After a few days in this fast-paced, grabby, grimy city, she was a breath of fresh air, and he wished he could get to know her better.
“Listen,” he said, taking a step toward her, words he didn’t expect or anticipate suddenly falling from his lips, “I’m going to be in town for another week. How would you feel about—”
Valentina’s bedroom door opened, and she stepped into the living room, looking every bit the young princess. She approached Bella, holding out a small tiara. “Will you help me?”
“Of course,” said Bella, taking the diamond tiara from her. She pressed it carefully into the intricate hairstyle, using two of the pins clasped in her hand to secure it. Then she stepped back and smiled. “You look beautiful, signorina. Like a princess.”
“Yes. Yes.” Valentina sighed heavily, then turned to Nico. “Andiamo?”
“Sí,” he said, holding out his hand to her and clasping it firmly within his. Turning to Bella, he cocked his head to the side, trying to feel relieved that his impetuous almost-offer to take her out to dinner had been diverted. “You saved the day. I don’t know how to thank you enough. Please bill us.”
“Non,” she said, shaking her head, smiling at him sweetly. “Senza alcun costo, signor.”
No charge.
Ignoring the urge to drop his sister’s hand and pull this strange little Swiss girl into his arms, he nodded at her in thanks, promising himself to figure out a way to repay her kindness to them.
“Grazie, Bella Capelli,” he said, forcing himself not to rake his eyes down her body as Valentina tugged him toward the door.
“Prego, Nico De’Medici,” she said softly, nodding at him and his sister in farewell as they slipped through the door, leaving her behind.
Chapter Two
“Bellllla!” trilled Madame Gothel as Bella pulled the front door to the apartment closed and locked it. “Is that youuuuuu?”
Bella rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Dio dammi la forza. God give me strength, she thought, crossing herself.
“Sí, Madrina.” Yes, Godmother.
“English, pleeeeease,” her godmother reminded her, rounding the corner of the living room in a pink silk bathrobe, her long, dark hair wound up in a scarf and her face covered with an aqua-colored masque. “What took so long? Did you lock up?”
Bella offered her boss/godmother a small smile, quickly deciding to keep her dealings with the De’Medici twins to herself. “Sí…uh, yes.”
“Excellent,” said her godmother, putting her arm around Bella’s small shoulders. “Whatever would I dooooo without you?”
You did just fine until I got here, she thought, letting herself be ushered into the living room, which her godmother preferred to call “the Gran Salon.”
Helga Gothel and Bella’s mother, Karin Schmidt, had been girlhood friends, growing up in the same historic German-Swiss village of Brig, not far from the Italian border. In primary school and secondary school, the girls and Bella’s father, Giorgio Capelli, had been inseparable. When they turned eighteen, Giorgio had proposed to Karin, and Helga had decided to study abroad in America.
With the help of their parents, Karin and Giorgio had purchased and tended a small vineyard and grotto—a rustic, family-run restaurant—making local wines and serving good Swiss-Italian fare. Helga, on the other hand, had used her parents’ money to open a small but prosperous hair salon in Brooklyn, New York, that eventually turned into six salons in Manhattan. When she met Klaus Ingraham, partial owner of the New York Metro Tower Hotel, she was thirty to his fifty-six, but he gave her what she’d wanted from the very beginning: a chance to own and operate the premiere hotel salon and spa in New York City—the Innsbruck.
Klaus had passed away in short order, leaving his young bride a penthouse apartment, the salon, and his share of the hotel.
Unbeknown to Helga, the Capellis had named her Bella’s legal guardian, and when Karin and Giorgio died in a train crash when Bella was only seventeen, Helga had been compelled to offer Bella a place to live. So Bella had moved into her godmother’s luxurious penthouse on the thirtieth floor of the hotel…
…and while she grieved the terrible loss of her beloved parents, she became a combination of Madame’s right-hand gal, student, apprentice, companion, and the child she’d never had.
But Bella had quickly learned that Helga and Karin had very different ideas about motherhood, and where Bella’s own mother had been warm and loving, encouraging her daughter to make her own path in the world, Helga was domineering and manipulative, expecting Bella to work very long hours and dedicate her life wholly to the Innsbruck and to Helga’s comfort. With her own mother, Bella had been encouraged to chase her dreams; with Madame, Bella felt like a prisoner in a velvet-padded cell.
But with her passport and green card locked up in her godmother’s desk for “safekeeping,” it wasn’t as if she could just grab them and leave. And anyway, where would she go? Madame didn’t pay her a salary; Bella lived rent-free with her godmother and was, for all intents and purposes, her daughter. She was given a credit card for clothes and toiletries and was fed and sheltered in luxury. And yet…with no real money of her own and no identification, Bella was trapped.
Trapped in a beautiful place and being taught a valuable trade, she reminded herself, trying to be grateful. One day, Bella believed she would own and operate the Innsbruck herself. Certainly then she’d be able to do whatever and go wherever she pleased.
“Bella, daaaaaarling,” said Madame, leading her goddaughter to the sofa by the elbow and forcing her to sit down beside her, “we must talk briefly, my love, about your manner with the conteeeeeeessa this evening.”
Briefly? Ha.
“At the Innsbruck,” started Madame pedantically with an edge in her voice, “we offer luxury. We cater to a certain kind of clientele. We cannot afford to make European royalty feel unwanted, dearest. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Madrina, but—”
“There are no buts, Bella,” said Madame, her eyes narrowing to irritated slits. “You will rearrange the appointments tomorrow so that the Countess of Perugia is with Joaquin at two o’clock sharp.”
“And Mrs. Carnegie, who is already booked with him…?” she asked, daring to question her boss.
Madame raised her chin, her eyes narrowing further, her lips pursing. “Figure it out.”
Bella’s shoulders slumped. How was she was supposed to figure it out? How was she supposed to have Joaquin service two clients at once? Looking into her godmother’s steel-gray eyes, Bella felt an overwhelming wave of longing for her mother’s kind brown eyes and blinked back a sudden burn of tears.
“Oh, Bella, you look absolutely exhausted,” said Madame, pushing Bella’s long, black hair behind her shoulder. “After you straighten up here, you simply muuuuuuust go to bed.”
Though Bella’s aunt had the hotel maid staff at their disposal, Madame felt that it was good discipline for Bella to “pitch in” at home too. So after her shift at the salon each day, she was expected to “straighten up” at home…which meant wiping down the kitchen counters; collecting the garbage and taking it to the incinerator; running the vacuum over the carpets in the living room, dining room and den; and giving the three penthouse bathrooms a quick but thorough clean.
“Yes, Madrina.”
Madame toyed with a strand of Bella�
��s hair, running it through her fingers, the shiny, blood red of her lacquered nails a striking contrast against the black tresses. “This hair is probably worth thousands of dollars.”
“Really?”
“Mmmm. Beautiful, black, virgin hair. So like Giorgio’s.”
Bella’s face softened, and she looked up at Madame, hoping for a few kind words about her parents. “I miss them so much.”
Madame dropped the hair suddenly, offering her charge a brittle smile. “This mask is dry. I must rinse it off. Turn off the lights when you’re finished, dear? And get some sleeeeeeeeep, dearest. You look almost haggard. Tsk, tsk, tsk. What will our clients think? You must take better caaaaaaare of yourself.”
“Yes, Madrina.”
Her godmother patted her cheek gently, then rose from the couch, sauntering across the living room and down the hallway to her bedroom suite, leaving Bella alone.
***
I need air.
Nico stepped onto the elevator, staring at the panel of buttons for a second before deciding to try his luck with the roof instead of the lobby. Certainly, in the lobby, there’d be more American heiresses with visions of tiaras on their heads, far more in love with the idea of marrying a prince than actually getting to know him.
He watched the numbers over the door light up, going higher and higher. With any luck, there’d be a door that led to the roof on the thirty-third floor, and he’d have a few minutes of quiet before retiring to bed. Alone.
A bell dinged on his arrival at the top floor, and he exited the elevator onto a dimly lit, quiet lobby. Directly across from him was a long, gilt-framed mirror, and he stared at his reflection as the chrome doors closed behind him.
He hated what was happening to Tina downstairs, having to put on a happy face and pretend she was fine with marrying an American businessman she barely knew and didn’t love. But having a child out of wedlock, while normale for most other twentysomethings in Europe, was absolutely unthinkable for most European royalty.
Unless you lived in Monaco, he thought with a grimace.