Cinderella-ish (Razzle My Dazzle Book 1)

by Joslyn Westbrook

  I walk over to take a closer look and, as I stand there, admiring the ravishing woman, curiosity gets the best of me. “Is this your wife, Antonio? She’s strikingly beautiful.”

  He clears his throat. “My wife? Uh, no. I’m not at all married.” He stands beside me, appearing to also admire the woman in the photo. “She,” he explains, now pointing to the photo, “was my dear mother. I had her photo restored.”

  Now, that I wasn’t expecting.

  “Was your mother?”

  He nods. “Yep. Unfortunately, I never met her. She died shortly after I was born—this is a photograph of her when she was pregnant with me. I cherish it and display it in here, because my mom loved to read. My grandma told me my mother read to me every single day while she was pregnant.”

  I shake my head in utter despair. “I’m sorry, Antonio, I had no idea.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “Not that many people do know…I don’t typically show anyone this room, really. And it’s unusual for me to feel comfortable enough to even talk about my mother.” He grabs ahold of my hand, leading me out of the room, and closes the door behind us. “How about we head to the kitchen to check out those designs now?”

  I nod, thinking it’s really the only appropriate response.

  In the kitchen, Antonio breaks the silence that stood between us as we walked from the library into the kitchen, and invites me to sit down on one of the chairs surrounding the rectangular dining table.

  “Would you care for something to drink, Daniella? I can make coffee, offer you a bottle of water, a martini, or—”

  “A martini?” I snicker. “I’m on the clock, Sir.”

  He looks up from an invoice he’s reading. “Yes, but you’re with the boss, so it doesn’t count,” he quips. “But you’re right. I’ll show off my liquid chef skills to you another time.”

  “Liquid chef?”

  “Yes. I’m quite talented in the mixed drinks department. So much so, my talent extends beyond that of a bartender or mixologist.”

  “So you refer to yourself as a liquid chef?” I ask, clearly amused.

  One eyebrow raised, Antonio says, “among other things.”

  “Fine,” I fold my arms over my chest and squint my eyes. “Indulge me. I’ll gladly take a martini, please.”

  His eyes glisten and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Shaken or stirred?”

  Chapter 14

  Antonio

  It’s not often I get to show off my liquid chef skills. My life is way too busy for anything social. In fact, Daniella is the first woman I’ve ‘brought home’ in a long time. Sure, the stories on the news and on Internet sites peg me as this modern-day Casanova type with the flashy car and swanky models at my side. But those photo and video ops are strategically planned out—campaigns carried out by Jonah’s marketing firm and his public relations team. They presume, as the CEO of a sexy lingerie line, my lifestyle should be portrayed as incredibly sumptuous.

  But it’s not.

  The last woman I dated was the crazy one who, after I broke up with her, rented a billboard in Hollywood displaying my home address. As it stands now, I don’t even have a date for The Lingerie Ball.

  Daniella sits across from me at the outdoor bar in my backyard, with a pensive glow in her eyes, watching as I put on my best bartender performance—I’m Brian Flanagan and she’s Jordan Mooney—from the movie Cocktail. Don’t judge me. That movie really is a dick flick disguised as a chick flick.

  With a cocktail shaker in hand, I add ice, gin—only a little because I don’t want her tipsy—I am a gentleman after all—and a splash of vermouth, then place the strainer over the top. With one hand gripping the shaker and both eyes on Daniella, I shake it for a few seconds then pour the contents into a martini glass, adding what I guess to be her preferred garnish.

  Sliding the glass over to her I say, “Madam? Your drink is served.”

  She tilts her head to the side and lifts the glass to the base of her heart-shaped lips. “And just how did you know I take mine with a twist of lemon?”

  “Lucky guess? Taste it.”

  Her lips grip the rim of the glass and she closes her eyes momentarily, and takes a sip. “Mmmm, Antonio. It’s quite lovely. It’s actually been a while since I’ve had a martini. You make a fine one, Mr. Liquid Chef.”

  “That’s Sir Liquid Chef,” I tease. “I’m glad you like it.”

  After making a martini for myself, I slide onto the barstool next to Daniella and hold up my glass to hers. “Cheers to a fabulous start to our working relationship.”

  She smiles, taking another sip of her drink before placing the glass down on the countertop. She looks down, deep in thought, her index finger tracing the rim of her glass, its fingernail painted the same pink color as her toenails.

  Her legs are crossed and being this close to her, I can’t help but notice how voluptuous they are.

  Tan. Smooth. Erogenous.

  Am I a horrible boss for wanting her as badly as I do?

  Probably.

  “Hey, are you hungry?” I ask, mainly to take my mind off her hotness. “I’m no Emeril Legassi but I can make a mean salami sandwich.”

  She finally looks up from the glass she’s been pensively tracing, a snicker framing her face. “Salami?”

  I shrug. “It’s the only thing I’ve got in the fridge.”

  “You don’t have like your own personal chef?”

  “Nah. No personal chef. Not even a housekeeper.”

  Daniella slides off the barstool, planting her bare feet onto the stone paved patio floor. She steps over to me and grabs a hold of my necktie, gesturing for me to stand. “Antonio Michaels, you’re not at all the man I envisioned you to be. And yes, I’d actually love a salami sandwich, please.”

  “Your wish is my command. Then…we’ll definitely look at the designs.”

  Daniella and I chat about her relationship with Emma and Stacy while we gulp down sandwiches and the rest of our martinis. She explained the two are her only real sense of family, as she grew up in a foster home in Texas and took off for Los Angeles, with money she had saved up, as soon as she turned eighteen. I guess we both unexpectedly learned a lot about each other today.

  “How about we peek at the designs now?” I propose, removing our plates and glasses from the table and placing them in the dishwasher.

  “Yes. I’d love that.” Her eyes brighten like a little girl who received a pony on her birthday.

  “Now let me reiterate; this will be my first time seeing these designs since they came back from the factory in Milan,” I explain as I tear into the box.

  “CraveMe pieces are made in Milan?”

  I nod. “Most of them, in Bergamo. I have an uncle who owns a boutique and a small garment factory. A few CraveMe pieces are sold in his boutique—he keeps the profits, in exchange for making the clothes he sends here.”

  “Oh, I see. That’s a pretty neat setup.”

  “It is, only it also requires me to spend a great deal of my time in Milan as well. I prefer to handpick the fabric, especially for new designs. This time around, I didn’t have time to go, so I relied on my uncle to choose the fabric. Maybe that’s why I’ve been putting off looking at how they turned out. I’m nervous.”

  Daniella bites on her lower lip. “And if you’re not particularly happy with them?”

  “Haven’t thought about that yet.” I remove the protective wrap and mentally brace myself. “You ready?”

  She stands on her toes, peering over the open box in anticipation. “Yes.”

  Removing each piece, one by one, I place them in a pile in the middle of the table. Daniella seems beside herself, eyes widened, clearly intrigued by this unveiling. There are panties, bras, camisoles, negligees, and teddies, in an array of colors, all made of sheer fabric. I wanted to go bold this year.

  Daniella begins to sift through them and the look on her face makes me nervous.

  “What do you think?”

  She holds up
a bra and raises her eyebrows. “They are kind of see-through,” she says, with her big green eyes flashing with shock.

  “Yep. I’m going for bold this year. Which I think ties into the Confident Woman theme you presented. If a woman can rock these, she’ll feel as though she can conquer the world, no?”

  “Sure, I suppose. But remember, women wear lingerie for themselves, first and foremost. These kind of look like they were meant to be purchased by a man for his woman to wear seconds before he rips them off her and pours into her. Which is fine…but not at all what a woman would wear every day. Does that make sense?”

  I sit down now, lifting one of the bras up to inspect it. To me they are perfect. But she seems less impressed than I am. “So you view my lingerie as something a woman wears only for her man?”

  She nods. “Sort of.”

  “Yet, yesterday you told me you were wearing some when we were in the boardroom. Clearly that was not a wear-them-for-your-man moment.” I feel my mouth curve into a playful smirk at the sight of her brightened face.

  “Well, yeah,” she stammers, “I’d bought several CraveMe pieces long ago, yet never wore them. I thought it only fitting to conduct hands-on product research my first day on the job.”

  “And how did they make you feel?”

  She looks away for a moment before meeting my gaze. “Amazingly hot.”

  “And a little confident, perhaps? I mean, you were able to convince me to give you a stab at presenting your idea for the fashion show. You seemed pretty damn confident to me, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  She tosses a bra at me and smiles. “Fine. You made your point.” She scoffs. “But in my defense, the bra and panties I wore yesterday, were not like these. They were less…revealing. Perhaps make a few adjustments? Leave some parts covered?”

  “Fair enough. We’ll need to go to Milan a week ahead of the event anyway to prepare. I can enhance some of the designs then. Maybe even come up with some additional designs. My uncle is great for a quick turnaround.”

  “Um, we need to be there a week early?”

  “Yep. I mentioned during your interview, you’ll be going to Milan as well, and you’ll attend both events—the Fashion Show and The Ball. I need to arrive about a week early and, as my assistant, I really want you with me.”

  “So, um, when do we leave?” She lowers herself into the seat.

  “Sunday.” I peer up and catch a glimpse of her brightened cheeks and dropped jaw.

  “As in three days from now?”

  “Yep. I’ve already booked your airfare and hotel.”

  “Isn’t it cold in Milan this time of the year?” Her breathing quickens as if she’s becoming a tad panicked. “I don’t even have—”

  “Daniella,” I softly interrupt and her breathing begins to return to normal. “Yes, it is cold this time of the year in Milan. But you’ll have the rest of the week to shop for clothes. Since it’s work related, the shopping is on me.”

  She looks at me, her green eyes much calmer now. “I was only going to say I don’t even have time to pack for a trip so grand.”

  She leaps up from her seat, and takes a giant step over to me, throwing her arms around my neck, hugging me as if I were her very own teddy bear. “Oh, Antonio, I’m so thrilled I get to go to Milan!”

  She pulls away—the hug, feeling her that close, along with the intoxicating whiff of her perfume, makes my heart dance.

  “I’m happy you’re thrilled. But it’s going to be a lot of work since I’m way behind.”

  She nods. “We can make it work, Antonio. Like I said before, I’m your girl.”

  If only she knew…

  Chapter 15

  Daniella

  Ecstatic.

  The only way I can accurately describe how I’m feeling, as I toss and turn, trying my hardest to will myself asleep. I’ve been mentally scanning multiple checklists, ensuring I packed everything needed for the two-week trip to Milan.

  Milan! The Fashion. The Food. The Totality.

  Antonio gave me the rest of the week off to shop and prepare for the trip. Admittedly, I’ve been running around Los Angeles like a mad woman, sorting things out. Not to mention, I spent two—painstaking hours—searching for my passport that I eventually found tucked away in one of my suitcases.

  It’s Saturday night now, and even though butterflies have swarmed my giddy-filled gut, I’m also kind of bummed I won’t get to see Emma and Stacy before I leave early tomorrow morning.

  Emma has called me at least forty-seven times today. She seems obviously more thrilled than I am, with a twisted notion that somehow Antonio and I will return from this trip as a ‘happier than ever’ couple. Stacy hasn’t helped either, as she, like a fucking parrot, keeps saying over and over how Antonio is fresh-out-of-the-bakery hot.

  That, of course, I cannot deny.

  Personally, I think the two of them watch way too many of those damn Hallmark movies. Sappy romance bullshit, if you ask me.

  I’m sticking to my pledge of swearing off men.

  Plus, the fact that Antonio revealed he is not at all married only led me back to the notion that he, like a snug glove, fits the bill of a lady lovin’ playboy. That is, at least according to my highly reputable source known as Google—honestly, all searches annoyingly point to images of him with a different woman every month. All that was solidified when he dropped me off at home the other day, after we looked at the designs from Milan. His phone showed an incoming call from someone named Nonna. A name like that is probably attached to a slinky lingerie model with big boobs and a flat ass.

  Yet, I suppose if I had his money and semi-fame, I’d probably live life to the fullest too, before ever settling down.

  He’s actually growing on me—the way a bad haircut does. He’s much kinder than I expected, and I feel bad that he lost his mom, although I have yet to uncover the complete details as Google shows nothing related to that. I dare not ask; I dare not intrude.

  I am a tad nervous about spending nearly two weeks with him whether it’s work-related or not. Luckily, it won’t be just the two of us for the entire trip. Liza, his receptionist, and Jonah will be coming to Milan as well, but not until several days later. Jonah apparently goes each year, and this year, Antonio rewarded Liza the trip for helping him out when his PA, Dottie, retired.

  Looking at the digital clock that sits on my bedside table, I see it brightly displays it’s nearly midnight. Only four more hours until the alarm rings. I stuck my phone under my pillow so I’d be sure to hear the alarm when it goes off. It would be a tragedy if I slept through it. It’s not like that hasn’t happened to me before—too many times to count, actually. Like the time I—

  My phone just chimed. But no one in their right mind would text me this late. Not even a booty call, which incidentally, I have never experienced, so what do I know about booty calls?

  I stick my hand under the pillow and remove my phone, squinting as I try to read the screen.

  It’s Antonio.

  I sit up in a panic.

  What if the flight is cancelled? Or worse, what if he’s cancelled the entire trip for some odd reason?

  I’m almost too afraid to look.

  Oh just look, damn it.

  Antonio: Hey, are you awake? If not, no worries. I’ll just see you tomorrow morning.

  I cover my mouth, stifling my giggle.

  Me: And what if I weren’t awake, but am now because of your text?

  A pause ceases the moment.

  Antonio: Why are you always such a smarty pants?

  Me: Smarty pants? Are we back in grade school?

  He replies with an emoji sticking out its tongue.

  Me: That’s real cute. Kind of looks like you, too.

  Antonio: I can’t sleep so I thought I’d see if you’re having trouble sleeping too.

  Me: I’m too excited to sleep.

  Antonio: I’m happy you’re excited. But go to sleep, Daniella Belle. I’ll pick you up at 5 a.m. sharp.
Sweet dreams.

  Me: Sweet dreams.

  I did it.

  Slept right through my fucking alarm—awakened only by the grace of Antonio sending me a courteous text to tell me he’s on his way to my house.

  I leapt out of bed, ran into the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and threw my hair in what is supposed to be a ponytail, before I slipped into a bra and panty, blue skinny jeans, and a black CraveMe T-shirt I found on sale in a little boutique on Rodeo Drive.

  There was no time at all for mascara, but I did manage to dab on some bright pink lip gloss before the doorbell rang.

  And now I’m standing here, judging my reflection in the mirror, before I turn the doorknob.

  “Nice shirt. That is part of a new casual line we are testing. It looks amazing on you. You all set?” a slammin’ Antonio says when I swing the door open.

  I mean why does the man have to look so good?

  “Yep. I just need help with my bags.” He looks at all three suitcases and laughs. “Are you moving to Milan?”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” I cheekily retort.

  “I’m getting used to your sarcasm, Miss Personal Assistant.”

  “Great. Then I’ll be sure to toss more your way, every chance I get.”

  Impressive biceps in both arms swell prominently as he lifts two of the suitcases. “I didn’t say I enjoy it.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  Our eyes briefly lock as he licks his lips when he slowly walks past me. A subtle hint of his cologne sends chills up and down my spine. “Miss Belle, we need to hurry. And grab a light jacket. It’s a little brisk outside. Oh, and a pair of sunglasses.”

  “Sunglasses?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he says, setting down the suitcases outside. “TMZ loves to hang out at the airport. Dark sunglasses will shield your face and spare you a media frenzy.” I watch his lips transform into a coquettish smirk. “Unless, of course, you’re into that sort of thing.”

  Uh, no.

  “I have sunglasses in my purse,” I retort.