Eye Candy

by Tera Lynn Childs

  When the door to the Ferrari opened, I turned back to the entrance to see which celeb the car belonged to.

  "Lydia."

  Spinning to the sound of my name, I found Elliot standing next to the white Ferrari, an unsuppressed grin on his face and an ivory orchid corsage in his hand.

  He was dressed for an evening of elegance. The black tuxedo—one of Ferrero's own, if I had to guess—fit his frame perfectly. Not a single pucker or stretch. Like it had been tailored to him.

  By a tailor with an appreciation of the male body.

  "What the—"

  "Ferrari 612 Scaglietti. Like it?" he asked as he moved around the car, dragging his fingertips across the gleaming hood, and chivalrously opened the passenger door for me.

  "It's, um, wow." And I wasn't just talking about the car.

  "Yeah," he agreed as he lowered me into the soft leather seat, "that's kinda how I felt, too."

  He knelt on the sidewalk, the knee of his two-grand tux scraping against the concrete, took my right hand in his, and slipped the corsage onto my wrist. The ivory flower matched my dress perfectly.

  "Wha—whe—we—wo—" I struggled to find an actual word from my vocabulary, finally coming up with, "Why?"

  "Why?" he repeated, rising and not bothering to dust off his knee. "Because it's your birthday. Because I wanted our last night in Italy to be special. Because you're special."

  I sighed as he shut the door. I didn't think my poor heart could take any more unexpected tugs without giving up on me completely. But, as Elliot slid into the driver's seat and at least a few hundred horses purred to life, I had a feeling I was in for a few more.

  "I hope you don't mind," he explained as he navigated the narrow streets, turning at a sign for the A9 motorway, "but I thought we might get out of the city for a while."

  He would turn the car around if I wished. Thankfully, I didn't wish. "Sounds great. Where are we going?"

  "That," he said, grinning enigmatically, "is a surprise."

  If there was one thing I had learned to count on with Elliot, it was surprise.

  Sinking back into the plush seat, I watched out the window as the city faded into countryside. The flat expanse of Milan gave way to lush green hills. In the distance I could make out the snow-capped peaks of the Italian Alps in the moonlight.

  "How has your birthday been so far?"

  "Wonderful," I sighed. Then, when I feared he might think I was speaking only of my time with Gavin, I hastily added, "Especially the fashion show. I don't know if I can go through that on my own."

  "Are you thinking of going it alone?" He asked, apparently picking up on the undertones.

  "I was," I explained. "Starting my own jewelry line and striking out on my own. But then Ferrero offered me a creative position within the house. Designing my own line under the umbrella of his name."

  "Then it wouldn't really be yours?"

  "It would." Mostly. "But more like Ferrero by Lydia Vanderwalk or Lydia Vanderwalk for Ferrero."

  I looked at Elliot, gauging his reaction. His eyes never left the road, but he squinted like he was concentrating on bending a spoon or something.

  "Doesn't sound like a good deal to me." He glanced at me, his eyes full of sympathetic concern. "Seems like Ferrero gets all your talent and you get nothing."

  "I get security. And the use of his name. A lot of designers start out under the name of an established house. It gives them instant name recognition." At least until their own name becomes recognizable on its own. "Alleviates some of the risk."

  "Why would you want that?"

  "What? To reduce the risk?" I asked.

  "Risk is what makes life worth living."

  Elliot pulled the car to a stop. I looked out the window, pondering his philosophy on risk, to find we had arrived in a small, Medieval village. The buildings, weathered limestone with red tile roofs, stacked around us like children's blocks.

  When Elliot opened his door, a rush of cold wind chilled the inside of the car and goosebumps popped up all over my body. I tightened my cardigan around me, struggling to keep my teeth from chattering as he opened my door and I climbed out.

  "Welcome," he pushed my door shut and clicked the locks with the remote, "to Bellagio."

  "Bellagio? You mean it's a real place. I thought they just made that up for Vegas."

  "Nope, it's real. And you're in it." He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and I sank into his body heat. "This way, Madame."

  I let Elliot lead the way, across the narrow, cobblestone street and through the pair of doors beneath a sign proclaiming, Trattoria del Lago. The host, a friendly man with a knowing smile, led us down a hall hung with elegant landscapes depicting a beautiful lake surrounded by tree-covered hills.

  "How did you find this place?" I asked.

  "The concierge at the Regina was happy to assist." He leaned close as we emerged in a large room full of guests dining at cozy tables. "Especially when I told him a birthday was involved."

  "Oh Elliot," I exclaimed. "It's breathtaking."

  The entire far wall of the room consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake depicted in the landscapes. A gorgeous view from every corner of the room, but the host led us to the central window. The best in the house.

  "Just wait until you see what I have planned for dessert."

  Sweet Saltwater Taffy. I didn't think things could get better than this.

  It was nearly seven when we finished the last bite of tiramisu. Though I didn't think that was the dessert Elliot had in mind, I was pretty sure a person couldn't leave Italy without having native tiramisu at least once.

  "Are you ready?" Elliot asked as he held up my cardigan.

  "That depends. Does it involve more food?"

  "Definitely not."

  I shrugged into the sweater and buttoned up for the chill night outside. Prepared to return to the car, Elliot surprised me by heading the opposite direction. Toward the lake.

  "This," he stated as we descended a length of uneven steps, "is my birthday present to you."

  A man bundled up in layers of warm clothes met us at the base of the steps and led us along the lakeside walkway to a small boat dock. He climbed aboard a small tour boat, complete with several rows of seats and a small captain's cabin. Turning, he indicated we should follow him on board.

  "Oh no," I argued, already imagining the frigid temperatures that must sweep across the lake itself and shivering harder at the thought. "I'm not going on that. I'll freeze."

  "No. No frio, signorina. " The little man ducked into the cabin and returned with an armful of blankets. He handed them to Elliot and waved me onto the boat.

  "Here, here," he said in nearly indecipherable accented English, heading to the front of the boat and pointing to a bench seat situated against the front wall of the cabin.

  Elliot climbed on board behind me and urged me forward, not letting up until I lowered onto the bench. He set the blankets down next to me and thanked the captain.

  "Grazie."

  "Sit. See." The captain pointed at Elliot and then the bench. And then waved his hand in a sweep of the lake. He grinned as Elliot moved the pile of blankets and sat by my side. "Amore. "

  Then the captain disappeared, leaving us alone on a bench on a freezing lake on a freezing night. I was about to complain, but when Elliot hooked one arm around my shoulders and began wrapping us in woolen blankets my body and my heart warmed. I could definitely see the possibilities in this adventure.

  "We go." The captain's voice crackled over a tiny speaker above our heads, followed by the romantic strains of a Verdi composition.

  "That's your problem," Elliot said as he tucked the last blanket behind my hip, "you need more risk in your life. You're a Marilyn trying to be a Norma Jean."

  "What? What does that mean, I'm a Marilyn?"

  "You think you're this nice, reserved, tame woman who dresses safe, takes the safe job, and keeps her heart safe and locked away. But you're not. You'r
e a firecracker, Lydia Vanderwalk." He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "You're an Atomic Fireball trying to be a Tic Tac. You just don't know it yet."

  It might have been the night air or the brush of his breath against the ear, but when my entire body erupted in shivers I had a feeling it had everything to do with the challenge of his words.

  22

  Q: What did the candle say to the fire?

  A: I'm at wicks end.

  — Laffy Taffy Joke #184

  Elliot whisked us back to Milan and the hotel in no time—the guy sure got used to driving a quarter million dollars’ worth of speed in a hurry. As we changed for Ferrero's after party, I considered what he had said about me.

  Was I really waiting to explode just beneath the surface? Or was I really just a plain and dull as I always imagined myself to be?

  "Did you bring that slinky dress?"

  "What dress?" I asked, turning away from my selection of clothes long enough to wonder what he meant.

  "The one you wore at that first party. Gray. Shiny." He cocked his eyebrows for emphasis. "Slinky."

  Oh, that dress. "Yes I brought it. Why?"

  His eyebrows dropped, hooding his lids in a seductive, bedroom-come-hither look. "Wear that."

  My cheeks burned and I felt a rush of tingling heat shoot through every vein and nerve in my body. I had thought it too cold to wear such a revealing dress, but I was overheating now.

  One look and I was a puddle.

  "Oh," I said, breathless, "okay. Good, um, choice."

  I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away. To search through my belongings to find the one dress I now had to wear. The thought of wearing anything else evaporated along with my willpower, inhibitions, and capacity for rational thought. It was bad enough he already looked good enough to eat, now I had developed a gnawing hunger.

  Finding the dress hanging neatly and unwrinkled in the armoire, I slipped it off the hanger and darted into the bathroom to change.

  Dubble Bubble Damn, I forgot to grab the nude, seamless panties I needed to wear under this dress. All others either showed in bulges beneath the clinging jersey or cut my flesh into hills and valleys. Neither resulted in a streamlined sexy look.

  Thumbs hooked through the waistband, I shimmied out of the black lace bikini I had been wearing with the intention of grabbing the right pair and slipping them on before we left.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, slinky dress donned and smoky make-up applied, I found Elliot leaning against the door in a casual-but-ready-to-go pose.

  He still wore the tailored black tux, but had replaced the stark white shirt with an unstructured one in a light blue that accentuated his eyes. The first two buttons were undone, displaying a delightful triangle of smooth, tanned skin. His hair was still a windblown mess from the stretch of driving with the windows down, but the disheveled look worked oh-so-well on him.

  "Hey hot stuff," he greeted. "Ready to go?"

  "Yes, just let me grab my clutch."

  As I transferred a few essentials from my day bag to my chic black sequined clutch, I knew I was forgetting something.

  And it felt important.

  "Come on. I don't want to miss all the good champagne."

  Oh well. If it was really important, I would have remembered.

  "I'm ready."

  Arm in arm we left, heading for the Corona Reale ballroom on the mezzanine level.

  It wasn't until the doors closed on the elevator that I remembered what I had forgotten.

  "No, I don't run much," I heard myself telling an up-and-coming Italian designer who seemed to be trying every possible bad pick up line ever written.

  "Well you've been running through my mind all day."

  I sighed, which he took as a sign of relent, and glanced around the room for a friendly face.

  "Was your father a thief?"

  "No," I answered. Momentarily excited to find a streak of platinum blonde until I found it was only that blue-eyed model, Nadika. "He was in advertising."

  "Because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes."

  Not yet pushed to the edge of being entirely rude, I tried diverting the conversation. "I design jewelry."

  "I design ladies undergarments." He moved in closer and whispered in my ear, "Want to see."

  I gasped, even as all the blood in my body rushed to my face. My hand instinctively pulled back to slap him indignantly across the face. "No, I—"

  "There you are, angel."

  Gavin took my hand and pressed a soft kiss to the warm center of the palm. I positively melted into his side when he swung an arm around my shoulders in a possessive, this-girl-is-mine gesture.

  My sleazy, would be seducer took the hint and slunk away.

  My grin couldn't have been brighter.

  "Thank you," I offered as soon as he was out of hearing. "I never knew Italians were so fluent in bad pickup lines."

  "Your salvation is my greatest pleasure."

  Gavin bowed chivalrously, looking quite pleasurable himself in a scrumptious suit just a little lighter in color than my dress with a slight green tint that made his eyes glow. Blonde hair neatly combed and not a lock out of place. Cheeks flushed with little boy excitement. He looked just like his GQ cover shot.

  "What all goes on at these fashionable after parties?" he asked.

  "Well..." I glanced around the room, at a sea of the fashionable and fawning. "Some mingling. Some networking—like over there," I indicated a pair in deep discussion in the near corner, "they might be closing a deal on a big order."

  "Or they might be arranging the time and place for their romantic rendezvous."

  "Or that," I laughed. "If you hadn't interrupted, I might be doing that myself right now."

  We exchanged meaningful looks. I exploded in laughter. Different from the kind I had with Elliot—those laughs usually bubbled out of me despite my best efforts to keep them in. This was a mutual laugh.

  "And what about that?" Gavin asked, motioning to the center of the room. "What's going on there?"

  "That," I whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, "is the most important aspect of a party like this."

  A circle of guests surrounded Ferrero, each vying to congratulate him on the successful show. Ferrero stood in the middle, pretending to be humble and waving off their compliments. But even those untrained in the art of social modesty could see he was enjoying every second of it.

  I looked away, unable to stare into the light too long without risking blindness. "The fawning."

  "Aaah..." Gavin nodded in understanding. "In business we call it brown-nosing."

  "Hey you two!" Janice's voice called to us like the whine of an airplane. Or a Long Islander reverting to her native, nasal accent. "Hi there lovebirds!"

  She appeared in front of us, platinum tresses loose and flowing to her waist. Dressed in muted gold palazzo pants and a matching cowl-neck sweater, she looked more elegant than I had ever seen her. If not for the unfocused glint in her eyes. The unsteady sway in her walk. The half-empty tumbler in her left hand.

  After the week-and-a-half she'd had, I guessed she was due a little alcoholic respite.

  "Is the wedding back on yet?" she asked.

  My jaw clenched and I positively felt Gavin scowl. I knew that Gavin-and-me-and-Elliot was a prime topic of conversation between Janice and Kelly, but that didn't mean she had to bring it out in public. Drunk or not.

  "Hello, Janice." I spoke a little louder than normal, making sure my voice penetrated. Hoping to successfully change the subject. "Isn't this fun?"

  She beamed like a little girl, eyes closed and chin thrust forward. "It's wonderful." Hic. "Ferrero deserves such a celebration for his homecoming."

  "His homecoming?" Gavin asked.

  I rolled my eyes. Not once had I heard Ferrero himself say that he was Italian-born—probably because it wasn't true—but nearly everyone involved in fashion week believed him a native. I could pretty much handle the world at large thin
king that, but Janice must have known the truth.

  A woman couldn't work with him for nearly twenty years and not realize the accent faded in and out. That he ate more Coney dogs than cannoli.

  "Don't you know?" Janice jabbed an accusatory finger at his chest, missing by several inches. "Ferrero is from Milan. Originally."

  "Oh," Gavin acknowledged, "I didn't know that."

  "Yep. Well, from a little village just to the north. He moved to New York in his twenties to pursue his passion, but at heart he's always an Italian."

  Some of her words slurred together and while she spoke she turned her head to make goo-goo eyes at the subject of her little fantasy. Not only was this not healthy, it was darn annoying.

  "No, he's not," I interjected.

  Both pairs of eyes turned on me.

  "What do you mean?" Janice stepped closer.

  There was a tremor of threat in her voice. She dared me to explain. To finish my thought.

  "You know that Ferrero isn't from Italy," I said quietly.

  Janice blinked several times, as if that speeded up her comprehension. "Of course he is," she argued. "He's from Milan."

  "No," I said a little louder, "he's not."

  She looked blank. Then started laughing. “You are such a kidder,” she wailed. She turned to Gavin, “Always joking, this one.”

  I didn’t know what was more appalling: her misconception about my personality or her drunken dogmatic insistence that Ferrero was Italian. “He is not Italian.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “No, he—”

  “Yes!” she shouted, sloshing her drink onto the carpet with a grand gesture. “He’s from Milan!”

  “No he’s not!” I shouted back.

  She shoved her glassed at Gavin and, as he caught it before it fell, stuck her fingers in her ears and starting humming. “La la la. I can’t hear you.”

  My frustration and determination met in a combustible mixture. "Franco Ferrero is not Italian! He's from South Jersey!"

  Oh no. That was louder than I’d intended.

  An instant hush fell across the crowded ballroom. All eyes were on me. A quiet wave of whispered gossip began near me and spread from guest to guest in a building wave. I watched, helpless, as the wave circled and neared the center of the room.