The Prelude (2 page)

“
Won’t you even let me say goodbye?” a cracked voice says behind me.

I want to turn around
, to run to him and embrace him the way we did in what seemed like another lifetime. “No,” I say, instead.

But I can
’t bring myself to give any more of my soul to another person that will leave me. I continue to stand on the porch, staring at the front door, wondering who will fix the holes that our dog Phoebe made in the bottom of the screen. I stand there until I hear Sam’s car crank. Tires crunch across our gravel driveway, the one Dad never finished updating for Mom.

The sob starts as an echo in my mind. Soon enough
, it rages through my body, shaking me to the core. After a few more moments, I am nothing but one complete ball of tears and choking gasps.

From inside the house
, my mom plays the song Jada was supposed to recite at the music hall on Saturday. At once, the tears ease up. The music calms me down. Jada says the prelude is the part of a song that pulls you in, hypnotizing you with beauty. The beginning of a song hooks people inside its spell and never lets the person go until the last note trickles through their mind. Today’s musicians don’t know how to appreciate the beauty of the first note.

S
he told me that was what made the masters from hundreds of years ago so special. The Bachs and Tchaikovskys got it right. I told her that was a stupid theory. Now I fully understand what she meant.

As I prepare to enter the front door
, I make a silent vow. Love, I have this to say to you: “You tore open my heart. You made me feel pain when all I wanted to feel was joy. So now, I will remove your power over me. I’ll never kiss anyone or trust in any dream that you can take away from me.

I will never believe in you
, ever again.

Five Years Later…

One hundred French designer gowns arrived today, and not one of the damn things came in the colors or sizes that I ordered. Ever since I arrived in Milan six months ago, not once have I experienced anything quite like this screw up.

“Holy h
ell.” I wait for the rush of heat to pass over me. I continue to shuffle through each gown, my dread deepening as I examine each lime green disaster.

I glance beside me. Our new intern
, Carla Voltiero holds her breath and squints. Nerves rule over every part of Black Butterfly Designs, Inc. newest designer. All I need to do is say “boo” and she gets all tensed up the way a yorkie does during a thunderstorm. It’s hilarious, and yes, I know it’s not right for me to pick on her that way. But sometimes I just can’t control the devil inside me.

“
I’m sorry, Signora Angelo. I don’t understand what happened. I specifically ordered the red and black ensemble. I even cursed at their customer service person,” Carla says, putting an emphasis on each syllable she speaks. She doesn’t realize I’ve lived in Italy for almost two years now. I no longer find it difficult to speak the Italian language.

I almost laugh.
The design house I work for has finally made a mark here in Milan. For two years, I attended a study abroad program at the Fashion Institute of Technology, or F.I.T.’s Florence location and even graduated early, receiving top honors with my eccentric designs. I worked my ass off. I can even still feel the after effects of all the caffeine I guzzled to keep awake at night while I studied. And here out of the blue comes one stupid incident that can blow everything right out of the water.

Out of all the hundreds of design houses here in the world
’s fashion capital, the director of the Milan opera house chose our little shop to provide the costumes for one of the largest productions of the year.

“
I can call them back and use more curse words the way you told me to do,” Carla suggests. I glance at her and her eyes widen. “You handle yourself so well, you know?”

I sigh and walk toward the counters in the back of the boutique.
“Stop making me feel like a super bitch. And you don’t have to call me Signora Angelo all of the time, either. I’m only twenty one. That’s just a year older than you, Carla. Do we have a deal? She nods and smiles, but still looks terrified. “Okay. Good.” I’m aware of my high energy. It’s something that scares the shit out of men and makes women admire me, but from a friendly distance.

But that snappy little part of my personality is also the thing that has made me one of the youngest and most successful American boutique co-owners here in
Milan. But fame is a fickle thing, and mine threatens to disappear if I’m not able to pull off this gig. The overhead bell blares through the shop. That can’t be a good thing. With my arms filled with lime green dresses, I shuffle toward the storage rooms in back.

“
Luca!” I call out. Silence. I glance back at Carla standing in the hallway. She shrugs and gives me a worried look. “Oh my God. This day isn’t happening. I seriously don’t know what crappy things I did in my past life; but they must’ve been pretty damn bad. Luca!” I shout at the top of my lungs, drowning out the must-answer bell. It means there’s someone at the front door, and that person is more than likely the assistant we were expecting, the one from the opera house.

My boss stumbles out of nowhere it seems. He
’s adjusting his trousers and smoothing his hair. Yeah, he’s model gorgeous. You know the type: sculpted cheek bones, square chin, pouty lips, ripped abs, and eyelashes that are too long for a guy. But he’s also a man-whore. He’s even tried to hit on me. No luck for him there. I don't date bosses of any type. Plus his equally hot older brother, Rafe, the one who set me up with this job and provided the monies to rent the building we’re in would kill him if he followed through on such a thing.

I raise my left eyebrow. Behind him
, a dark haired girl around my age shuffles out of the stock room. She prances over to Luca, throws her arms seductively around his neck, and kisses him as they mutter sweet nothings in Italian to one another. Luca moves a hand over her breast, cupping it. She responds right away and arches her body into his lithe frame. Even I can’t help but to feel something as I stare at them. The pair makes a stunning couple.

The candid nature of Italian culture never ceases to amaze me. I
’m thinking that Carla and I will soon be watching a live porn show compliment of my boss. And he's wearing so much strong cologne that the scent of it gets caught up in my throat and chest. 

Sighing
, I hold down the bile bubbling up from within my gut. Okay, so yes, I realize that I now live in the love capital of the world. I respect and adore my new culture. But when I’m about to lose everything that I’ve worked so hard to accomplish, I have to get serious.

“
Hello, Luca, my darling boss and life saver, we have a problem,” I say in a calm voice. I even manage to throw in a smile for good measure. The sex tape session stops at once. The girl slinks away and blows kisses at Luca just before she walks toward the exit. Right. There can’t be that much infatuation in the entire world to make someone act so damn sappy.

I turn my heated gaze on Luca who sometimes acts more like my employee than my boss.
“First, let me get something straight.”

“
I know. I know, Erin. But Juliette is the sun, and I am the sea rumbling underneath her scorching powers,” he says, waving his hand in the air, a dreamy look on his face. I raise my left eyebrow. Even Carla snickers. Luca is a romantic Sicilian to the core. His family gives birth to poets, painters, and designers as though there weren’t any other careers to consider.

“
Seriously, her name is Juliette?” I ask.

“
No, but it sounds good rolling off my tongue,” he says and makes a swirling motion with his finger to emphasize his point.

“
Uh-huh, and I’m sure next week that blonde girl you took home a few days ago will be wondering why she didn’t ever get a poem created in her name,” I remind him. He shrugs and smirks. “Never mind, we have a serious problem. I need to know what happened here.” I hold up the two lime green dresses for him to see. He gives me an ‘O’ face and then covers his mouth. It amazes me how well he can go from primal animal to dangerously feminine. And he never loses sight of what he truly is a man who loves to have a lot of sex.

He snatches one of the dresses from my hands. A string of Italian curse words flows off of his lips.
“I swear to you, my love, I did not order these—these hideous colors.”

“
Luca, just save the sweet talk. La Scala’s assistant director is on his way over here to check on our progress. And guess what? We don’t have shit to show for it.”

“
I’ll make some phone calls, right away.” Luca takes the dresses and heads toward his office in the back. “You handle the assistant.” He slams the door behind him.

“
What the fuck? Luca!” I trudge toward the front of the shop, my mind racing.

“Signora
Angelo, I’m sorry. I meant to say, Erin,” Carla begins and then screws up her face as she points behind me. Every muscle in my body tightens up. I can feel him approaching us before I even glance back.

Slowly
, I turn around and find myself less than ten feet away from a man who can only be the poster guy of everything hip and sensual. My breath hitches in my throat. The assistant has let himself into the shop. My gaze drinks all of him in. His tanned arms are crossed. Broad shoulders are perfect on his six foot plus tall frame that looms over my five foot six one. I guess that’s not saying much, though. He wears black jeans and a white shirt rolled up to his elbows. I’m almost afraid to keep going, but I do. My eyes land on his face next. And let me tell you, I’m not an
OMG
girl, but damn!

The Adonis standing before me is dark-haired. Call me crazy
, but his wavy locks really do make me think of chocolate, a dark and luscious flavor. The sides are tapered, but the top is just the tiniest bit unruly. He doesn’t look like the overly macho kind of Marlon Brando handsome, but he has the type of gaze that penetrates you to the core, reading your secrets even when you think they’re well hidden. And those lips, that mouth—a sensual creation that’s part pout, but mostly a heart-shaped ode to sex.

Oh My God, no wait, Holy hell!
I glance at Carla who stares at him too, her mouth hanging wide open.

“
I assume you have the initial designs ready?” he says in an unfamiliar accent. He doesn’t waste any time with introductions. It’s all business with this man. If all opera house assistants look like this guy, then I’m obviously in the wrong business.

Think
, Erin. What will you tell him? I’m going to kill Romeo, aka Luca if I make it through this moment.

I turn on the brightest smile I can muster as I try to hold back a tingle in my throat and the increasing pressure in my chest.
“Hi! I’m Erin Angelo.” I move toward him, holding out my hand for him to take. He frowns, steps around me, and glances around the shop. “Where’s Martuccio?”

The pressure in my chest worsens. I make a few tiny coughs to try and kill it. Please
, don’t do this to me right now. “He’s taking a call. Carla, why don’t you go check and see if he’s ready for us.”

“
Yes! I can do that,” she says and scurries away leaving me to pass the time with an annoyed assistant.

“While we wait for Signor Martuccio, why don’t you have a look at
my portfolio. All of the designs are in there,” I say and tuck in the right side of my lower lip as I move toward my office, a converted closet in back of the building. Inside the box of a room, I’m aware of his smoldering presence even more now. He narrows his eyes at my nervous gestures. Crap! He’s annoyed. And I can’t decide whether it’s because he knows I’m stalling or if my lip biting bothers him.

I pull out my look book
, a designer’s business card and hand it to him. With a serious expression, he opens the book and flips through the pages. The corner of his mouth turns up. Do I see a smile forming on those lips? “This is exquisite work, Mrs. Angelo.” I make a happy move without him seeing me.

“Thank you.
It’s Ms. Angelo. I’m not married,” I correct. He shrugs a bit and continues looking over all of my designs and not just the ones I intended for him to see.

“
Have you thought of a name for the line?” he asks as he continues shuffling through my book.

“
I have. I think I’m going to call it—” At once, the coughing fit from hell attacks me.

As though it isn
’t enough for my client to catch my weak moment, I suffer a full-blown asthmatic attack. And it’s the kind where you wheeze and suck in your breath until your chest feels as though it might explode.

“
Ms. Angelo, are you all right?” the assistant asks, his voice laced with concern.

“
My pump,” I manage to gasp out as I use my desk for support. “It’s a little coppery-colored thing that’s shaped like an L.”

“
Where? Tell me where it is,” he urges. I point at the cabinet across from the room. He clears the area in a couple of strides. I turn my back against the wall, using it for support and then sink to the floor.