The Prelude (7 page)

“
The prelude,” I answer for her.

“
That’s right. I remember now.” A sad look crosses her face after she agrees with me. I want to reach out and take her in my arms. “You should probably be moving along to your appointment. Don’t let me hold you up.”

“
What appointment?” I ask, still caught up in what could’ve brought on her mood change. “Oh yes, that meeting. I’m waiting on your answer about dinner, yes.”

“
Alek, I truly appreciate you believing in me and giving my design group the chance of a lifetime. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“
Alright then. On to my solution.” Stepping toward her, I lift her hand and brush my lips across her knuckles, inhaling her fragrance. The scent contains a mild mixture of something both floral and sweet without either one overwhelming the other. “You’re fired. I’ll see you tomorrow. And do wear something other than a black dress. I’m sure you’d look gorgeous in a happier color.”

She smirks and twists her nose up at me.
“Not going to happen, Mr. Maestro,” she says with a smile. I’ve made some progress. Good.

I head toward my car. At the door
, I turn toward her and say, “Remember, Madam Angelo, you now officially belong to me.” I get inside my car and pull off, leaving her standing on the doorstep.

Erin

I’m walking in a daze.

I think I’m going to pass out. Whoa! What just happened out there? The most gorgeous, successful, beautifully arrogant man ever just kissed my hand. My best friend, Selene is going to hate me for being so lucky. I can’t wait to tell her.

“Alright, chill out, Cinderella.” I walk through my door and let all the pretense, aka Miss Control USA, go flying out the window. I hop right up in the middle of my living room floor and start doing my hot damn dance.

So, yeah, Alek’s
statement about the prelude freaked me out for a second. The word reminded me of something Jada used to say. His line was just the tiniest bit corny, too. But I meant what I said when I told him I thought his words were cute. He can say anything with that accent and get away with it.

I glance at my watch. 10p.m. It’s too early to call Selene. She works as a bartender in Florence. Sometimes her nights don’t end until around 2am.

I sniff the contract Alek gave me. His scent still lingers on the paper, reminding me of the day I first experienced the smell of his cologne. That was the day I fell on my butt, and he offered me his jacket to cover my body. He’s a true gentleman. Well, maybe a little.

So what if the gesture came after I had bolted for the door because he was looking me up and down at first. I feel myself forgiving his neglect to inform me of his true identity. He’s yet to explain himself. I consider agreeing to meet him for dinner just so he can tell me why he led me to believe he was an assistant.

I shower and throw on my Betty Boop sleeping shirt, a pair of booties, and then try to bring my racing thoughts back under control. Heading to my bedroom, I lie down on the bed and pull out a romance novel Selene let me borrow.

She thinks I’m destined
to become either a nun or a homicidal maniac. Her reasoning being that no normal person goes without sex as long as I have done. Selene’s boyfriend and my old design lab partner from school, Christopher, even chimed in to help drill the thought into me one day when the two of them visited. I study the book in my hands.

This just doesn’t seem right.
Erin Angelo is pulling out a romance novel and actually considering reading it.
Now I know something’s wrong with me.

Feeling hot and bothered, I shake my leg until I can’t take the heat anymore. I get through about twenty pages of hardcore fucking before my mind starts to wander back to visions of sugary brownish-blue eyes and Russian accents. Since when did romance novels become so smutty?

“That’s it. You need a distraction, Erin.” I hop up off the bed and pull out my sketch pad and pencil.

Earlier in the day an idea for the sixth set of outfits Alek requested came to me. I plop down on the floor and start to sketch and round out my lines with swift strokes of my pencil. Soon, I’ve created the perfect vest, the sexiest piece of clothing I’ve ever designed, but I don’t stop there. Nope. I draw a neck that’s manly, but slender. Next comes the chin, dimpled in the middle. It’s a butt chin, yeah, but still something unique to remember.

My phantom man has a rather large Adam’s apple, but that’s all good and masculine too. I don’t stop there. I continue with the strong contours of his jaw line, the lips that turn upside down in the perfect pout, and that hair, luscious, wavy strands on top and tapered at the ears.

Holy hell! I’ve created a masterpiece, a delicious one.

I’m aware of my breathing, little gasps flowing from my mouth. I’m not really shy. I can’t help it that drawing turns me on.
Um, I don’t think drawing is what’s turning you on, my friend. The man you’re sketching and drooling over turns you on. Admit it.

My hand keeps going, forming more of that noble face: the sculpted cheekbones, the lips that turn up in a pout, the eyes that are just shy of being too pretty for a man’s face. I sit back and admire my work. Alek Dostov now sits on my lap. He’s wearing a black tee and glancing hopelessly at me like I’m the only woman alive in this world.

Damn I’m good. I get up, lie back down on the bed, and stare at the ceiling. My sketch pad lies across my boobs. How ironic is it that Alek now lays on top of those?
That’s not the only place you want to feel him situated inside.
The rebel in me has spun out of control since the Maestro came into the picture. I make a small laugh, close my eyes, and drift off to sleep. I dream of a man, a guy with striking eyes and a gorgeously toned body. We’re inside of a forest of some type; and it’s raining.

My eyes burn a straight line from his perfectly shaped lips, down his smooth chest covered in beads of water, past his abs that are so sculpted I can’t believe they’re real. My gaze doesn’t stop there. Instead, I devour the contours of his V-line.

Oh shit! He’s completely naked and he’s walking toward me. I still haven’t seen his face yet. But I already know who my phantom lover will be before I even see it.

He reaches out for me. I run to him. Yeah, yeah, I’m super horny in this dream. That’s what happens when you read romance novels and draw pictures of sexy maestros before you go to sleep. We waste no time with words as we start having sex in the dream. The scene’s all fuzzy, though. What a tease. I can’t see a damn thing. But I can feel everything.

The next morning, I wake up and place the sketch pad on the table beside my bed. I give Selene a call, but she doesn’t answer. She has Christopher while I have the phantom man who leaves me in a cloud of haze after I wake up.

I spend most of the morning actually sketching costumes instead of drawing handsome maestros this time. I accomplish a lot. I’m so engrossed in drawing black lace and silk butterfly trains that I pass most of the morning away.

* * *

Around 2pmish, I get dressed in my yoga gear and prepare to head downtown. Vinyasa yoga is a form of therapeutic meditation based on Buddhist principles. It combines breathing and technique with ways to calm the racing mind. I chose this method of therapy over the traditional kind. It works much better for me.

That whole idea of sitting in a chair and whining to a stranger about your fucked up past never did a thing to help me. There was even one session four years ago where I caught my therapist reading her kindle when she was supposed to have been listening to me explain why I sometimes still have nightmares about my sister.

Unfortunately, yoga therapy doesn’t do a whole lot for raging hormones. I don’t like what’s happening to me. Not one bit. I’ve spent the last five years avoiding any situation that’ll have me so screwed up in the head that I can’t work. Damn you, Alek Dostov.

The taxi driver takes his sweet time reaching my place. At some point I hope my earnings allow me to buy a decent car. I’m almost ready to call Petre, my instructor slash life coach, and tell him that I’m canceling today’s session. A slick, black SUV limo pulls up instead.

I step back so the driver can see the person he’s come to pick up when they step out of the apartment complex’s doorway. The door opens and a tall, well-tanned, but older man steps out. He strolls right over to where I stand. “Ms. Angelo?” he asks in broken English.

Nah. No way can he be talking to me. “Maybe. Who wants to know?” Just because he’s in the limo doesn’t disqualify him as serial killer worthy. He makes his way up the stairway to me and closes the distance between us in about three strides. “My name is Hagar. I am the driver for Katerina Dostov. I was sent here to retrieve Ms. Angelo.”

I scoff a light laugh. “Dostov? Wait. Why would Katerina Dostov send a driver for me?” Busted. You just revealed your identity, dummy.

“Not Lady Dostov, Ms. Angelo, but rather young Sir Dostov has sent me here today.”

“Of course. Alek. And where will you be taking me?” I ask, a smile spreading across my lips.

“Sir Dostov specifically instructed for you to be driven to your class. I am then supposed to return you to this building so that you may freshen up and be escorted to a celebratory dinner at an unspecified location.” He recited his instructions as though he were reading a computer in his head. He has also been holding something wrapped in golden foil the entire time we’ve been talking. He lifts the box up and hands it to me. “Sir Dostov also asks that Madam Angelo utilize the contents inside this package for your business dinner.”

“Are you serious? What an arrogant, control freak of a man. It’s no wonder they talk about him the way they do,” I say more to myself than to Hagar.

“Excuse me, Ms. Angelo?”

“Nothing. I was just saying your boss is so very kind to do something like this for me,” I lie, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Hagar doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy watching the way I hold the box. Okay, so I might be hardcore when it comes to men like Alek Dostov and Rafe Martuccio, but I’m dying to see what’s inside. I’m a designer. We love pretty things, and this box just tugs at the muse inside me.

After I’m tucked away in the SUV limo, I rip open the box, gasping when I see the contents. A dress, a golden yellow one made of an expensive silk sits inside of it. I suck my teeth and glance around the limo.

“You must be insane, Mr. Maestro, if you think I’m wearing this anywhere.” Yellow was more of my sister’s thing than mine. My wardrobe consists of black and more black. Sometimes there’s a colorful scarf or two tucked in among the group, but never another color that I wear across my body.

No, I’m not a Goth, or anything. But hell, what designer doesn’t wear black as their staple color?

I find myself obsessing over what made someone like Alek Dostov pick this color. I’m lost in thoughts of over-the-top sexy maestros with accents and mystery tattoos, when Hagar pulls onto Via Mercato, the street where Petre Maslak’s studio sits. I didn’t even notice we’d been moving along so quickly.

Hagar gives me the number to his personal cell and tells me to call him when I’m done. A girl could get super spoiled by this kind of treatment. He offers to keep my box while I’m in yoga class. No way am I parting with this thing. I tuck my gym bag under one arm and carry my gift with me into class.

You’re about to get yourself in trouble, girlfriend.

* * *

Getting through the breathing sessions with my other five classmates proves to be tough. I fall over and wind up on my ass more times than I can count. About five tumbles later, I’ve become the unintentional class jester.

I mean, it’s not every week I get to dance like a ballerina, win a six-figure design deal, and then have one of the most sought after men in the world sending drivers out to pick me up. I think it’s safe to say I’ve earned the chance to be a bit distracted.

After class, Petre approaches me. “You were unfocused today, Erin,” he begins, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead.

“I have a lot going on. Sorry,” I answer.

“Come with me.” He leads me into his office.

The terra cotta walls and deep red highlights along with the various relics from his trips to Tibet are set up to mimic a Buddhist monastery. I always enjoy coming inside this place. The atmosphere my coach has created gives me a break from the marbleized beauty of the Italian cities I’ve lived inside over the past couple of years.

“Spill your thoughts,” he orders.

I take a seat on a large floor cushion. There are no chairs inside Petre’s office. His desk is even hidden behind a Fuji screen. I debate on just how much I should tell my coach who looks a lot like that old romance novel model named Fabio. But I’m sure Fabio would kill someone if he were forced to wear a loose white uniform like the one Petre gets dolled up in every day.

But Petre is hardly a ladies’ man. Over the past year, he’s coached me through many life changing moments, and listened to every gory detail of the nightmares I still have about the wreck that killed my father and sister five years ago. And he even made a way for me to see my mom more than the four times a year I’m allowed to visit.