Vulnerable (24 page)

For a moment he studied her curled up in the bed, one breast exposed from the silky tailored bedding. The evening's theatrical sky seeping into the room made her face look so childlike. D'Becca was complex. On the one hand, she was instinctively smart and naturally clever, and on the other, she was insecure because of the nature of her childhood. She was an only child, and her parents were so damaged by their own childhoods they did not know how to demonstrate their love for her. He was initially drawn to that deep complexity. “I have papers to grade.”

“Rawn…” She stopped herself because something told her anything she said would not matter—there was no need to expose herself any further. He went to the bed and bent down to kiss her cheek. She moved her mouth under his and slipped her tongue in his mouth. His body reacted without his mind's consent; the sensuousness of her kiss made him weak for her. Some part of him—the part of Rawn that
cared
for D'Becca—wanted to stay.

“Good-night.”

Even when she called out his name, he did not turn around or come back. She could hear the front door close behind him and the rejection cut so deep. If she did not know it days ago, it was now so brazen—D'Becca had backed herself into a bad emotional corner.

•  •  •

“Ingrid?”

Tamara's client rushed into the boutique in a poncho-style wrap that sheltered her from the chilled night air. Ingrid's shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair streaked with gray was covered by a trendy cap. Tamara would never have recognized Ingrid on the street in that get-up. She knew when last Ingrid had sex with her husband, but she did not know how the woman looked when she was not making herself appear so together—her Washington State public image. When she pulled off the chic wrap and tossed it to the nearby chaise,
Tamara nearly gasped. In a pair of denim, which she paid six-hundred dollars for in Geneva, Ingrid was so thin Tamara could blow at her and she would stumble.
Jeans. God knows they told the whole truth and nothing but—flat butt, hipless, chubby thighs, high waist, thick middle…

With her palms pressed together in prayer-style, Ingrid said in a calm but strikingly confident voice, “I have a favor to ask of you. I can't trust anyone else. You…” Her green eyes meeting Tamara's… “Are the only one I trust. Because I know you would understand.” Once she made it to
trust
, Ingrid began to weaken, but she suppressed the tears in her throat and pulled the cute hat off her head and, without looking, tossed it to the chaise where it landed on top of the poncho-wrap.

Slowly, Tamara removed her chic reading glasses and slipped them into the collar of her sleeveless tee, which exposed slender, toned arms.

Each woman saw the other in a new light that evening. Ingrid had not once seen Tamara so casual. On previous occasions, when she came to Threads, Tamara purposely selected outfits to wear so as to promote her line of unique, although overpriced, dresses. Ingrid never saw a model wear a pencil skirt the way Tamara did. Often she would have on a skintight skirt with deep black hosiery and something as simple as a sleeveless sweater cut very low in the back; or a suede jacket designed to be worn deliberately close to the curve of a woman's physique. Standing tall and effortlessly sensual, she was in a pair of nicely cut winter-white corduroys and red suede stilettos that made her look even taller, and glamorous. Tamara had such an eye; only she could wear that outfit and it came across quite smart, creative. Another woman would come across like she was trying too hard.

“Ingrid…” Tamara took two steps. The words—the woman's
tone
—was disturbing. “What's wrong? What's happened?”

“Sebastian!”

Allah. She's killed the S-O-B!

“He's obsessed, Tamara. I've never seen him like this.” Ingrid crossed her arms. “Once, about ten years ago, he met someone. And while it didn't get serious enough to consider divorce, he couldn't stop thinking about her. He would not…let her go. I never thought…” She shouted: “He's making a fool of not just
me
, but himself…with this back-street floozy!”

“Ingrid…”

“Can you believe when I asked him who this—this woman was…he told me she'd met someone. He thought she was in love with…another man. He was hurt. Not that he felt betrayed. Sebastian was absolutely
hurt
.”

“What?” Tamara chuckled.

Ingrid looked up to Tamara, who stood several feet away, and said, “What do you find amusing about this?”

Tamara's shoulders slumped and she replied sarcastically, “Well, listen. Truth be told, I thought you finally got up the courage to cut off his balls.” It was apparent Ingrid was upset and she was not in the mood for Tamara's ridicule. “So what does all this”—and she spread out her hands—“have to do with me?”

“I don't…”

“Who is this woman anyway? Where does she live?”

“Tamara, I need a
friend
. I can't handle this…This, it's different. I don't trust myself. I put everything on the line—I sacrificed a career. I have to be subjected to some bitch having more access to my husband than me?…. She's ruining everything I've sacrificed for!”

D
'Becca could hear someone outside the front door. Sprinting to the stairway, D'Becca nearly tripped down the spiral landing. She called out “Rawn!” with the hopes he changed his mind about staying the night. But instead, when she opened her front door, she collided with Sebastian Michaels standing in front of her. “Sebastian!” D'Becca's wet eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. The shock was acute; her pulse quickened. “Sebastian?…Hi.” She spoke just above a whisper.

Sebastian slipped his keys in his pocket and walked around her in the doorway, through the foyer and to the spiral stairs. He stopped at the third stair and turned to look at her. He knew her better than anyone. She was confused and sad. “We need to talk.”

D'Becca met Sebastian Michaels in Rome three years ago. She had finished a show in Milan the previous day, and it would be her last show in Italy, although at the time, D'Becca did not know it. Her body was not reacting too well to her having switched three different time zones over the past week, and she was lonely. Saying
ciao
to a model friend at Trastevere train station who was headed for Gstaad to go skiing with her boyfriend made her feel abandoned, like when she was a child. For long moments, she sat alone at the table. Not necessarily lonely, but she contemplated whether she should fly to Deauville and drop in on a friend she had not seen since Fashion Week in New York over a year ago. D'Becca often felt isolated when she was in Europe; she could use the company. And Deauville was so quiet, so calm. Or better yet, she could go to Vienna; it was an ideal place to hibernate until her next assignment.

She was not in the mood to be with a man. D'Becca was increasingly becoming apathetic toward men. She spent way too much time accommodating men that she now found herself emotionally distant whenever she spent time alone with them. The physical closeness meant far more to her than the sex itself. Sex, however, was most often what men wanted from her. Like a number of models she had met over the years, she too had an uncanny way of choosing men who could not show up emotionally; who could not commit. They showed up in the flesh. When she left her small town in North Dakota and headed for Seattle on a whim, she was convinced she had nothing going for her but her looks. Even at the time, she was not aware her looks would support her financially. The men she met helped her get her feet on the ground; they showed her things she would need to know; they gave her money and taught her how to please them which only taught her how to please other men. And they gave her attitude. D'Becca was a quick study, rapacious for knowledge. For such a long time, she spent so much time trying to create an emotional bond, and D'Becca used sex to try and attain it. But now she realized that sex was not about love, which in essence was what she had been seeking. With all the mixed messages, from childhood, society, and men, shuffling around inside her head, she came to trust that life was solely about suffering—the First of the Noble Truths. In her lifetime, it never made sense—life. At times, when she felt so terribly alone, D'Becca would pray because she had grown tired of lifting up every brick herself. It was awkward and unnatural when she would try to meet God halfway. One day she decided her prayers were never taken seriously; yet it never occurred to her that her appeals to God were not sincere.

So, that cold and lonely night when she went to a small, quiet restaurant in Piazza Navona to have dinner, she was bored. She was fed up with male company and
ciao bellas
and accents that were not
American. She wanted only to be home. Perhaps that was why, when Sebastian Michaels addressed her at the table, she was pleased. Not naturally good-looking, but he was an imposing figure, and his presence in the restaurant demanded attention. He was
someone
or he was rich. Even while the detailed suit and his look in and of themselves were impressive, it was his hands that revealed the truth. Hands that belonged to a man whose money worked for him, not vice versa.

“Scusa. Buona sera, signorina. Sei da solo?”

D'Becca looked up to the man and directly into his aqua-blue eyes. Straightaway she knew he was American. Oh, his Italian was persuasive, but he was American. Despite his European style, she had been living and working between Milan and Paris for quite some time; she was fully aware of the difference by now.

“Non capisco,”
she said, lying.

“Parla inglese?”

“Yes,” she replied, pretending to be demure. “I speak English.”

“You are American?”

D'Becca's full mouth spread from ear-to-ear. “Yes, I'm American. Aren't you?” A parenthesis-shaped brow elevated subtly.

Inside a minute he joined her at her table and ordered Mezzaluna for himself, and an aperitivo for D'Becca. The American said, “I am Sebastian. And you are?”

“D'Becca.”

“D'Becca?” he asked, his slender lips producing a faint smile. “That is such an unusual name.”

“My mother's a big dreamer, and she used to fantasize about being in Hollywood movies. Actually, when I was seven, she did a commercial for a cleaning product, like Mr. Clean, only it wasn't Mr. Clean. And she thought someday I'd go to Hollywood and be famous like Raquel Welch or something. Mama thought Raquel
was so gorgeous, and she was this amazing sex symbol. Like Raquel, she decided D'Becca was a stage name.”

“And you? Are you an actress?”

“Oh, me?” D'Becca chuckled. “No. One day, who knows? But I'm not sure I'd like acting. I'm a model. You might have seen me back in the States.” She paused to see what influence this would have on him.

“What are you… What is it the Italians call it,
supermodelo?”

He couldn't care less what she did; Sebastian just wanted to get her in his bed. She knew this, but D'Becca pressed further, dropping her résumé with this ad she had done and that product she had endorsed, and the lingerie she had posed seductively for in mass market lingerie catalogues. “I also starred in a pop music video once.” But the American took a drink from his glass; nonchalant, he glanced at his Rolex. Despite his indifference, D'Becca went on. “You don't look like the type to even set foot in a Métro, but I was working in London last year and I saw myself in a few tube stations…the Underground?”

They left the restaurant and wandered through Piazza Navona for half an hour. They talked about D'Becca mainly, and her life as a little girl in her small hometown, her life as a model, and somewhere in between, she avoided telling him about her real life. Unknowingly, she cared what this man thought of her.

D'Becca wanted to stroll along Piazza di Spagna, even while the shops were long since closed. She suspected a man like Sebastian Michaels would have a spacious suite at the Hotel Hassler with its incredible panoramic views from oversized terraces, set just above the Spanish Steps; and he would invite her to his room, eventually. She had always wanted to stay in one of the rooms at the Hotel Hassler, and to see the spectacular, romantic view of Rome.

“I like the cobblestone streets; how they twist and turn and you
never know where the hell you'll find yourself, even with a really good map. Do you mind?”

Amused, Sebastian shook his head.

His driver whizzed speedily through the sometimes congested, sometimes deserted streets of Rome nearly colliding with Vespas and taxis, and through a narrow street, he barely missed two pedestrians. Because he said nothing, she assumed Sebastian Michaels was indifferent to the way the driver riskily drove him through the enchanting city. Before D'Becca knew it, they were at the foot of the Spanish Steps.

“In spring, the Steps are so beautiful. The azaleas, you know? In the summer the Steps are swarming with tourists and Gypsies, and local con artists. It's sad because the loitering and riffraff cheapens the Fountain of the Barcaccia.” D'Becca lowered her eyes. “I want to walk. Do you mind?” she asked Sebastian.

In limited Italian words, he spoke to his driver with deliberate authority, and Sebastian and D'Becca were walking through the maze of streets beyond Piazza di Spagna within minutes. Along via del Babuino, where antique shops lined the constricted street, D'Becca said, “I want to have my own place. My very own, someday. I lease a large flat which isn't so bad, but when I have my own place it will have space and I will decorate it all myself. Every single square foot.”

“So you like antiques?” Sebastian assumed.

Solemnly, she nodded, staring in the window of one of several antique stores along the
strada
. “No, not antiques. I like contemporary, and French country. And I like Art Deco, but I wouldn't want my home to be decorated that way. Someday it would get boring because Art Deco can be cold. I want my home”—she looked over to him morosely—“when I get it, to reflect who I am. What I like. Light colors, and lots of windows.”