“Okay, but Josh, don’t kamikazes kill themselves?” I say, lifting my half-full martini glass from the bar. “They crash their planes into aircraft carriers or something.”
Josh rubs his bald black head, checking himself out in the mirror behind the bar. “I look good,” he says.
“Yes, your head is very shiny.”
“It’s a fashion statement, sweetie. Black lacquer, like this place.” And his shiny head does sort of remind me of the decor at the Lacquer Lounge. But the rest of him looks like Mekhi Phifer.
Great. I’m sitting on a bar stool next to a bald Mekhi Phifer, admiring himself in the mirror behind the lacquer bar.
“Josh, kamikazes?”
“Allison, World War Two is so over. This is the twenty-first century.”
“Well, fiddle-dee-dee,” I say in a pretty good Southern belle accent. “This corset squeezes all the air out of my head, and I simply cannot think. Why, I’m woozy at the very thought that a foreigner was in the same room as my very own self.” I sip my vodka martini.
Josh glances behind him. It’s a little after six, but Nicolo has yet to make an appearance. “Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t think the man gives a damn.”
I roll my eyes at the bad joke. “He wasn’t coming to see you anyway.”
“That’s what you think,” Josh says. “My gaydar went off the moment I saw him.”
“You should take it in for a tune-up.”
“We’ll see. I haven’t filled his spot on my team roster yet. I’m holding a place.” He leans close and whispers. “In the starting lineup.”
“Get ready to trade him to me, coach. But before we start negotiations, tell me about this show. Is it like Trading Spaces? Queer Eye? Extreme Makeover?”
“No, my reality show queen.” Josh samples his Cosmo. “Think Extreme Makeover meets The Iron Chef.”
I bolt forward in horror. “There’s cooking?”
“Not unless you feel adventurous,” says a low male voice, tinged with an accent I don’t recognize right away. A warm hand slides over my shoulder as Nicolo materializes out of the ambience.
“How adventurous are we talking?” I say, looking into his stunning blue eyes.
“That is up to you,” he murmurs. He takes my hand and kisses all four fingers, slowly and deliberately. “Are you a—what is it you Americans say?—ah, daredevil. Are you a daredevil?”
I raise a brow and reply in my Kathleen Turner voice, “I’ve been known to play a little Truth or Dare.”
“Hel-loh? I’m standing right here,” Josh interrupts.
“Sorry, Josh.” I squeeze his arm.
“Nicolo Parma,” the hottie says, holding out a hand.
“Josh Bryant.”
“Allison Holloway.”
Nicolo takes my hand again, turns it palm up, and kisses my wrist. My pulse jumps, and I imagine I can see the vein in my wrist throb. Oh, this guy is too perfect.
“Enchanted, Miss Holloway. You smell divine.”
“I am going to be ill,” Josh mutters.
I’m going to faint. I swallow the rest of my martini, feeling its warmth mingle with the lingering heat of Nicolo’s lips on my skin. The vodka is strong, and that’s a good thing, especially now that my knees are weak.
“So, you are the American designers. I have studied your work. Impressive but conservative.” His eyes remain locked with mine. Is that a challenge?
“This is the American Midwest. We give the client what he or she wants,” I say. “We aim to please.”
“I see.” He smiles, slow and sexy, then signals to the bartender hovering within eavesdropping distance and she dashes in front of us.
“Brandy. And another vodka martini for Miss Holloway. Josh?”
“I’m fine.”
“So you’re from Roskilde?” I say. “Where is that?”
Nicolo smiles. “Denmark, though my family has Italian roots. And you?”
I hold up a lock of red hair. “Irish and English.”
“Me, too,” Josh says, straight-faced.
“This is what I love about America. Strange and interesting, the two of you together,” Nicolo says, looking from Josh to me. “In America, we are all equal.”
“Do you think so?” I say. As fantasies go, I’ve never met this guy’s equal. Handsome, wealthy, sophisticated, and intelligent—where has he been all my life?
He smiles. “I admit, there are exceptional cases. Are you exceptional, Miss Holloway?”
“I’m sorry, that information’s classified.”
“I have a security clearance. Will that suffice?”
I shrug. “I suppose I can take a look at it in private.”
Nicolo gives me a sultry smile and hands the bartender a fifty as she returns with the drinks. Wow. That’s the fastest service I’ve ever gotten.
“So, Nicolo,” Josh says, “speaking of the show…”
“We were not, actually.”
Josh sneers. “Little hint there, Hamlet. Enough touchy-feely. Allison wants to know about the show. You’re the investor, right?”
“I am one of several,” Nicolo answers, somewhat evasively. “Kinjo is the creative force. But I am the executive producer, and it is I who suggested expansion. And where better to start than this United States, yes? You Americans love the home-decorating shows.”
“I guess that’s true,” I say, ignoring Josh’s snort, “but don’t you think the market’s oversaturated?”
“Ah.” Nicolo holds up a finger and his eyes positively gleam. “Not if you have a flashy concept.”
“And you think you have one.”
“Kinjo has one, and I am munificent enough to benefit from his hard work. I think Josh was saying something about The Iron Chef. The concept is similar, but we have the iron decorators.”
I cross my legs and Nicolo follows the movement. I allow my skirt to ride up just a bit. “I’ve never seen this chef show. What’s the premise?”
“You’ve never seen The Iron Chef?” Josh gasps. “I thought you’d seen every reality TV show.”
I give him a tight smile. “Not the cooking ones.”
Josh shakes his head. “Allison, sweetie, sometimes you are so clueless. Okay, so there are three Iron Chefs, and they’re like the best chefs in the world. So all these top Japanese chefs want to compete against them, but they have to pick one iron chef.” Josh sets his empty Cosmo glass down. “They compete in a fully stocked kitchen, but they have to use one particular ingredient in everything they cook. Like last time I saw it they were given abalone. Abalone—in dessert! Another time leeks or something. Fucking crazy.”
“I don’t even know what a leek is.”
Josh waves a hand. “It’s big. It’s green. End of story. So they get this crazy ingredient, and they have like an hour to make a ten-course meal or something like that, and then the judges taste the food and usually the winner is the Iron Chef. But sometimes the competing chef beats him.”
I look at Nicolo. His attention is still on my legs. Normally, that would be a good thing, but I’m getting into this whole show concept, and I want his complete attention. “Nicolo.”
He raises his eyes, but he’s in no hurry, apparently not in the least concerned that I might not appreciate his ogling me like I’m a chunk of meat. Gorgeous as he is, I don’t—but that’s not the point. “Please tell me that Kamikaze Make-over! isn’t all about asking us to compete against some iron decorators by doing something creative with chartreuse polyester in an hour.”
“That is exactly the idea, but you have more time than an hour.”
“How much?” Josh asks darkly.
“Eight.”
Josh’s jaw drops. “Oh, you are trippin’. Even Trading Spaces gets two days! Look, we’re professionals, not circus animals trained to do tricks. Why would I want to decorate a house in eight hours with some ugly-ass chartreuse polyester?”
“Ah, chartreuse polyester.” Nicolo nods. “I will have to remember that. But polyester or not, you want to play because the prize, should you win, is one million dollars.”
Josh squeals, and I gape at Nicolo. “One million for the firm?”
“One million each—you, Josh, and the lovely Miranda.”
“Three million dollars?” Josh wheezes. “Is this a joke?”
“No joke. I am—as you say—the producer.”
This is truly difficult to believe. I mean, it’s so totally perfect—well, apart from the chartreuse polyester thing. I am going to be on a reality TV show. I am going to be filmed day in and day out. I’m going to be a celebrity. And all I have to do is be me. Well, not the real me—the fabulous me.
I would have done this for nothing, so a million dollars in addition is just the welting on my footstool. But Nicolo doesn’t need to know that. In fact, the writers of the Reality TV Addict’s Guide to What’s Real cautioned aspiring reality TV stars never to trust producers. What if this whole thing is just a trick on me or Josh? Like that one show, My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé. I eye Nicolo—if that’s really his name—suspiciously.
He merely smiles and offers to buy me another drink. I haven’t eaten since this morning—my usual low-fat blueberry muffin and nonfat, peppermint mocha latte—so I decline. Then, somehow, Nicolo ends up offering to take us to dinner. Josh, smart boy, declines, so it’s me and the producer—if that’s really his job.
I have to admit it briefly occurs to me that going to dinner with Nicolo might be construed as a date. I’ve learned from long experience that dating guys I work with is a bad idea. But this is a producer. Everyone knows the normal rules don’t apply when reality TV is involved. Nevertheless, best to tread cautiously.
“The Drake,” Nicolo tells the driver when the black Lincoln Town Car pulls up to the curb outside Lacquer Lounge.
“Nice.” I settle in, and Nicolo hands me a flute of champagne from a bottle that’s been chilling in a bucket. I tug my skirt down and hide a smile with the glass when Nicolo frowns.
“You have been to the Drake before?”
“Several times. Is that where you’re staying?”
“For now. The penthouse Kinjo acquired for me should be ready before the end of the week.”
“Is it decorated? I know a great interior designer.”
“So do I,” he says and leans in for a soft kiss. Okay, this is a little fast for me, but European men are like that. And this guy is gorgeous. He’s probably never been told no in his life. Well, there’s a first time for everything.
The kiss is surprisingly gentle for a man who was all but devouring me with his eyes ten minutes ago. It’s deliberate and seductive, and, oh dear…
Business plus personal equals bad, my besieged brain reminds me. I force myself to pull away, pushing my hair back and taking a large swallow of champagne to cover my unsteadiness. From the corner of my eye, I see Nicolo open his mouth to speak and then close it. That threw him off a bit. Word of advice: Always keep a man guessing.
“The kiss was not to your liking?” Nicolo’s voice slides over me through the shadows of the car.
Direct. I like that. “Oh, it was very nice,” I say. “More champagne?”
Nicolo takes my flute without question and refills it. He’s not looking terribly pleased about it, though. If I were him, I wouldn’t be, either. One minute he’s an executive producer, the next a go-to man.
He hands me the champagne I have no intention of drinking, and I smile. “Thank you.”
He leans in for another kiss, but as much as I’d like him to kiss me again, chaster thoughts prevail. I draw back and gesture out the window. “Have you been down to the lake yet?”
“No.” He sits back, seemingly resigned. “Do you recommend it?”
“I do.”
He sits straighter. “Perhaps you would play tour guide on Saturday. I am certain there is much of Chicago I have not seen.” He reaches out and runs a finger lightly over the exposed skin between my knee and the hem of the skirt.
I draw in a slow, shaky breath. Obviously, I should stop him. This guy’s got to be handled carefully (i.e., we go no further than that kiss I let slip by earlier). The course of action is clear and smart, and yet I don’t stop him. He’s already slid his hand deftly between my knees before I’m able to say, “Saturday isn’t good for me.”
His hand freezes, then inches farther up my thighs. “I’m confident you can fit me in.”
I stifle a moan and dig my fingernails into the leather seats. Oh, my God. I am so tempted to allow this exploration to continue. But it’s a bad, bad, bad idea.
Of course, it doesn’t feel like a bad idea, but when you take the work thing and the I-just-met-him thing plus the producer thing, that’s a lot of things. And all bad.
I bite the inside of my cheek. As much as I want Nicolo’s hands on me, I can’t give in to my desire. Besides, I think as my cheek starts to hurt, isn’t it a bit egotistical to assume that I’d be so willing to…accommodate him? Must wrest control back and keep it this time.
I slam my thighs shut and almost have to stifle a sob at the effort it takes me to resist. “Oh, I wouldn’t think of canceling at this late date.”
He scowls—yes, scowls—I don’t think I’ve actually seen a man do that in real life. “Is there another day more convenient, then?”
I purse my lips, direct my gaze at the ceiling, and pretend to mentally run through my plans for the week. All the while, his hand is warm, solid—and trapped—between my legs. Not that he’s trying to escape. Not that I want him to.
“Can’t think of a day I’m free—oh, but actually tomorrow night is—oh, no, I’m watching the game with my friend Rory.”
The car slows, and Nicolo bites out, “Drive around again.” His eyes haven’t left my face, and I finally turn my gaze toward him, loosening the pressure on his hand a fraction.
“What game?”
“Basketball. The Bulls are in the play-offs.”
His lips tighten in a thin line, and I’m impressed with his restraint. There is only one sport the typical European man enjoys: soccer. Every other sport—baseball, football, golf—is substandard. Nicolo appears to be of this opinion, but instead of ranting about how ridiculous basketball is and how he’d rather have his testicles ripped off and mounted in a Plexiglas frame than watch a Bulls game, he says, “I will join you. Where?”
Now, if he had asked if he could join me, if he had offered to escort me or take me out before the game or after, I would have let this go. I might even have nixed the basketball game entirely, even though Rory would have killed me. But Nicolo did not ask if he could accompany me. The real me—as opposed to the composed, fabulous me sitting beside Nicolo—is kind of excited that this guy likes me so much, but what kind of girl would I be if I let him see through me so easily?
It’s important not to expose one’s vulnerabilities too early, if at all, so I say, “You know, I’m not certain where we’ll be.” I slide back in the seat, extricating my leg from his hand. “Let me give you my friend Rory’s number. Call her tomorrow and ask if you’re invited. She can tell you where we’ll be.” I pull a business card from my bag and look at him expectantly. I have a perfectly good pen in my bag, but I am going to wait for Nicolo to offer his Montblanc. Here’s another hint: Always make the guy work for it because men are a strange species. They don’t appreciate what they don’t work for.
Nicolo frowns, then sighs because this wooing stuff is such hard work, and at last pulls the Montblanc from his jacket pocket.
“Thank you.” I write Rory’s name and work number on the back of the card and hand it to him. The car is rounding the corner, and I see the Drake’s bellboys and porters up ahead. “Stop here, please.”
“The hotel is a bit farther,” Nicolo says.
“I know. But I’m not going to the Drake.” I gather my purse and open the door when the car stops. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
Nicolo leans across the backseat. “At least allow me to drive you home.”
“No thanks. I can make it on my own.” I close the door and walk away.
I grab a cab back to the office, but instead of getting in my car to drive home, I head back upstairs. Natalie’s still there, and when I walk in she looks up, surprised.
“Natalie,” I say breathlessly. “You’re good at research, right?”
She nods, staring as I bend down to remove my Pradas. I’m all for fashion, but I’ve been wearing these heels for thirteen hours now, and that’s enough of a homage to haute couture for a day.
“Good, come to my office. Quick!”
She jumps up and races after me. I flick on the lights in my office, boot up the computer, and slide into the chair behind the drawing board that constitutes my desk. “Grab that chair, Nat.” I point to a cushy orange retro chair, and Natalie drags it closer. While the computer wakes up, I turn to look at her. “What do you know about Nicolo Parma? Something about his name sounds really familiar, and I can’t figure out why.”
“Maybe he’s produced other reality TV shows,” she says, pushing her glasses back on her sweaty nose.
“No, it’s something else. Parma. Parma. Where have I heard that?”
“It’s a part of Italy.”
I turn to the computer and click on the Internet icon. “God, this computer is so slow.”
“You should do a disk cleanup,” Natalie says.
“What’s that?”
“Here.” She reaches past me and starts messing around with the settings. “Okay,” she says finally. “That should help. It got rid of unnecessary stuff and freed up memory to make the computer faster.”
“Great.” Now when I open the Internet, I’m able to get Google almost right away. When the search box pops up, I type “parma” in. On the screen, Google displays entries.
I scroll through the choices—Parma, Ohio; Parma, New York; Parma, Michigan—ha! Parma, Italy. I click and after a pause, there’s a list of hotels and pictures of old buildings. At the bottom of the page I find a link for history. I click on that and read the highlights to Natalie. “183 B.C. founded. Ruled by the Visconti, Sforza, the French. Pope Paul III established a Duchy. Joined kingdom of Italy in 1860.”
I sit back to think, and Natalie leans forward. “When did the French rule Italy?”
“Napoléon probably. He took over after Louis the Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette got their heads chopped off. The Italians got rid of their king, too, in the forties. It was just a few years ago that they allowed the exiled royal family—Prince Victor Emmanuel, of the House of Savoy—back in.” If there’s one thing I know, it’s royalty. Comes with the wanting to be a princess thing. I didn’t like school much, but when I wanted to learn something—like, say, the lineage of the royal families of Europe—I had no trouble.
“The French tried monarchy one last time after Napoléon. They asked the Bourbons back but—” I clap a hand over my mouth and stare at Natalie.
“What?” she says, eyes wide.
I reach for the keyboard, but my hands are shaking now and I can’t type. “Type ‘Bourbon-Parma’ in,” I say.
Natalie reaches forward and starts typing.
“No, it’s O-U-R and there’s a hyphen.”
Natalie hits search, and a site about the royal house of Bourbon comes up. With shaking fingers, I point to the link for the genealogy of the Bourbon-Parma branch.
Natalie clicks on it, and we scroll down, past all the princes and princesses—Robertos, Giuseppes, Marias, Antonias, Philippes—“Oh, my God! Stop.”
Natalie jumps. “What? What?”
“There. That’s him.” My heart hammers, the room is too hot, and my head is spinning. “Oh, my God! I knew it.” I can barely squeeze the words out.
Natalie squints at the small type and leans closer. “Prince Nicolò Thierry Ferdinand Ignazio Alfonso Roberto Paolo Tadero Giovanni Bourbon-Parma, born Roskilde 6 December 1970.” She looks at me. “Wow. That’s a lot of names.”
“That’s the guy who was here this afternoon. Mr. Parma.”
“What?” Natalie steps back, stumbling against her chair.
“Parma is Prince Nicolo Bourbon-Parma. A real prince.” I look at Natalie. “Get Josh on the phone.”
“Yes, Ms. Holloway.”
She races back to her desk and lifts her phone, simultaneously punching buttons on her keyboard to bring up the file with employee contact info. A moment later, she buzzes me. “Mr. Bryant on line two. He sounds mad.”
“Thanks, Nat.” Normally, the first person I’d call with something like this is Rory. But I’m too excited to explain, so I’ll brave Josh’s temper. I pick up. “Josh, you are not going to believe this.” In the background I hear loud music and voices. Natalie must have gotten Josh on his cell.
“You’re in bed with Don Juan. Happy, happy, joy, joy. You’re taking me away from a gorgeous Cuban with a lisp. You know how I love a lisp.”
Actually I didn’t know that. “Josh, forget the Cuban. You are not going to believe what I found out. After I left Nicolo I came back to the office.”
“You’re at work? Sweetie, go home. Sex in the workplace is so last year.”
“Josh, will you shut up and listen? I Googled Nicolo and you are not going to believe this.” I pause for effect, then say, “He’s a prince. It’s right here. His whole family line. I mean, the family doesn’t rule any countries or anything. They haven’t since like 1860, but he’s descended from royalty, and he still has the title! Do you know what this means?”
“No, but you’re going to tell me.”
“I went out with a real prince. If this works out, I could be a princess!”