Roberto Ricci is a six-foot-four bronze god who looks exactly how he does on television. In a tight, button-down black shirt that clings to his solid biceps and ripped abs, the man is gorgeous. And I am gawking.
When he takes my hand and presses a kiss to it, I giggle. “I am Roberto,” he says in a thick, foreign accent. Obviously Italian. “Welcome to my little shop.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Leo sneers, rolling his eyes.
“It's a pleasure to meet such a stunning woman. I'll take extra good care of you,” he says, casting his eyes up and down my body as he gives me a twirl. “Darling, you are perfect.”
Irritated, Leo’s hands land on his hips. “I thought you were gay.”
Roberto wraps an arm around both of us. “My dear Z., just because I’m not a sculptor doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate art.”
“As long as you don’t appreciate it with your tongue.” Leo glances at his watch. “How fast can you work?”
“Tsk-tsk-tsk.” Roberto waves a finger at him. “Perfection takes time.”
“You have two hours. I’m ordering food.” His eyes turn tenderly to mine. “What do you want?”
“Cobb salad,” Roberto butts in.
Leo’s blue eyes stay planted on me. “French fries,” I answer hopefully. He kisses me.
“Garlic salt. No ketchup. You got it.” Leo is a mind reader. We kiss again.
Roberto clears his throat and taps Leo’s shoulder. “The usual arrangement?”
Leo rubs his chin and mutters something in Italian. I didn’t even know Leo spoke Italian. Whatever he said makes Roberto clap both hands together and rub them excitedly. “Come, Bellissima. I'm going to make you look like a million bucks,” he says before whisking me away.
“She needs to be in something off the shoulder. And do it without all the touching,” Leo shouts.
Roberto whispers in my ear. “Someone’s protective of his stuff.”
Between bites of food, Roberto takes several measurements. He produces a color wheel and holds it against me. “With your skin tone, just about anything will look amazing.”
I drop my head, taking a bitter glance at my jeans and T-shirt. “It really doesn't need to be too fancy,” I say modestly.
“Nonsense. Z. ordered me here. He expects results. Besides, I only do exquisite.”
“What do you mean he ordered you here? We dropped by.”
Roberto smirks with a half smile. “Anything you say.”
With half an hour to spare, I get a look at the nearly finished product. The gown flows off my shoulders like water, though the color is a rich cream. It hugs my curves in all the right places, but I can breathe. I turned sideways and glance in the mirror. Somehow, Roberto has managed to make my ass look well-proportioned and not nearly as big as the sun.
Breathless, I gasp. “It’s…beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” he gushes back. “All the right curves in all the right places.”
“I can’t believe you made me look like this.”
“Like what?” he asks, fussing with my hair and deciding if it should be swept up or left down.
“Like I'm magically wearing Spanx but still feel comfortable like I’m in my favorite sweats.”
He looks down at my feet. “Don't get too comfortable.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out several pairs of stilettos, checking each for their size. “You’re an eight?” He asks.
“Eight-and-a-half,” I mutter with disdain.
Roberto uses his cell to call an attendant. “The Sophia collection. All eight-and-a-half.” He moves his focus to the hem, adjusting it ever so slightly.
“You seem to know Leo—I mean Z. Have you known each other long?”
“Feels like eons,” he says, feigning exhaustion.
“What did you mean earlier?” I ask as we wait. He quirks his head. “That he ordered you here. You’re a world-renowned designer. How can you be ordered here?”
He plays it off. “Ordered is probably too strong a word.” He refastens a pin to the hem and thinks for a moment. “The correct word is enticed.”
“What does that mean?”
He blinks several times, tight-lipped and uncertain. A small smile emerges. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Roberto stands and lifts my chin with his finger. “Once you’re owned by the D’Angelos, they never let you go.” His smile widens. “Or so I thought. Dressing you for this event pays my debt in full. Courtesy of Z.”
Leo?
He kisses my cheek. “You must be incredibly valuable to him.”
I have a million questions, but Roberto opens the door. “You can come in, Z.” Leo enters, along with Roberto’s assistant. The young man wheels in a cart with about a dozen pairs of dazzling shoes.
His assistant yanks one of my feet from under me, nearly toppling me in the process. He secures the heel and pats my other foot.
“She’s not a horse,” Leo reminds him as I raise my leg on cue.
“Not in these heels, she’s not,” Roberto says, scrutinizing the look. He stands, taking several steps back as his finger taps on his chin. Concerned, he wrinkles his face. “The entire gown is lopsided. Why are you standing like that?”
“Like what?” It feels like my feet are about to tumble from beneath me.
“Can you walk?” Leo asks.
Considering I’ve never really walked in heels, and these are about five inches higher than I’m used to, I’m not sure. “How far?” I reply.
“Oh, this is going to be fun.” Roberto takes both my hands and leads me around, parading me like a prized pony. I concentrate, trying to look more regal and less like a fumbling newborn giraffe. To the surprise of everyone, me included, I do quite well. That is, until he lets go.
“Argh…” I fall backward, swallowed up by the strong arms of Leo.
Electricity swirls around us, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.
“Should we leave you two alone?” Roberto asks suggestively.
Annoyed, Leo huffs and whirls me to my feet. His hand slides the gown strap off my shoulder. Considering that Roberto and his assistant are standing three feet from us, my eyes unhinge from their sockets. What’s he doing?
Leo pinches the fabric just off the shoulder. “Here.”
Roberto steps forward, nodding in agreement. “Yes, I believe you’re right.”
“I know I am,” Leo says, and makes a small circle around me. “Where’s the zipper?”
Roberto points to the back. “I am adding a small row of loop buttons, which will look absolutely incredible.”
“What if I have to pee?” I ask, predicting the future.
“Hold it,” Roberto answers directly.
My phone rings out Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff, and Leo hands it to me without looking. “Aunt Grace,” he says, all knowing.
I answer. The voice on the other end is loud and hysterical. “Ivy, honey, I need help.”
“Aunt Grace, what is it?”
“Just hurry.”
I’m already tearing at the gown. “I’ll call 9-1-1,” I insist, panicked as Roberto and his assistant rush to get it off.
“No!” she shrieks, ear-piercingly loud. “Just you.”
Leo has my street clothes ready. “Send the gown to the house,” Leo demands.
Roberto nods. “Will do.”
In a whirlwind, I’m dressed and out the door. Leo has us back in his car and speeds off in her direction.
I blurt out, “Aunt Grace lives at—”
“12 Alexander Road, I know.” His cell is ready. “I can get an ambulance. Or a medical chopper.”
I get that I’m nerve-wracked, but why is he? “No,” I say, clutching his hand. “If she needed one, she would have said so.”
I hope.