Chapter Two – Grazia
“Miss Fabiola, may I speak with you?”
The low tone sends shivers down my spine. For the first time in my life, I can understand the simile: like silk over gravel. It’s soft, sensuous, yet with a rumble that is utterly masculine.
Gulping at how attracted I am to the voice, I turn around and see a man I noticed watching me earlier. He’s tall and rangy, but with a strength that I know was forged on a school athletic field. In fact, with his dark wavy hair, sun-bronzed face complete with strong jaw, and nose that was probably been broken during some game, he’s the epitome of the football players I’ve always crushed over but who have never, ever noticed me.
I was a late bloomer—at least, that was what my Nonna used to say when I came home in tears at not having a boyfriend or angry that not a single one of my crushes liked me back. Seeing a man who appeals to both the young and older versions of me brings me back to the days when Nonna was still alive, and for that reason alone, I smile at him rather than casting a stern frown his way.
Clients and guests sometimes think I’m free game. Like because I’m there organizing their party, I should reorganize them between the sheets.
The guy holds out a hand. “I’m Levitt. Marshall Levitt.”
I’d have to be a moron not to recognize the city’s latest hot commodity. And I’m not an idiot. He’s been in a couple of business magazines I subscribe to, and I’ve read the articles about his past. My supposition that he has the look of a football player is reinforced by a tidbit remember reading in one of those editorials. Not that much was mentioned about his past. I noticed that. When a question was geared towards his history, about the times that made him the man he is today, he managed to twist it around so that the only information his answer revealed was about current affairs and events.
All told, I can’t deny that I admired his sneakiness.
As well as him in a suit.
Business journals don’t exactly have pinups on their covers all that often; they struck it rich the day they managed to get Levitt on their books, that’s for damn sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if women all over the planet, even those who didn’t give a damn about the business world’s movers and shakers, picked up copies just to drool over this guy.
Holding out my hand in return, I’m jerked out of my reverie when he doesn’t shake it, but cups my fingers, turns my wrist and then raises it to his mouth. The instant his lips brush against the tender skin of my knuckles, a shiver runs down my spine. It’s the tickle of his soft mouth combined with the unexpectedness of the chivalrous and definitely outré move.
I stare down at the top of his dark head and gulp. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marshall.” I prefer not to stand on ceremony if I can help it, and in this case, I figure he’s definitely taken us down the rabbit hole with a greeting that belongs in a Cary Grant movie.
If those are his moves, then that doubles his attraction.
I’ve always been the sort of girl who prefers gentlemen to bad boys.
“The pleasure’s all mine.”
“You can call me Grazia. If you’d like,” I add on quickly. As far as I’m aware, there’s no reason for a man of Levitt’s caliber to need to speak to me unless it’s about business. And even then, I can’t imagine how I can be of help to him.
I’m small fry. My business is good, solid, and I work with some of the city’s elite, but he’s corporate. From the tips of his hand-tooled leather shoes to the top of his three-hundred-dollar haircut.
“I’d like,” he replies simply, and his smile about robs me of all air. His left front tooth is curved in just a tad, saving his mouth from the perfection that could describe the rest of him.
I can feel myself gawking at him, staring at him in a shameful cloud of awe, as I’m left wondering what it would be like to feel those soft lips not just against my knuckles but against my mouth. To feel the pressure there, to taste him…
The thought jerks me back to life and I tug my hand from his and try to shove on a professional smile. Whether I succeed or not is anyone’s guess. This man has thrown me for a loop, and that rarely happens.
I could be pissed off about starting off in a position of weakness, but screw it. It’s been so long since I’ve been attracted to anyone that I’m almost relieved to feel my ovaries kick-starting into action.
All work and no play has made Grazia a very dull girl.
More than that, it’s made her a very horny one.
“How can I help?” I ask, polite as can be as I try to get the situation back under control. Somehow that feels like an impossibility—controlled is not the way I’d describe myself at the moment. Flustered, definitely. In charge, nope.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and does this odd shrug that has his hips jerking forward a little; maybe my mind’s in the gutter, or maybe it’s true, but I’m sure the move was made to make me look at his crotch.
And damn, it worked.
But even though I have my suspicions, when I look up at him, he appears neither interested or disinterested, amused or arrogantly aware that my gaze was most definitely fastened on that most masculine of his very luscious parts. Hell, I know my imagination is wild when a man shrugs and I immediately think he’s posturing to impress me.
“Help…” He almost breathes the word, and his tone has me thinking of starlit nights and the moon’s rays pooling in a circle where the pair of us stand and I help divest him of his clothes. I’m close to shuddering when he continues, “I’ve seen you at several events now, and—”
“You have?” I butt in, surprised that a man of his stature has bypassed my attention. I’m the one, after all, who handles the majority of the invitations, and it’s my job to know who’s who at any party I’m organizing.
He waves a hand at my surprise. “The perks of my position. An invitation isn’t always a requirement to open doors.”
On anyone else, the arrogant assertion would have pissed me right off. Instead, I know it to be the truth. He’s top dog in a city of top dogs… there’s no avoiding that reality. It is how it is, and ignoring it would be idiotic.
I just wish I’d known. It would do my reputation good to have it known I’ve handled events for the most elite of the city’s elite.
“Are you interested in my services?”
The instant the words pop out, I wish I could recall them. His grin is wicked, and it sends thrills of excitement shooting through me. Why? Because there’s something honest about his attraction to me. And I like it.
I don’t like games. I never have. I’ll run if there’s a whiff of having to play hard to get with any man. But here, I can tell that whatever he wants from me, he’ll be up front about it. Well, when he’s not teasing me.
“Oh, I’m definitely interested in your services.” His eyes flare wide. “I’m just not wholly certain what the full range of those services is.”
It’s my turn to grin. I purse my lips before it gets too wide though. He’s essentially doing what I just complained about—thinking that because I’m on the staff, I do anything, but I can tell there’s nothing sly going on here. His approach is open; we’re standing in the dining room where a dozen other people are talking and socializing, for God’s sake. There’s nothing underhand about this.
“I have a website,” I mock. “GraziaFabiola.com. Everything I do is itemized on there. You can also find my contact details on the site. If my… services… appeal to you, then you’ll know where to get in touch with me.”
“But I do prefer the personal touch, don’t you?” He moves closer, and rather than back off as I ought to, I angle into him, inadvertently making our positioning all that more intimate.
Is it wrong that being more intimate with this man is the only thing on my mind?
“Everything is very impersonal nowadays, isn’t it?” I concur, even though I know this is totally unprofessional and I should back off.
Wondering what he’ll say by way of response, I’m consumed with disappointment when Deirdre, the hostess and my client, bustles up behind me and hisses, “Zia, where’s Charles?”
Jerked from the intimacy of our conversation, I turn to her with a professional smile. “Probably where he always is, Deirdre.”
She glowers at me, but the malice isn’t aimed my way but at her unsuspecting husband. “Why do we have these parties if he’s going to spend half his time in the den?” she grumbles mostly to herself.
I can understand why she’s pissed. I’ve handled over half a dozen events for her, and each and every time, Charles has slunk off to desk, leaving Deidre to work the room.
I’d be pissed too, if I were her.
“I’ll go and get him,” I tell her easily, then turn back to Levitt and feel disappointment flood me when I realize he’s no longer there…
In fact, even two weeks on, I can still feel disappointment that our conversation was so rudely interrupted. The way he approached me could have meant one of two things; he was coming on to me, or he really needed my help with an event.
If my female intuition isn’t totally rusty, then I’d say he was coming onto me. At least, I hope he was.
It’s been a while since my bed saw any action, and with a man like Levitt between the sheets, I have no doubt ‘action’ would be an understatement.
Shuddering at the thought, I take my shearing scissors and cut through the bolt of fabric in even strides. The sound of the cloth giving way is like music to my ears. When the piece is separate from the bolt, I lay it out on my work surface in front of me.
My loft is split into three sections. The tiniest part is where I live. Even though the space is huge, I’ve made that part a studio. I sleep and eat, chill out and wash in one fifth of the available space. The other four-fifths belong to my events office—where Jessie also has a desk—and then my design studio.
The latter part is my favorite. It’s here where I come up with my creations and do what I do best: fashion design.
On the back wall, there are huge bolts of fabric in all different shades of brown and blue—they’re the colors I’m working with at the moment. Then there’s a work desk with a sewing machine, and another where I cut out the different patterns requisite to each design. I have another surface laden with different pots and boxes of buttons and decorations—everything from rhinestones to sequins. The rest of the room is dedicated to closets, each drowning with threads in hundreds of different colors as well as other bits and pieces that I sometimes need at a moment’s notice.
Everything I do in here, I do alone. Not only is that how I prefer it, it’s also the only way to keep this affordable.
As it stands, I have two regular clients, both small clothing stores that stock my designs on a piece-by-piece basis. Because they’re high-end and my designs have proven popular, I don’t make a total loss on what I create. One of the best money earners, though, is when the stores send clients my way and I get to create bespoke outfits for everyone that walks through my door.
About 45% of my business involves bespoke designs, and that’s what I’m working on at the moment. A dress for a client whose birthday party is coming up. I’ve been running behind on this piece, which is why I’m cutting out the pattern now rather than sleeping.
The auction tonight was tiring, and I won’t deny that I’m exhausted. On the way home, bed was calling me, but after the crew cleared out the minivan and stocked it with some of what we’ll be needing for tomorrow’s event, I woke up. By getting this pattern cut out now, I can get started on some of the detailing in the morning, and I won’t feel as useless as I usually do if I’ve been too busy to spend any time in my design studio.
This, here, is where I’m at home. Where I’m at peace.
If I could give up the organizing, I totally would. But though I’m busy, it’s all relative. I have less time to dedicate to my craft, and therefore I’m always on the go. If this was my full-time job, I’d have a lot of time on my hands.
Although I guess I’d be able to supply my two indie shops with more items…
Wrinkling my nose at the thought, because it’s more tempting than I’d like, I smooth my hand over the silk cutouts. It’s a beautiful bolt of Dupioni silk in a color that’s close to lapis lazuli. The design includes tiny detailed beading with the same stone, and I know that part is going to be a bitch. Fiddly work always eats up time, and time is a commodity I don’t have much of.
I should be more careful with my designs, but they talk to me and there’s no way I’m going to undercut them and make them ‘lesser’ simply because I don’t have enough hours in a day. It would shame me to finish a piece that fell short of its potential.
As I line up the pieces for tomorrow, the phone rings. Reaching for it, I spot Jessie’s number. “What do you want, brat? I thought you’d be snoring away by now.”
Truth is, Jessie’s more of a friend than simply an employee, so I tend to talk to her like the former rather than the latter. I’ve gotten used to her ways, and doing without her would suck. In both my personal life and my work.
“He has mistresses.”
I blink at that greeting. “Huh? Who does?”
“That Levitt guy.”
“What?” I blurt out, stunned by both the information as well as the fact she’s been cyber-stalking our potential new client. “What are you doing looking him up?”
Jessie’s snort is far more adult than her usual immature self would allow. “Guess.” I can almost see her rolling her eyes at me. “I wanted to know more about him, duh. The guy undressed you so many times tonight it’s a wonder he didn’t have you stripping and dancing around a pole.”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Shut up.”
“No, I won’t! You shouldn’t mess with this guy, Zia. Honestly, he’s like a man-eater. Or in this case, a woman-eater.”
“He wants to meet on business,” I try to soothe, touched despite myself at her concern. “I can’t turn his kind of work down, Jessie. You know that.” I could, actually. We’re busy enough, but I’m curious. I want to know what he wants, and if that includes me, then I might surprise myself by not turning him down…
“Well, at least let me come with you.”
“I can’t. I checked the schedule. I need you to go to the bakery with the Morrises.”
She groans. “They still haven’t decided on their wedding cake?”
“No. And time’s ticking away.” I sigh. “I’m a big girl, Jessie. I’ll be fine. But thank you for caring.”
“You need to be careful, Zia. I just looked up his name and ‘girlfriend’ and all this stuff hit me. I mean, some of the articles used the word ‘partner’, but a lot of the columns just came right out with ‘mistress’! It’s like the Dark Ages or something.”
Amused at her disgust, I tut in sympathy. “You’re right. It’s terrible.”
“It really is,” she continues, her tone so earnest my heart melts. “I don’t want you ending up as one of them.”
Hell, if it meant ending up in the man’s bed, I’m not too certain I’d back away from the idea. Then, chuckling because I’m hardly mistress material, I tell Jessie, “He’s got the whole city at his fingertips. Why would he come after me?”
“Duh, because you’re beautiful.” She grunts. “I swear to God, I need to buy you a new mirror. Plus, you have that whole unapproachable thing going on. Men dig that shit.”
They do? I blink at that, because it’s the first I’ve heard of it. All that being unapproachable has gotten me is never being approached by a guy. Hardly useful when my right hand and my BOB are both close to worn out from all the workouts they’ve been getting of late.
“I’m sure you’re wrong. A man of his status wouldn’t ask me to meet him in his office, Jessie, not if he wanted to ask me out on a date.” Shit; that’s the truth. Christ, there go my hopes.
Silence falls on the other end of the line as Jessie realizes the unfortunate truth behind my words. “You’re right. He wouldn’t, would he?”
“No. Not unless he wanted to open himself up to a lawsuit.” Dammit.
A relieved sigh gusts into my ear. “I was so worried. You didn’t see how he was looking at you, Zia.”
I made sure I didn’t. The last thing I needed was to be distracted all night.
It was hard enough not primping and fussing over my appearance when I had work to do, but actively avoiding looking his way was close to impossible. Thankfully, I was very busy, and the work kept me on the straight and narrow.
The last thing I needed was to be looking at him with calf eyes. Somehow I doubt I’d have been as appealing if I was staring after him like a love-struck teenager.
“Thank you for caring, sweetheart,” I tell her warmly, meaning every word of it. I know we’re friends, but I didn’t realize she’d do something like this for me.
There’s a shrug in her voice. “You’d do the same for me.”
“You’re right, I would.” And on that note, I pounce. “When are you going to stop beating around the bush with Dave? At least with him, we don’t need to Google him.”
She pshaws. “We’re talking about your love life. Not mine.”
What love life, I feel like asking, but instead I huff, “Yours is as dire as mine. Dave has no idea you have a crush on him.”
There’s silence, and then a wail hits me. “I know!”
“Want me to drop some hints?” I ask around a chuckle.
“No.” I know she’s pouting. “Maybe.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Zia,” she replies, then sighs. “You sure you’re going to be okay at that meeting?”
“I have two choices.”
“Well, I’m here if you need me. And if that guy even mentions any word associated with the bedroom, get ready to sue his ass.”
Snorting, I just say, “Night, Jessie.”
She grumbles off a farewell of her own and then cuts the call. Shaking my head at her, I tidy up in the studio, then wander over to the other side where the door is. Turning off the light, I yawn on my way to the bedroom.
That room has seen decidedly little action over the past year, and I know the thought has only cropped up because I would very much like Marshall Levitt to be the one who changes all that.
I know it’s stupid. I know he’s way out of my league. Even if he’s the one who instigated the flirting, men do all kinds of weird shit for even weirder reasons—maybe, despite his wealth, he’s a tight bastard and thinks flirting with me will make me cut my rate… Stranger shit has happened.
But even though I caution myself as I climb into bed, it’s too late for that.
Though Jessie would be disgusted, if Levitt decides he’d like to do more with me than just eat me up with his eyes, I highly doubt I’ll say no. Christ, I’m looking forward to being made a meal of.