23. In a Faraway Land of Tuxedos and Realizations #2
“I bet you are.” Aoife wagged her eyebrows suggestively, then tugged at Chiara’s hand when a knock sounded on the door. “Oh, speak of the devil. And a handsome one.”
Vi stood at the entrance to the apartment, clad in a tuxedo.
Frilly lace covered her hands to the knuckle, but there was no sign of a blouse under the jacket.
In fact, there was just a wide expanse of completely naked skin under all that gorgeous velvet carelessly being held together by only one button.
Chiara felt her mouth water as Vi took a few strides into the room in four-inch, red-soled heels. After one look at Chiara’s face, Vi tilted her head.
“You’ve been crying?”
Trust Vi to notice things she wasn’t supposed to.
“No!”
“Yes!”
Aoife and Chiara replied at the same time.
“The two of you need to get your stories straight.” Vi raised an eyebrow, and now Chiara wanted to lap at her like a cat would at a bowl of milk.
Binoche chose that very moment to stroll in, slinking her small body against Vi’s leg, who didn’t even blink at the fur being generously transferred onto the expensive-looking tuxedo.
Chiara opened her mouth to say something, but Vi just smiled at the cat’s antics.
“Nice to see you too, Brioche.”
The cat meowed in obvious protest but didn’t move away, rubbing more diligently at the velvet-clad legs.
And when Vi bent down and gave the already purring Binoche an ear scratch, that old yarn holding together Chiara’s chest slowly tore. A stitch, then another, and the protective shell around her heart gave in some more.
If she’d had the notion she could still stop this, still control this after that night in Vi’s bed, listening to her breathe and whimper in her sleep, then the simple gesture of kindness shown to a finicky feline—who immediately proceeded to bite Vi’s fingers—did irreparable damage to that conviction.
And now Chiara wasn’t at all certain she’d ever be able to mend what Vi had been steadfastly rending without even realizing it.
* * *
To say that Arabella knew how to throw a party was an understatement. A larger-than-life version of the cover, with Chiara’s naked shoulders, lace, and eyes that screamed ‘enigma’ even when displayed at this size, surprised her.
She thought she’d had an idea of the direction Vi was heading for with the photoshoot, yet here she was, charmed and disarmed by the woman holding her hand and her breath, waiting for Chiara’s verdict.
“You’ve got such talent, darling.”
The tangled lashes flickered once and the eyes that had held such anguish closed, a smile that looked both unpracticed and sincere playing on the full mouth.
“She’s fantastic, isn’t she?” Arabella’s voice sounded simultaneously bombastic and intimate, as if she was loudly sharing a secret—one meant only for Chiara, even though she was pretty certain half the venue heard them, since several glasses rose in salute.
“That is why I plucked her out of the obscurity she was languishing in years ago, and made her a Poise house photographer, before unleashing her on the world at large. And now Poise and I have to stand in line like simple peasants for a day of her time.”
Vi actually laughed, the sound even rustier than the smile.
“Right. The ‘peasants’ who booked me with a simple phone call a few nights before, for several weeks of a full-on emergency issue that involved me sleeping maybe two hours a night, working on the images?”
“A few nights before?” With her head clear, Chiara latched on to some of the more nuanced details of this conversation.
Arabella had the decency to look sheepish.
“Chiara, would you fault me for believing in myself? In your ambition? For simply realizing you would not be able to say no to me? So very few ever could, after all.” Her eyes flitted to the middle of the ballroom, where Renate was holding court with some people who looked suspiciously like bankers and investors.
Arabella’s smile blossomed with such honesty and affection, Chiara blinked.
Well, she would deal with that later, as she would deal with her friend keeping personal secrets from her, because while she hadn’t spent any considerable amount of time with her, she still couldn’t remember the last time Renate had cussed Arabella out and cursed the day she’d darkened their doorstep.
Something had clearly given, and it looked like that something was Renate.
With that non-apology apology, the matriarch sailed away in a cloud of perfume and small talk, moving on to some familiar faces, leaving Chiara and Vi alone again.
“I’m glad you like it.” Vi’s voice tickled her ear, and Chiara wanted to shiver, wanted to fan herself, because surely the temperature in the room had jumped by a hundred degrees.
“I do. Very much so.” Chiara leaned into Vi, just slightly, feeling her body heat, and it was enough to make her knees go weak. “But you knew I would. I could feel your eyes on me with every click of the shutter. I felt beautiful. You always make me beautiful.”
She hadn’t realized she had changed the subject.
She wasn’t even sure where the words had come from, but it seemed imperative that she said them.
Because even five years ago these words were the one truth that had kept her sane.
That she was not imagining it. That, under the light of Vi’s eyes, she felt beautiful, special, unique.
She felt like she was Chiara Conti, the one and only, the conqueror of many a catwalk and pretty much all the fashion magazine covers.
The one whose collections were universally acclaimed and whose talent was celebrated, even incognito. She felt… invincible.
“You are beautiful. And unique. To me. To everyone.” Vi’s smile was once again shy, and Chiara had an overwhelming need to touch it, to feel it and so she did, not caring who saw them.
She traced her fingertips gently over the corner of Vi’s mouth before allowing her thumb to linger on the lower lip.
Just for a second, to satisfy this indulgence, to have Vi’s breath on her own skin.
And when she spoke, she simply told the truth.
“I don’t care what I look like to anyone else.”
The gray in Vi’s eyes darkened to black, possessive and hot, and Chiara could sense her heart speed up.
The things Vi could do to her, with just one look, the power this woman had over her…
But this wasn’t the time, nor the place, and now that the shoot and the editing work were done, they had all the time to do as they pleased.
And Chiara wanted to please , very much.
Her breathing grew shallow, and she knew she was getting ahead of herself, realizing that if she let the reins go, she’d be a runaway train within seconds. Chiara inhaled deeply and willed herself to be professional.
“I think I’d like something cold now, darling. Because this is getting out of hand.”
“Oh, but this is where you’re wrong…” The shyness was gone, scorching heat taking its place. “It is very much in hand, or will be. Hand, fingers, mouth, whatever you want.”
“Vi!” Scandalized, Chiara pushed at the velvet shoulder, and Vi lifted her hands in surrender. Her face didn’t look repentant for one second though.
“All right, all right, I’ll go get us some champagne, and then we can continue this conversation.”
Even as Vi turned to leave, Chiara couldn’t resist having the last word.
“There won’t be a lot of talking once we get out of here.” With Vi’s eyes hot and hungry on her once again, Chiara turned and started in the direction of Renate.
The ballroom was well-ventilated, and she didn’t feel warm, but as she made her way towards her former sister-in-law, a flash of something, both familiar and unwanted, especially here and now, instantly made her turn around, her cheeks flaming.
Frankie Lilienfeld could wear the hell out of a suit, yet this one didn’t fit. Too tight, too revealing. The cocky grin did nothing for Chiara either, except maybe make her want to roll her eyes.
“I can’t believe you were invited to my party.” She tried to keep her voice down, but in the noisy room it was difficult and only spurred Frankie to lean too closely into her personal space. Tobacco and whiskey.
Great.
“My companion was.” Frankie waved at some buxom blonde ambling towards them and wiggled her eyebrows.
“Seriously? After all that talk of wanting me back, you are here, flaunting a woman in my face at my own event?” Chiara wanted to laugh.
“Say the word, and I will never see her again. But you won't, because you just can’t let me up off my knees, Chiara.” Frankie’s face contorted into ugliness, all veneer of sophistication gone.
“I see you’ve let Courtenay get back up easily enough.
Or should I say, allowed her to work her way towards atonement on those very knees? ”
“God, you never quite knew when to stop and not lead the conversation straight into the gutter.”
Frankie laughed and tipped the fedora at her as she disappeared into the crowd with the blonde on her arm. Chiara stood still for a second, collecting her thoughts, trying not to focus on the one thing Frankie said that hit her square in the chest and slithered into her psyche.
Let me up from my knees…
Was this what she was doing to Vi? But before she could embark on that train of thought straight to hell, her peripheral vision caught another unwelcome sight.
In yet another silver gown, Gwyneth Courtenay appeared resplendent, even if Chiara hated seeing her.
Charles, at her side in a burgundy tuxedo, looked dignified and distracted, giving the ballroom a thorough appraisal.
Suddenly Chiara knew without a doubt who he was looking for.
And she would not have it. She would not have these people who treated their daughter like dirt—worse than that—ruin this evening for Vi.
“Gwyneth, Charles.” She made her way towards them, all pretense at protocol abandoned.
After what she’d witnessed the other night, she despised these people.
They would not have her respect. And if she hated them just a bit too much than strictly appropriate for people she’d met only once and barely exchanged more than a dozen words with, this was not the time or place to analyze why.
“Ms. Conti.” Charles wrinkled his nose, his displeasure oozing from every pore.
“It’s a surprise seeing you here.” She spoke nothing but the truth.
And what exactly was it that they wanted to go to such lengths to be here?
She had seen the guest list the night before, and they certainly hadn’t been on it.
Granted, several people had large groups indicated alongside their names with no details as to who would join those parties. Cue the reason why Frankie was here.
“Vi invited us to attend this particular personal triumph of hers.”
Charles' attempt at smoothness did not land and skittered on the edges of Chiara’s memories with the effect of sandpaper, rustling a particularly recent one.
“I cut them off. After Paris.”
So Charles was lying. And not even in a skillful or particularly inventive way.
Maybe he didn’t realize that Vi and Chiara were together—the ‘together’ part being something she’d have to ponder at a later date—or perhaps he simply didn’t care what Chiara thought, knowing full well that she wouldn’t risk a scandal at her own party.
The fact that Gwyneth was totally unperturbed and supremely bored with this conversation, paying very little mind to what was happening around her, said as much.
“Well, then I hope you enjoy the party.” The lie slid right off her tongue, and Charles’s gaze returned to roaming the crowd, craning his neck to look past the group of investor types that still surrounded Renate.
Chiara saw the exact moment he found what he was looking for, whom he was looking for—Vi, who was slowly making her way through a throng of guests in their direction—she knew she had to act fast.
There was no way she was allowing Vi to be subjected to the Courtenays’ torment again. One night of anguish was enough.
She pushed through the crowd and managed to beat Charles to her.
Fury and glory warred inside her as she reached Vi first, smoothly turning her around, ensuring that she could not see her approaching father.
Then she simply whispered five words in her ear.
Simple words that would guarantee they’d be leaving the party in a flash, her own personal moment of professional triumph be damned.
Just five syllables that would ensure Vi was spared another vicious encounter with her family.
Five words that would guarantee a long night.
“I want you, right now.”