Chapter 3
Paris, France
With one more perusal of her attire, Cove Galtieri smoothed the bow at her waist and eyed herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
She loved the flouncy asymmetrical hemline of the stormy gray cocktail dress.
Appreciated the swath of material that arched up over one shoulder—leaving the other bare—then draped down her back, tucking beneath the faux belt, and hung almost to the floor as if a train.
The sequined bodice would be too much if the designer hadn’t used a dreamily soft gauzy material as a calming complement.
She might not be walking the catwalk these days, but she had left that world with powerful connections. Hugo Cadieux was more than happy to send her some pieces to wear in public. “Free advertising” he called it.
Fashion was in her blood, her mamma having modeled as well. Fine clothes and shoes were an indulgence that left Cove conflicted, feeling guilty for the extravagance, knowing so many had nothing. Lived on the streets.
The thought brought to mind the man with the intense dark eyes who had collided with her in the square.
His offensive smell and wild look warned her that he was likely a street urchin.
And yet, he had steadied her, been concerned after her safety.
Even though the authorities were chasing him, he wanted to make sure she was okay.
And ensnared her with his deep, dark eyes.
Who was he? What had he done to have the authorities chasing him?
“You always look fresh off the runway.” Izetta Costa glided into the bathroom and gave her an appraising look.
Startled back to the present, Cove eyed her dearest friend in the mirror.
“That was long ago, carissima.” And yet, it felt like yesterday.
The loss of Mamma in that terrible accident had festered into a wound that incited her to leave the fashion world behind.
Devastated at losing the love of his life, Papà had floundered after the funeral, so Cove returned home to help.
A year later, they were both caught up in the rumors of corruption lodged against Papà.
Eyeing Cove’s dress, Izetta clucked her tongue and coiled a tendril of hair around her finger. “I see you managed to find something with a bow…”
Arching an eyebrow, Cove padded barefoot to the closet. “No dress is complete without a bow.” She sat on the tufted bench and slid her feet into the silver strappy heels.
“Do you mean beau?”
Cove groaned at the pun. “You are a hopeless romantic, Izzy. I, on the other hand, am a bit more—”
“Do not act like you aren’t. Especially if it is Mr. Getaway,” Izzy teased as she joined her. “You’ve mentioned his dark eyes more than once since you woke up.”
“Dark eyes, dark heart,” Cove said ruefully. “More trouble than I am interested in, especially considering that man was being pursued by the police.”
“Maybe they saw his eyes too.” Izzy giggled. “Who knew dark eyes were criminal?” Her laugh echoed off the marble floors and vanity.
“Santo cielo,” Cove muttered with a groan. On her feet, she smoothed her dress once more, pleased with the bow, and she would not let anyone make her feel bad about it. Hugo had said it was practically her trademark. Who was she to argue with an expert like him?
She moved deeper into the dressing room and withdrew her clutch from the cabinet, then headed back to her bed, where she sat and switched out her wallet, lipstick, phone…
and the one the man had dropped in the square earlier.
Catching her lower lip between her teeth as she secured the tiny buckle, she could not help but wonder if he might return, looking for this.
It was not like any she had seen before, and while the screen worked, she could not figure out how to unlock it.
“Still can’t get into it?” Izzy asked.
Cove shook her head and stuffed it in her clutch. A tight fit, but she somehow felt better taking it with her than leaving it here in the suite.
Izetta eyed the clutch and Cove. “So, you think he’ll come tonight?”
One can hope. “If you lost your phone, would you not retrace your steps looking for it? Especially an American in Paris…” She hated admitting she had noticed his lack of Parisian accent and the distinctly American tinge to his question.
She glanced at the clock and gasped. “Why did you not tell me the time? Papà will be furious if we are late! Andiamo!”
They hurried into the living room, and she smiled to find Flavio Moretti unfolding from the sofa in the front parlor.
“Ah, at last.” He strode toward her with all the possessiveness of a cat who’d cornered a mouse.
“What are you doing here?” She knew the answer but enjoyed making him second-guess his assumption that she belonged on his arm.
“I am your date for the evening.”
Cove nudged him back and gave him a severe look. “You mean your papà said to wait and escort us down.”
He lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It is the same, no?”
“Not even close,” Cove countered, knowing better than to give Flavio an inch, especially in the dating sense. He had never been quiet about his attraction to her, nor had his dad, Enzo Moretti, her papà’s right-hand man. Both father and son wanted their families united.
That would never happen. Especially if her suspicions about his father were right. So for now, she would trust neither father nor son—one of them was corrupt and had gravely tarnished the Galtieri name, reputation, and businesses around the world.
Music drifted out into the hotel from the Grand Jardin, where there were already a good number of guests mingling.
Clusters of white flowers accented the trellis walls that sectioned off tables and cream-cushioned benches.
A grande allée with hedges, a luxurious carpet of grass, and boxed trees split the path down the middle.
Even the fading light of day could not diminish the lavish gardens, since tree trunks were wrapped in net lights and clever, recessed lights lent to the ambience.
Fragrant magnolias huddled around a circular fountain, whose mist threw into the air the sweet, floral aroma that had a hint of citrus and musk.
Musicians sat in the far corner, adding to the ethereal night.
“It is romantic,” Izetta said with a giddy laugh as she snagged a champagne flute from a waiter making his rounds.
“Elegant,” Cove corrected, knowing that was her intention with all the details she had poured into this little tête-à-tête.
Tonight was about business, a trap she had laid for Papà’s business partners.
Get them all in one place, keep the wine flowing, and surely tongues would wag and secrets would slip free.
Someone here had sparked rumors that Massimo Galtieri was corrupt.
That he dealt in nefarious practices. And she would uncover them.
Having lost Mamma, Cove refused to lose Papà as well. Not to rumors. Not to some purported corruption.
“Look, it is Henri!” Izetta said with a gasp. “Let’s say hello.”
“Go ahead,” Cove said, excusing her friends. “I would say hello to Papà.”
He stood near the fountain with a low-ball glass filled with amber liquid.
The drink was only for appearance and he would never take a sip.
He looked stylish in his brown tweed jacket and rich brown sweater.
The scarf tied and tucked into his brown sweater gave him a debonair presence.
One that—since Mamma’s death, and admittedly, before it—had drawn every woman seeking an easy life with a billionaire nobleman.
Her family may have distant royal ancestry, but it had been a long time since Galtieris had worn crowns or Italians had recognized a monarchy.
His dark hair was swept through with touches of gray at the sides, which only made him appear more distinguished.
Not only was he a handsome man, her papà was a good man.
A very good one. He laughed alongside his longtime investing partner, Claude Didier.
She strode over to the fountain, nodding to guests, greeting aristocrats and royalty alike.
“Ilaria!” Paris It-girl Adelaide de Damas swooped into her path. “Glorious to see you, darling.”
Ilaria. Cove’s middle name and the one she had used for the catwalk. The same name she had shed along with that career. “Adelaide.” She gave the customary double-air-kiss greeting. “You are stunning as always.”
“And you,” Ady drolled, motioning to Cove’s dress with a flourish, her brown eyes alive with admiration. “Fire, carissima!” She flashed both hands as if there were an explosion.
Smile in place, Cove accepted the compliment though she knew having Adelaide call her “dearest friend” was hollow. The woman would drive over Cove’s corpse with her latest import and arm candy in the passenger seat, laughing all the way back to her French chateau.
Adelaide ducked closer. “I see you brought Flavio, hm?” She purred. Literally purred. About Flavio. “Can I have him yet? Are you done toying with his fragile little ego, dear?”
Bristling at the cruel accusation, Cove knew relations were key in this world, especially here while Papà courted business partners. “You know Flavio has one loyalty—to himself.”
When Adelaide let out a trilling laugh, Cove used it to excuse herself. Saw a Monégasque royal heading her way and diverted sharply, not up to any more pandering.
Papà started at having someone suddenly appear at his side but gave a broad smile when their eyes met. “Ah, amore.” His tenor radiated warmth as he hooked an arm around her shoulder while motioning with his drink to the man before him. “Claude, you remember my daughter, Cove.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” Claude, ever smooth and classy, took her hand and kissed it. “You are as beautiful as ever.”
Then Papà pointed to another man with a severe countenance she hadn’t noticed before. “And this is Crown Prince Maaz.”
“Saudi Arabia?” She noted the prince wasn’t wearing a shemagh, so maybe she had that wrong.