The Prelude (9 page)

“First, I signed up for design school. This meant I actually had to use intelligence over sex,” Erin begins, using the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard on a female. “And then, my instructors noticed I had a sharp eye for identifying trends. You know what I mean, right? Real. Raw. Talent. Now, this doesn’t include shopping sprees and matching up the designer labels in all my outfits. I’m one of the people who actually sat down and created the design for that acrylic, also known as, fake fur vest you’re wearing.” Erin beams a smile at Nadya and then glances at me. “Men can’t help but to notice someone who does this kind of thing. Right, Alek?”

“
Damn right. I couldn’t help it, anyway,” I add, feeling more turned on by Erin than I’ll ever care to admit. She removes her shawl and exposes the way her dress dips low enough to show off her generous cleavage. I lower my head so neither one of them will catch me laughing.

“In fact, Alek told me that my ambitious nature outside of the bedroom turns him on so much that he can’t wait to get back and fuck my lights out tonight,” Erin says with a smile. I almost choke on my saliva.

“Obviously. Have a nice dinner,” Nadya says in a flat voice and walks off toward a man standing near the bar.

“I cannot believe I just said those shitty things to her,” Erin says, shaking her head and gasping.

“She opened the door wide,” I answer.

“Can we have a subject-change moment, please?” she asks and moves on without questioning me about the waterfall statement Nadya made. I appreciate that she doesn’t question or judge me.
Not yet.
But after about a half hour, she begins to look weary.

“We don’t have to stay. You look tired. I can take you home now,” I offer because I’d already sent Hagar away, and being in the same room as Nadya asks for more trouble.

“We never got to the business part of the conversation. And we don’t have to leave. I’m a pro in handling female drama,” she assures me. I believe her. “So no worries. I can deal with your ex-girlfriends.”

I smirk. “Girlfriends? There has only been one partner for me over the past six months. Nadya and I weren’t like that. You make me feel like a--a...”

“Man whore?” she answers for me.

“Exactly. Erin, if I were one of those, do you think that with you looking as good as you do right now, I’d still be sitting here playing my good guy card?”

“So, you admit to having ulterior motives? I mean, I’m only guessing I’m halfway right since we haven’t mentioned a word about the Mystical line.” She crosses her legs and tilts her head in a way that emphasizes the most beautiful parts of her face, ripping me back to another time with someone who reminds me so much of this woman.

“I like the name Mystical. It fits the style of music we’ll be playing, and the designer who created it.” It’s a pickup line, yes; but it’s also a hell of a lot better than the last one I tried to use on her.

We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment before Erin glances behind me and says, “You know what? I think it might be time to leave. Your ex-girl or partner or whatever keeps throwing mental daggers at me.”

“Mental daggers? I was wondering why I felt something sharp poking at the back of my head.” We share a nervous laugh at my weak attempt to make a joke. “I’ll take you home, since I’ve already sent Hagar away,” I offer, standing so I can help pull out her chair.

“Darn it. I kinda got used to the limo guy,” she teases. “What was all that about anyway? You don’t honestly intend to keep sending a limo out for me, do you?”

“Of course I do. Can’t have my top designer moving around in a taxi, now can I?”

“Alek, that’s really not—” I place two fingers on her lips, silencing her. I don’t give a damn that all eyes are hanging on us, either.

“The decision is final,” I say and ease my hand away from her heart-shaped mouth. She has the kind of face that haunts men in our dreams.

During the ride home, she doesn’t say much. I catch her staring at me a few times when she thinks I’m not paying any attention. She’s trying to figure me out. I can tell.

I had to think of some excuse to go back to her house. Besides wanting to spend as much time with her as possible, I can’t shake the image of the black Sedan out of my head. I haven’t said anything to her about it yet mainly because I don’t know if there’s anything to what I actually saw.  If I continue to send Hagar over to chauffeur her around, then I can keep an eye on her without being too obvious or scaring someone who already has a nervous condition.

At the door leading into her apartment, she turns and glances at me with mysterious dark eyes shadowed by her lashes. I want her to invite me inside. She’s painfully controlled. It doesn't matter. I’m turned on by her even with the ice princess act.

Back in the day, I’d ruthlessly pursue a woman until I got my way. I’m well aware of how women see me: sensually handsome, successful, rich.

How do I normally view most females? I always considered them to be a soft passage, a way to escape the fake ass shit in my life. But this woman intrigues me. Still, I can’t bring myself to come on to her.

What the fuck is wrong with you? This isn’t your style.

I bring my attention back to Erin. She was going on about the fabric she purchased for the outfits our dancers will be wearing. And then she says, “Luca told me about the insane deposit you paid us,” she says, ripping me out of my thoughts.

Her words confuse me. At first, I think she’s telling me the amount on the check isn’t enough. “Are you like related to Bill Gates, or something? I mean, six figures, Alek? Really?”

“Not Bill Gates, no. A man named Sergey Dostovsky,” I mutter. I’d love to have been born into the life of a software mogul, a man who worked for his wealth. Someone who built his empire based on honesty and hard work and not by using methods of terror the way my father has done.

“Am I really worth all of this trouble?” she says quietly and lowers her head.

I step in front of her and lift her chin. “Do not ever doubt yourself, Erin Angelo. Always remember there are no amount of digits to cover your self-worth.” I lean over and plant a soft kiss on her cheek.

The wind caresses the space between us, but even Mother Nature can’t shake the electricity flying between Erin and me at the moment.

“I’ll remember that,” she says and turns toward her door, drifting away from me again. “I should head inside. I’m really tired.” Sighing deeply, I stuff my hands in my pocket. That way I know they’ll behave themselves.

“I understand.” I back away and head toward the steps leading up to her building. I’m frustrated, horny, and feeling just a tad desperate. Before I get too far, I turn around. “Oh, I almost forgot. My mother, the one who’s paying for all of this, wants to speak with you about your plans for your new line. Hagar will pick you up at 4pm tomorrow. I’m assuming you have no plans? Or maybe you attend church the way many Italians do on Sunday?”

She gives me a smug grin and says, “What if I do? Would it even make a difference?”

I consider her answer. “Probably not. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I head toward my car without telling her where she’ll be meeting up with me.

Erin

Alek’s mom owns a vacation house that looks like the mansion of an Italian king. She lives just along the outskirts of Bellaggio. The front of the house overlooks Lake Como.

The evergreens and over-the-top gardens surrounding the place stun me into silence. The stucco on the house has been washed in a yellow stain, giving the exterior an expensive, but happy look. No wonder Alek loves gold so much. I would too if my mom lived in a place like this.

As Hagar eases the car to a stop, I experience an overwhelming sensation of dread. These people are the real deal. The Dostovs have chosen my design house to create the costumes for one of Milan’s hottest opera productions of the year; and it all goes down in five weeks. That’s not a lot of time at all. I’ve been trying to keep my anxiety under control. And by that I mean I’ve been gorging myself on extra large amounts of lime sherbet the past couple of nights.

And don’t even get me started on the Maestro, the man with the to-die for accent and body that touches mine without him even laying a hand on me.

I spent the entire night trying to rid my little head of visions with Alek Dostov. He’s a mystery to me. Really, I don’t understand what he sees in my amateurish designs. With his reputation and money, he could easily have commissioned Prada or Gucci. Instead, he chose me, a little Creole slash English girl from the south. Why? The word won’t go away.

He obviously doesn’t want me to swing with him. Carla has filled me in on many of the numerous adventures she discovered about his life outside the theatre. The man I’ve spent the last few times hanging out with doesn’t match the things I’ve heard. Instead, I’ve only been shown kindness and unbelievable loyalty to Black Butterfly Designs.

If he wanted to get inside my pants, then he would’ve made a move on me last night. But he didn’t. And don’t even get me started on thinking of the time I flashed him the day of the showing. And yet he was a perfect gentleman. Any crappy thing could’ve happened in that situation. But it didn’t.

My theory in this life regarding rumors and hearsay has always been a person is innocent until proven guilty. And you better have some good solid evidence, or I’ll probably just tell you to fuck off.

Alek meets us at the doorway. He wears a black shirt paired with gray slacks and his hair is tamer than it was last night. There just isn’t any use in me trying to deny it. He’s die-on-the-floor gorgeous. “You look amazing in your Gothic dress,” he says and then leans over and kisses my cheek. He has never done this before.

His breath on my face is like a match, sending waves of heat through me in a way that steals away my voice for a short moment. I can’t even think of a witty comeback to his sarcastically sweet statement about my black dress.

It’s a simple thing I designed myself. Basically, I added spaghetti straps to a tube dress covered in tiered layers of silk that move when I walk. As I do with many other designs, I took my inspiration from the flappers of the 20’s. I’m just kind of standing here with my mouth hanging open...again.

“Squeeee!”  A girl’s voice trills through the air. I almost jump through the overhang above us. “You came. I’m so excited to have another person my age here tonight,” Adriana gushes as she rushes over to where I stand, hugging me. There’s no way she can be Alek’s little sister. The siblings are like night and day.

Adriana reminds me more of my friends back home than a girl from another country. If it weren’t for her accent then I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

I allow her to take my hand and lead me inside. I steal a quick glance back at Alek. He shrugs and gives me an innocent face. Inside the house, I go from being consumed by aromas of foxgloves, roses, and evergreens to the smell of some type of seasoned roast.

Two men, a couple, and an older woman with a shocking head of long silvery-blonde hair sit inside the living room. This is the woman who Luca was talking with the entire time I was up on stage at the showing. Dressed in a floor-length gown, she could easily be mistaken as a movie star, or even Rachel Zoe.

“She’s here,” Adriana gushes. “Table’s all set, Mother. I didn’t want you to stress about anything so I took care of everything just before Nikolai arrived.” She’s speaking to the goddess in the silver dress. Of course, this woman would have to be the Katerina Dostov.

“Excellent. I’m certain our star guest is famished,” Katerina says, and glances at Alek who now stands on my left side. 

The younger of the two men stands and heads toward me. He reminds me of Luca with his fair complexion and dirty blonde locks. The only difference is that Luca would never let his hair grow long enough for a ponytail.

There’s a sadness swimming in this man’s eyes, making him appear both youthful and wise at the same time. He reaches for my hand and kisses my knuckles. The graceful way he moves rivals any ballerina I’ve ever seen. This must be Alek’s dance coordinator.

“Nikolai Belikov, Madam Angelo. Pleasure to meet the woman who will be transforming my dancers into Gothic Kings and Queens,” he says, bowing. Right now, I’m wondering which planet I've landed on. Everyone seems so polite and gorgeous and just unreal.

Alek sighs and makes a whispery laugh. “You’re trying too hard, comrade.”

“No worries, Sasha,” Nikolai begins, his gaze locked on me. But a smile spreads across his lips, “I will not steal such a gorgeous creature from you on this eve. Maybe some other time.” He strolls back over to where the others sit. All eyes stare at Alek and me standing there.

I lean my head towards Alek. “Sasha?”

“My nickname. Don’t even think about laughing,” he mutters.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” I say and glance at him, a small chuckle betraying my promise.

We’re staring at each other when the goddess who reminds me of Rachel Zoe stands and glides over to where we stand. “Darling, how rude to let your guest stand here in such obvious discomfort.” She scolds Alek and turns to me. “Erin Angelo. It’s a pleasure to finally have a moment with you.” I catch the tiniest hint of her Texan accent. Turning toward the others sitting in the room, she introduces me to La Scala’s director, Frederico Ponterelli, and his wife just before we head toward the formal dining room.