The Italian's Deal for I Do(31)

The veteran reporter inclined her head with a wry smile.

“Where were you hiding out?” The question came from the center of the room.

“I was in Milan.” She threw a smile at her fiancé. “Where I met Rocco.”

Savanna pointed to another veteran fashion reporter. “Dan.”

“When will we first see Olivia in your campaigns?”

“In the spring,” Rocco answered. “You’ll see her back in New York for Fashion Week next month.”

Savanna nodded at a redhead Olivia didn’t recognize, wearing very fashionable purple glasses. “Tara?”

“How is the House of Mondelli going to move forward without Giovanni’s genius at the helm? Some say Mario won’t be enough to keep things afloat.”

“We have half a dozen spectacular young designers Giovanni trained working with Mario,” Rocco said smoothly. “No company can be content to rest on its laurels. We had always intended these designers to carry the torch forward. Giovanni was seventy after all.”

“Olivia.” A notoriously bigmouthed gossip reporter waved from the front. “How does it feel to land one of the world’s most sought-after bachelors?”

Olivia relaxed back into Rocco’s arm and turned to smile up at him. “Very lucky.”

Eyes glittering with humor, Rocco lifted a hand to cup her jaw. “I am the lucky one to land, as you put it, Olivia.”

“Since you’ve managed to elude us for the past week,” the gossip reporter continued, “how about a kiss?”

Her fiancé let loose a good-natured smile. “I suppose that’s only fair.”

Her heartbeat picked up in a steady thrum as Rocco splayed his fingers wider around her jaw, leaned down and covered her lips with his own. Her lashes fluttered closed as he took her mouth in a thorough kiss that had the camera flashes going off madly like fireworks.

She was just off balance enough when he set her away from him to much applause from the scrum that the next question hit her from left field.

“Olivia. Can you tell us what happened that night at the Lincoln Center? What caused your meltdown?”

She froze, her face suspended midsmile. Frederic, the producer of the show that night at the Lincoln Center, an old personal friend of hers, had swiftly replaced her when she’d faltered and hadn’t been able to take the stage. He’d forbidden any talk of what had happened afterward on pain of his influential wrath. But apparently someone had talked.

How much did they know?

The room started to sway dangerously around her, perspiration sliding down her back in rivulets now. Air got harder to pull in, but she sucked it in desperately, the question echoing over and over in her head. Scenes from that night flashed through her brain—ugly, paralyzing, stomach churning...

“Olivia?” Rocco set a supporting palm to the small of her back. The touch sent words tumbling out of her mouth.

“It was very hot backstage that evening,” she rasped. “I was not feeling well.”

Rocco started proactively detailing some of the key campaign elements they would see from Mondelli in the spring/summer. She managed to plaster a smile on her face as their time ran out and Rocco thanked the media. But it wasn’t over. It was never going to be over.

* * *

Three hours and an excruciatingly boring reception later, Rocco shoved a glass of brandy into the hand of a still blank-faced Olivia in the quiet stillness of their apartment salon, and tried to contain his growing frustration. Neither he nor Savanna had been able to get his fiancée to talk after the press conference, despite their repeated attempts to discover what she was hiding. No one thought it was going to end there, and preempting whatever was to come was the best strategy. Unfortunately, his fiancée wasn’t talking.

Can you tell us what happened that night at the Lincoln Center, Olivia? What made you have a meltdown?

The reporter’s question rang in his head. No doubt Olivia hadn’t been the most reliable model in the final couple of years she’d worked, but she’d never been billed a prima donna. So what had the reporter meant? What had happened that night?

He had a feeling it was the key to everything, the key to Olivia, yet no one was talking, not even Frederic Beaumont, the man who had produced the show that night, deflecting Rocco’s inquiry at tonight’s reception with a lifted brow. “As your fiancée said, it was extremely hot backstage. A lot of the models were struggling.”

Closing ranks. He didn’t believe him for one minute.

He glanced at his mute fiancée, grabbed his own tumbler and paced the room. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”