The Italian's Deal for I Do(42)
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Olivia tried to ignore the seismic shift that seemed to have occurred in her and Rocco’s relationship as they walked the short distance to the Lincoln Center. It had been there ever since that kiss during the photo shoot. Ever since he’d told her he believed her about her and Giovanni’s relationship. He may have been avoiding her even more the past couple of weeks, but he was different with her. His respect for her showed. He’d stopped treating her like a high-priced show horse he’d purchased, his to bend to his will.
Rocco came backstage with her to greet the designers and models. Frederic, who was producing the show, gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Put that face away,” he scolded. “You are going to shine tonight. They can’t wait to see you.”
That made her stomach squeeze into an even tighter ball.
“By the way,” Frederic said quietly as models and crew members flowed past them, “Guillermo is shooting backstage tonight.”
“Oh.” She caught her lip between her teeth and considered that. She hadn’t seen Guillermo since the night she had walked out on him, her own heart broken in two. “Thanks for the heads-up,” she said huskily. “How is he?”
“Fine. Single. Here any minute.” He gave her an affectionate push toward the makeup room. “They’re ready for you.”
She was made up, desperately trying to distract herself from the way the mood had shifted backstage from one of industrious, purposeful action to an electric, anticipatory tension that sizzled in her veins, when a familiar voice rang out. She turned around and saw her designer-clad mother making her way toward her with Rocco in tow. Great.
She rose and gave her an awkward hug. “I thought we were going to meet at the reception afterward?”
“And wait to meet your delicious fiancé?” Her mother wrinkled her nose. “You’re on the runway again, sweetie. It’s so fabulous. I wanted to come and wish you good luck.”
“That’s very sweet of you. But would you mind giving me some space before the show?”
Her mother peered at her. “Are you okay, hon? You look nervous.”
She was nervous. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to put her clothes back on, run out of here and never come back.
Rocco curved a hand around her mother’s shoulder. “Why don’t I show you to the seat beside mine and we can all catch up after the show?”
Her mother beamed. “That sounds wonderful.”
Olivia almost loved him in that moment. Almost.
Tanya, one of the designers, appeared with her first outfit, an ultrachic emerald-green cocktail dress. Olivia shrugged out of her robe and slid it over her head, every movement mechanical, born of years of practice. Tanya fussed around her for a few minutes, making sure the dress fell perfectly, then pronounced her ready.
She walked out into the wings, joining the other models clustered there, her pounding heart a raging contrast to the ice in her limbs. You can do this, she told herself. You can.
“Livvie.” Guillermo materialized in front of her, two cameras slung around his neck. He was as dark and devilishly handsome as ever, his swarthy skin a perfect foil for his amazing green eyes. He drank her in, gaze full of affection. “You look incredible.”
“Gui.” She stepped forward and pressed a kiss to both his cheeks. “It’s so good to see you. How have you been?”
His smile was wry. “Since I’ve recovered from your heart smashing and disappearance? I was worried about you, Liv. You could at least have let me know you were okay.”
She bit her lip. “I thought maybe a clean break was better for us.”
A flicker of something she knew she had put there glimmered in his eyes. “Maybe so.” He frowned. “Do you think we could talk afterward? I know you’re engaged to Mondelli, it’s not that. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Her teeth sank deeper into her lip. She was starting to realize what it was like to be hopelessly besotted with someone and not have those feelings returned. “Gui...”
A flash of platinum blond flew past her. She turned and stared at the model joining the line, her wildly excited expression marking her new in the business. Something contracted deep inside of Olivia at the sight of the young girl’s pert nose and ridiculously high cheekbones.
Petra. But Petra was dead...
The bottle of water she held slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
Guillermo picked it up. “It’s Natasha,” he murmured quietly. “Petra’s sister.”
The image of Petra’s vibrant young sister, an almost identical younger version of her friend, giggling with the other models, collided with Olivia’s last memory of her best friend. Petra had been lying prone across her living room sofa, her face chalk white, her expressive eyes vacant. Olivia’s fingers had stumbled over the keys of her phone, desperately dialing 9-1-1. But it had been too late.