The Italian's Deal for I Do(44)

She focused on the long, light-encrusted runway rather than the crowd, sitting dozens of rows deep. The glare of the lights hit her as she walked onto the catwalk. She’d forgotten how hot they were, how long that thirty-six feet seemed when you were like a star in the sky...when all the attention was focused on you. The loud, pulsing beat of the music propelled her forward. Her walk wasn’t her trademark cocky swagger, but it was steady and purposeful into the blinding light. She made it to the end of the runway, paused, stuck her hand into her hip and let the camera flashes reign down on her. Showed the dress off to its full advantage. The applause was deafening, but she blocked it out.

Just walking down a runway. That was all she was doing.

The three changes that came after, the brilliant showing that Mondelli and its new designers put in that night, it was all a blur. It wasn’t until she did the final walk down the runway with the designers that she realized how weak her knees were. How close to collapsing she was. She shifted her weight, stood back, clapped for the designers and told herself to hold on for sixty more seconds.

After several standing ovations, they led the designers off the stage, Olivia willing herself through the curtain.

* * *

Rocco congratulated the designers as they came off the runway. The auditorium was abuzz, the evening triumphant, returning a resounding yes to the question many had posed as to whether Mondelli could survive without Giovanni. But his attention wasn’t on the buzz; his eyes were locked on the curtain for Olivia.

She appeared, the rest of the models spilling through after her. The way her body slumped the minute she was through sent alarm slicing through him. She blinked to adjust to the light after the glare of the catwalk and scanned the wings. Searching for something. Someone.

A wave of protectiveness flashed through him. A smile curved his lips, his heart throbbing at her bravery. He was so proud of her, so damn proud.

Guillermo Villanueva stepped in front of him. He held his arms out to Olivia, and when she walked toward him, Rocco’s heart stopped in his chest. Her name sprang to his lips, but he savagely stuffed it back in. His body tightened as he braced himself to watch Olivia walk into her former lover’s arms. Then he realized she wasn’t looking at Villanueva, she was looking past him. At him. Their gazes collided, the way Olivia’s face fell apart as they did destroying something inside of him.

Villanueva turned around, focused on Rocco. A grimace twisted his lips as his arms fell to his sides. Rocco ignored him and moved toward Olivia. Her last shaky steps carried her into his arms. Her delicate floral scent enveloped him as he folded her against his chest.

“Sei stata magnifica,” he murmured. “You were magnificent.”

She stayed buried in his embrace for a long time. He was partially holding her up, but as the moments passed he felt the strength move back into her. When she finally pushed her palms against his chest and moved back, a tremulous smile curved her lips. “Just a walk down a runway,” she whispered. “That’s all it was.”

He smiled. “That’s all it was.”

There were interviews to do, a reception to attend. Dinner he’d promised her mother. Olivia did the interviews with remarkable composure, following Savanna’s instructions to gloss over any questions about missing her cue and put it down to backstage madness.

The desire not to leave her side, to anchor her, was unlike anything Rocco had ever felt before. It evoked a restless, uncomfortable feeling inside of him. As if for the first time in his life he had no idea what he was doing.

He smothered it, moved it aside. It had no place here. Not now.

Everyone at the reception, it seemed, wanted a piece of the return of Olivia Fitzgerald. And why wouldn’t they? She was spectacular in the midnight blue gown that hugged every curve of her body and made her eyes glitter like the ocean on a particularly haunting night. Her hair plunged down her back in a swath of golden silk. But most powerful was the current that ran between them as he played guard dog and spirited Olivia through the necessary rounds. It stretched like a live force between them, cementing something both of them had known for weeks.

There was no escaping this.

They spent some time talking to Tatum Fitzgerald, whom Rocco found to be vain and narcissistic. So unlike Olivia it was almost impossible to believe they came from the same blood, except for their clearly matching outward genetics. He got them out of dinner with a promise to do so in Italy as Olivia’s eyes begged for a reprieve. And then they were in the car being whisked through the warm Manhattan night.





CHAPTER TEN

THE APARTMENT WAS SILENT, bathed in the glow of the ever-present light of New York. After the pounding, pulsing rhythm of the night that had preceded it, the utter silence was like slamming on the brakes of his Aventador after he’d put the pedal to the floor. Full stop, jarring awareness. Of everything.