Renzo Rialto waved him over, his wife by his side in the front row. Beautiful even in her sixties and perfectly coiffured, Veronique Rialto was the epitome of elegance with her short-cropped silver hair and black cocktail dress. Rocco bent and kissed her on each cheek, wondering what it was like to spend your life in a loveless marriage. He’d always thought if he did marry, it would be just that. But for some reason lately, he thought he’d be better off on his own when Olivia left.
Did Veronique know Rialto didn’t love her? he wondered. That she had been used for her status... Did she care?
Veronique gave his arm a warm squeeze as she pulled back. “You are a magician, Rocco. Mondelli is all anyone can talk about these days. But then again—” she teased with a smile “—your lovely fiancée is doing all the work, it seems. I can’t wait to see her wearing Mario tonight.”
The guilt that had been eating away at him took another large bite of his insides. He needed to find Olivia and make sure she was okay. She’d been her usual mess this morning with the show looming.
He nodded to the couple. “Will you excuse me? I was just on my way to find her.”
He wound his way around the rows of seats back to the tent that held the models and designers. It was filled with the usual preshow frenzied activity, bodies scurrying in all directions.
“Have you seen Olivia?” he asked one of the models.
“Bathroom,” she said, stretching an elegant, slim arm toward the portable toilets. He strode toward them only to walk straight into his fiancée, who was so chalk white in the face his heart rate quadrupled. “Va tutto bene?” he asked her in Italian. Are you all right?
She nodded and started to walk past him. “I’m fine. The show’s about to start.”
“Olivia,” he growled, catching her arm. “What’s wrong?”
“I just puked my guts out,” she rasped, shaking off his hand. “That’s what’s wrong.”
The pounding music increased in volume. She started walking. “I need to go.”
He watched her join the floor director at the front of the tent, her shoulders set back. Savanna stopped beside him. “I didn’t know the reporter from Fashion Report had been given a backstage pass. She was all over Olivia before I got to them.”
Great. He felt his internal temperature grow to dangerous proportions. “We need to watch these things more carefully.”
Savanna nodded. “I know. I’m sorry, Rocco. The publicist should have warned me.”
He took his seat for the show. Fury at that damn reporter who’d been hounding Olivia every waking minute burned through him. Fury at himself for not stopping it all. He might command a multibillion-dollar fashion empire, but he had never felt so helpless in his entire life.
A spotlight bathed the stage in Mondelli blue. Olivia posed motionless beneath it. Camera flashes popped from every direction, adding to her otherworldly appearance. Resplendent in a lime-green evening gown that left her entire back bare, her incredible hair cascading down her back in a curtain of gold, her eyes glittering like blue fire, she almost didn’t seem real. Every curve of her beautiful body he coveted, every dip he ached to possess—but every night he had her, his desire for her only got worse. Because he could not have her truly—not when he was breaking her soul.
He could see it in her eyes as she got closer and trained her gaze on him. The fire in her was a message for him. She was done.
The end of the show came; the interviews happened. When the party started, he didn’t even ask if they were attending, just bundled Olivia in the car and drove to the apartment.
Olivia headed straight for the heated gardens—her place of peace. He followed and found her sitting, staring into the rock pools. “What happened?”
She turned to face him. “Fashion Report is going to run a feature on me next week. They plan to interview several other models who have suffered from anxiety disorders to round the piece out, since I won’t talk.”
He brought his back teeth together. “I’ll get an injunction. I won’t let them run it.”
A resigned expression twisted her face. “You were the one who told me I can’t keep running. Let it go, Rocco. It needs to happen. Then maybe they’ll stop.”
She was right; he knew it. He sat down beside her and rested his elbows on his knees.
“You of all people know the positive effect the dirt on me is having on Mondelli.” Her tone was resolute. “People can’t get enough. The only thing that can stop this for me is you releasing me from my contract. And since I know you won’t do that, there’s no point in having this discussion.”