Page 78 of Marry Me Not
He’d shown me a dress, and it was love at first sight. It made me feel like a fairy. The tailoring was elegant—a figure-hugging silhouette with a structured sweetheart bodice and thin straps. But what made the dress unique was the embellishment. Thousands of rhinestones, each one slightly different in shape and size, had been bonded by hand onto a sheer champagne mesh until the whole gown looked dusted in diamonds. Anthony said the application was experimental, a new technique that allowed the stones to appear almost suspended over the skin.
When Cosimo saw me in it, I could tell he was pleased.
“You clean up well, Nettle,”he’d said. I’d almost asked him if it was modest enough for him before I remembered it was better not to play with fire.
“Is my lipstick okay?” I asked, turning my face toward Cosimo just before we stepped onto the carpet.
His eyes swept over my lips and lingered for a beat. “Perfect.”
I peered down the red carpet toward the entrance and tried to ignore the way one look from him was enough to make warmth rush beneath my skin.
“Nervous?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t. There were hundreds of photographers lined up and ready to go. Instead of a few hundred wedding guests, these photos would be seen by tens of thousands. They’d be printed in magazines and posted all over the internet, and yet I didn’t feel even a tickle of anxiety.
I had a suspicion it was because of the man standing next to me. My husband was a dangerous man, and yet being on his arm made me feel safe.Riddle me that.
“Let’s do this,” I said.
Cosimo’s arm was wrapped around my waist, a possessive hand resting on my hip as we posed for the first photographer.
“Beautiful!” the man shouted. The flash went off, bright and blinding.
He lowered the camera and frowned at the screen. Two other photographers beside him leaned in.
They snickered.
The back of my neck prickled. “What is it?” I muttered.
“I don’t know.” Cosimo glanced down at me and then back at the photographers.
The same one who’d taken the first picture lifted his camera again and snapped another shot.
Cosimo’s fingers dug into my hipbone. “Fuck.”
“What?” My pulse kicked up. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it around my shoulders, then he locked his hand around mine and pulled me toward the photographers.
“Get rid of them,” he said to the man who’d taken the photos.
The photographer’s mouth curled. “No way. This will sell for a good amount to the rags.”
“I said get rid of them.” Cosimo’s voice dropped. “Now.”
I stared between them, bewildered. What the hell was going on?
The photographer’s smug expression wavered. He swallowed while his two buddies exchanged nervous looks. One leaned in closer, and I could’ve sworn I heard him whisper the name Ferraro into the photographer’s ear.
His smirk disappeared. He looked down at the camera, pressed a few buttons, and turned the screen toward Cosimo.
“Deleted.”
“The memory card too.”
“What?”
Cosimo’s voice went flat. “Give me the card.”
