Page 37 of Valentino

The corner of his mouth lifts. He likes that, a little too much, in the way some men take one harmless sentence as an invitation you never actually gave.

I glance toward the rest of the room. Francesca is gone.

I don't remember her leaving. The bright crowd from the main hall has thinned to almost nothing. The music is muffled, blurred and distant, like it’s fighting its way through water to reach me.

Something cool slides down the back of my neck that has nothing to do with the open window.

I set the flute on the small table beside me. My fingers miss their mark, the glass wobbling before it steadies. The champagne inside sloshes and then settles a beat late, as if my eyes are a half-second behind my hands.

I press my palms flat against the cool leather of the chair arms and push.

“It was lovely to meet you,” I say, the sentence smooth and steady, unsettlingly steady. My voice, still obedient even as the rest of me betrays itself.

I stand, and the room tilts-not all at once, but gradually, the floor lifting on one side like the deck of a boat, the lamps smearing into long gold ribbons. The woman in green stretches sideways and then snaps back into place. My knees buckle, suddenly useless beneath me. I reach for the chair I just left and miss it by a full hand. A small, embarrassed sound slips out of me. The kind you make when you trip on a flat sidewalk and hope no one noticed.

I’m going down. I feel the slow give in every muscle that’s supposed to keep me upright, and what hits me first isn’t fear. It’s embarrassment. Francesca, the buyers. All of them watching me sink to the floor on the biggest night of my career and deciding I can’t handle my champagne.

A hand closes around my arm, catching me under the elbow and at the waist, hauling me back onto my feet before I've finished falling.

"Easy," a voice says low near my ear.

For half a heartbeat I think it's him. I think it's Valentino, that he found me, and relief floods my foggy mind so hard, I nearly cry.

Then I turn my head slowly, fighting the weight of it, and the face above me isn't his.

It's Aldo.

He's smiling down at me with all that easy, practiced warmth, and his eyes are doing something beneath the smile that I can't decipher because the room won't hold still long enough for me to read it.

"Too much champagne, I think. Let me help you. You need air," he murmurs.

"No," I say. Or I try to. My tongue is heavy, and it comes out more like a breath than a word.

"Come," Aldo says gently. "There's a balcony just down the hall. It’s quiet there. You'll feel better."

His hand settles against my spine, and my feet fall into step under its pressure, moving without my permission.

Valentino

“Was there a woman in here?” It’s a ridiculous question considering this is the ladies’ room, but I don't care about looking ridiculous right now. The woman at the vanity doesn't even look up from her phone.

"A blonde in a pink dress," I say again, slower this time. "Tall. She came in here a few minutes ago."

"She left." The woman lifts a tube of lipstick, twists it open, and leans toward the mirror. "Maybe five minutes."

"Grazie," I say, and I'm already turning, already moving back out into the noise.

I pull my phone out and call her.

It rings once, twice, three times, buzzing against my ear while my eyes sweep the room in a slow, methodical pass. No pink. No platinum hair.

Voicemail.

I hang up and call again. My jaw is tight enough to crack a tooth.

This was supposed to be simple. Stay to the side. Scan for the faces we flagged. Track who they speak to and where they move. Observe only. Nothing else.

I came here to blend in, stay out of the way, watch the room, keep my hands to myself. The only complication had been driving Amanda here in that dress with no back.