be.
Perfect.
A quick detour into the ladies’. Kill a couple of minutes so that one or two elevators could arrive, get into one, take it to the lobby, get into a cab and phone Alene while she headed downtown. Sorry, she’d say, but I came down with a headache.
It wasn’t a foolproof plan—Alene would be ticked off—but it would have to do.
The restroom attendant was watching her.
Cheyenne went to one of the marble vanities. Opened her little purse. Took out her lip gloss and ran it over her mouth.
And checked her watch.
Surely, two or three minutes had passed.
She capped the gloss, put it away, fumbled a ten-dollar bill from her purse and dropped it into the glass bowl on the vanity. Then she looked in the mirror, made sure she looked cool and collected—amazing, what years of working before a camera could do—and went to the door.
Good. Excellent. Nobody was waiting for the elevators.
She pasted a professional smile to her lips. Walked out of the restroom. Closed the door behind her…
Just as the door to the men’s room opened.
And Luca Bellini stepped into the corridor.
CHAPTER FIVE
L uca recovered first.
“Cheyenne,” he said politely.
“Luca.”
She was polite, too, but he could see her struggling to stay that way. Good, he thought coldly. She had every right to be uncomfortable.
What she had no right to be was so incredibly beautiful.
There were scores of women here tonight. They were all impeccably groomed, coifed and gowned.
He’d brought women he’d been involved with to functions like this. He had a general idea of what it took for a woman to make an appearance at a glittery charity event.
Paying the bills, grazie a Dio , did not involve knowing all the details, but he knew enough to be aware that those details included hair appointments, nail appointments and time spent with makeup artists, and that all those things followed hours spent choosing the most elaborate gowns and shoes and everything else that would never mean a damn to a man, but would be vital to a woman.
Unless everything about Cheyenne was an artful illusion, he doubted that she’d put in more than a few minutes getting ready for tonight.
It wasn’t that she didn’t look beautiful.
She did.
Her hair was loose and flowing, drawn back on one side by some kind of clip.
Her face glowed, the skin almost a dusty gold, her mouth a sexy red, her lashes dark and long.
Her gown was blue, half a dozen shades of blue. The neckline left most of her shoulders bare.
Kissably bare.
The fabric looked silky; just looking at it made him want to feel its texture between his fingers.
It skimmed her body. Breasts. Waist. Hips. Thighs. It hung in a way that was demure even as it hinted at what lay beneath: breasts he had yet to taste, though he knew they would be sweet on his tongue; hips seemingly made for his hands to grasp; that hot delta between her firm thighs.
The gown was artfully slit from hem to thigh. Each time she moved, he caught a glimpse of tanned flesh.
His body went rigid.
He was on the verge of a monumental erection, the kind he hadn’t had in public since he’d learn to control his body’s needs at the age of sixteen.
The possibility of making a fool of himself was bad enough. Even worse was the realization that it was she who would make a fool of him, just as she had done before.
No, he thought coldly. That was not going to happen.
“What a surprise.”
“Yes,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing.”
He almost laughed. Her eyes were like pools of ice, her tone glacial, but she was smiling as politely as he.
And no wonder, he thought, as he caught the glow of a flashbulb from the corner of his eye. They were on display, a pair of actors trapped in a bad play, and she wouldn’t want ugly publicity anymore than he would.
“Yes,” he said, “isn’t it? When Alene told me you were here, I was…dumbstruck.”
“Such a nice, old-fashioned word. Dumbstruck.”
“Ah. She told you,
Perfect.
A quick detour into the ladies’. Kill a couple of minutes so that one or two elevators could arrive, get into one, take it to the lobby, get into a cab and phone Alene while she headed downtown. Sorry, she’d say, but I came down with a headache.
It wasn’t a foolproof plan—Alene would be ticked off—but it would have to do.
The restroom attendant was watching her.
Cheyenne went to one of the marble vanities. Opened her little purse. Took out her lip gloss and ran it over her mouth.
And checked her watch.
Surely, two or three minutes had passed.
She capped the gloss, put it away, fumbled a ten-dollar bill from her purse and dropped it into the glass bowl on the vanity. Then she looked in the mirror, made sure she looked cool and collected—amazing, what years of working before a camera could do—and went to the door.
Good. Excellent. Nobody was waiting for the elevators.
She pasted a professional smile to her lips. Walked out of the restroom. Closed the door behind her…
Just as the door to the men’s room opened.
And Luca Bellini stepped into the corridor.
CHAPTER FIVE
L uca recovered first.
“Cheyenne,” he said politely.
“Luca.”
She was polite, too, but he could see her struggling to stay that way. Good, he thought coldly. She had every right to be uncomfortable.
What she had no right to be was so incredibly beautiful.
There were scores of women here tonight. They were all impeccably groomed, coifed and gowned.
He’d brought women he’d been involved with to functions like this. He had a general idea of what it took for a woman to make an appearance at a glittery charity event.
Paying the bills, grazie a Dio , did not involve knowing all the details, but he knew enough to be aware that those details included hair appointments, nail appointments and time spent with makeup artists, and that all those things followed hours spent choosing the most elaborate gowns and shoes and everything else that would never mean a damn to a man, but would be vital to a woman.
Unless everything about Cheyenne was an artful illusion, he doubted that she’d put in more than a few minutes getting ready for tonight.
It wasn’t that she didn’t look beautiful.
She did.
Her hair was loose and flowing, drawn back on one side by some kind of clip.
Her face glowed, the skin almost a dusty gold, her mouth a sexy red, her lashes dark and long.
Her gown was blue, half a dozen shades of blue. The neckline left most of her shoulders bare.
Kissably bare.
The fabric looked silky; just looking at it made him want to feel its texture between his fingers.
It skimmed her body. Breasts. Waist. Hips. Thighs. It hung in a way that was demure even as it hinted at what lay beneath: breasts he had yet to taste, though he knew they would be sweet on his tongue; hips seemingly made for his hands to grasp; that hot delta between her firm thighs.
The gown was artfully slit from hem to thigh. Each time she moved, he caught a glimpse of tanned flesh.
His body went rigid.
He was on the verge of a monumental erection, the kind he hadn’t had in public since he’d learn to control his body’s needs at the age of sixteen.
The possibility of making a fool of himself was bad enough. Even worse was the realization that it was she who would make a fool of him, just as she had done before.
No, he thought coldly. That was not going to happen.
“What a surprise.”
“Yes,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing.”
He almost laughed. Her eyes were like pools of ice, her tone glacial, but she was smiling as politely as he.
And no wonder, he thought, as he caught the glow of a flashbulb from the corner of his eye. They were on display, a pair of actors trapped in a bad play, and she wouldn’t want ugly publicity anymore than he would.
“Yes,” he said, “isn’t it? When Alene told me you were here, I was…dumbstruck.”
“Such a nice, old-fashioned word. Dumbstruck.”
“Ah. She told you,
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