the rolling wardrobe trunk I had brought.
The contents gave the impression I was on an extended trip. In truth, I would be returning home the next day. The trunk was filled with product samples. I had packed the makeup, jewelry, and clothing -- all of it Egyptian themed but with a modern twist, at Mr. Parisi's request despite the earlier material I had mailed to him.
I glanced through the case, making sure I knew where each piece was located so I could find it quickly. I didn't linger over any particular piece, intentionally fighting the urge to do so. Everything I had brought possessed value that could never be matched by money. I hadn't scoured the Internet for the supplier of the vibrant blue silk or any of the other materials to build a business, hadn't spent hours threading beads or mixing compounds so that a stranger could walk into some upscale store half a world away and buy it. Everything I had done had been motivated at first by the need to make my dying mother feel beautiful again.
Anders came sooner than he had promised then led me through a maze of halls to deposit me in front of a heavy door. When I knocked, a voice that could melt stone answered.
" Un attimo, per favore."
I exhaled slowly. It wasn't my first time hearing Parisi's voice. We had spoken at length on the phone at hours that were early evening for me and halfway on to the next morning for him. I'd never heard a voice so sexy, especially when the appeal never faded even as we discussed something as deathly boring as supply chain management.
The door swung open and Silvio Parisi slowly came into view against the backdrop of a dimly lit room. A tailored silk suit in dark gray flowed the length of his body, the tailoring darting inward to accentuate the narrow waist and lean hips. I had seen pictures of him online, the photos usually taken at some extreme sporting event in which he had participated. Dressed in a suit or muddy and sweating, he always looked stunning -- like stop and stare then find a clean pair of panties stunning.
He had grown his hair some since the last picture had surfaced on the Internet. Pushed back, the thick waves fell just above his shoulders, the dark brown strands almost black in the room's feeble light. Eyes that looked pitch black at that moment but I knew to be olive green glittered as he greeted me with a smile.
The flash of teeth drew my attention to the bottom half of his face. He hadn't shaved in days or weeks except along his cheeks, leaving them smooth. A stubbly mustache covered the broad heart of his mouth. Centered below the bottom lip, he sported one of those little patches that I found so irritating on every other male I had ever witnessed but on him just served as further proof of his perfect features. More rough stubble curved sensually at the very bottom edge of his chin.
He pivoted slightly, his arm sweeping toward the center of the room in invitation as he switched to English lightly seasoned by his accent.
"Please come in, Nadine."
Murmuring my thanks, I moved forward. As I began to pass, his fingers brushed my hand and I relinquished my hold on the trunk.
"This," he said, admiring the old caramel-colored leather and brass finishing, "is a genuine Hartmann, yes?"
I nodded, hoping the trunk would serve as a natural icebreaker without being something that stole his interest away from the negotiations. I had already lost one potential investor in a similar manner on a different topic.
"Are you a collector?" I asked.
"Yes." Squatting, he unlatched the trunk and opened it. "Anders swears I only ever leave the island so I can use one of the pieces from my collection."
As he talked, his fingertips explored the interior with all the careful precision of a surgeon. "It's condition is flawless. Where did you find it?"
I forced a smile to my face while my stomach sank with dread. Not only was our meeting swerving dangerously in the direction of focusing solely on a piece of luggage, but I didn't want
The contents gave the impression I was on an extended trip. In truth, I would be returning home the next day. The trunk was filled with product samples. I had packed the makeup, jewelry, and clothing -- all of it Egyptian themed but with a modern twist, at Mr. Parisi's request despite the earlier material I had mailed to him.
I glanced through the case, making sure I knew where each piece was located so I could find it quickly. I didn't linger over any particular piece, intentionally fighting the urge to do so. Everything I had brought possessed value that could never be matched by money. I hadn't scoured the Internet for the supplier of the vibrant blue silk or any of the other materials to build a business, hadn't spent hours threading beads or mixing compounds so that a stranger could walk into some upscale store half a world away and buy it. Everything I had done had been motivated at first by the need to make my dying mother feel beautiful again.
Anders came sooner than he had promised then led me through a maze of halls to deposit me in front of a heavy door. When I knocked, a voice that could melt stone answered.
" Un attimo, per favore."
I exhaled slowly. It wasn't my first time hearing Parisi's voice. We had spoken at length on the phone at hours that were early evening for me and halfway on to the next morning for him. I'd never heard a voice so sexy, especially when the appeal never faded even as we discussed something as deathly boring as supply chain management.
The door swung open and Silvio Parisi slowly came into view against the backdrop of a dimly lit room. A tailored silk suit in dark gray flowed the length of his body, the tailoring darting inward to accentuate the narrow waist and lean hips. I had seen pictures of him online, the photos usually taken at some extreme sporting event in which he had participated. Dressed in a suit or muddy and sweating, he always looked stunning -- like stop and stare then find a clean pair of panties stunning.
He had grown his hair some since the last picture had surfaced on the Internet. Pushed back, the thick waves fell just above his shoulders, the dark brown strands almost black in the room's feeble light. Eyes that looked pitch black at that moment but I knew to be olive green glittered as he greeted me with a smile.
The flash of teeth drew my attention to the bottom half of his face. He hadn't shaved in days or weeks except along his cheeks, leaving them smooth. A stubbly mustache covered the broad heart of his mouth. Centered below the bottom lip, he sported one of those little patches that I found so irritating on every other male I had ever witnessed but on him just served as further proof of his perfect features. More rough stubble curved sensually at the very bottom edge of his chin.
He pivoted slightly, his arm sweeping toward the center of the room in invitation as he switched to English lightly seasoned by his accent.
"Please come in, Nadine."
Murmuring my thanks, I moved forward. As I began to pass, his fingers brushed my hand and I relinquished my hold on the trunk.
"This," he said, admiring the old caramel-colored leather and brass finishing, "is a genuine Hartmann, yes?"
I nodded, hoping the trunk would serve as a natural icebreaker without being something that stole his interest away from the negotiations. I had already lost one potential investor in a similar manner on a different topic.
"Are you a collector?" I asked.
"Yes." Squatting, he unlatched the trunk and opened it. "Anders swears I only ever leave the island so I can use one of the pieces from my collection."
As he talked, his fingertips explored the interior with all the careful precision of a surgeon. "It's condition is flawless. Where did you find it?"
I forced a smile to my face while my stomach sank with dread. Not only was our meeting swerving dangerously in the direction of focusing solely on a piece of luggage, but I didn't want
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