Page 29 of Valentino

I've been chasing that look since I was fifteen. And tonight I finally got it, but instead of feeling triumphant, my stomach flips and my legs feel unsteady.

Light pours over us when we reach the doors. The quartet swells into something bright and Italian, and the crowd inside is a glittering wall of people I need to impress. My stomach drops like an elevator with cut cables.

Get it together. You've done this a hundred times.

Valentino leans down. His mouth comes close to my ear. Close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin.

"You don't have to be nervous," he says so quietly no one else can hear.

I freeze.

How does he know? I am pretending to be calm, and I know I am doing it with the expertise of a seasoned actress. My smile hasn't slipped. My hands aren't shaking. I have spent my entire life perfecting this act so it gives nothing away, and yet this man saw straight through without me.

I turn my head, realizing we are inches apart now. His eyes are on mine, steady and dark, and there's no mockery in them. No challenge.

"I'm not nervous," I say.

"You stopped talking, which—" The corner of his mouth moves a fraction. "—I'm told it is unusual."

"Wow. Funny. Did you practice that?"

"Your pulse." His gaze drops to my throat. "I can see racing."

Heat floods my face, my chest, everywhere his eyes have been. I should say something cutting.

But the words don't come.

Because nobody has ever looked at me in my element, working the room with poise and a smile, and saw the cracks beneath the facąde. Men see the dress clinging to curves and the pretty face. Women see the perfect hair, the smile, and the curated, Instagram-ready surface I give them.

"That's—" I start and stop, hating that my voice has gone soft. "You don't know me well enough to know when I'm nervous."

"No," he agrees. His hand presses a little firmer against my back, warm and grounding, steering me forward through the doors into all that light and noise. "But I'm learning."

And then we're inside, and the room turns toward us. Francesca Renaud is lifting a glass in greeting from across the marble floor and I cannot acknowledge any of it. Not the eyes or the music or the two years of work waiting to be won or lost.

But I am acutely aware of his hand on my bare skin, and the terrifying, traitorous certainty that he meant exactly what he said.

He's learning me.

CHAPTER TEN

Valentino

Idon't sweep the room. That would be a mistake. Men like the ones here notice when a man is looking too hard, who counts exits with his eyes. So I move slow and casual. A guest among guests. I let my gaze drift, bored and unimpressed.

I'm looking for Elio.

I had the invitation pulled for him this afternoon. One of Renzo's favors, a name that means nothing on a guest list this long. The only thing left is to confirm he's actually inside, that he's where he should be.

We drift toward a tall table near the edge of the floor. A waiter appears almost at once. A young man with a tray and a practiced smile.

"Something to drink?" he asks.

"Wine," I say. Amanda nods, and he hands us each a glass of red, dark as garnet in the chandelier glow. I curl my fingers around the stem and turn my body so I'm half facing her, half facing the room. From here I can see most of the floor without seeming to look at any of it.

"Talk to me," I say, low, my mouth close to her ear so the words don't carry. "About anything. Just keep talking."

She tilts her head, and for a second I think she's going to ask why. She doesn't. She has learned over the past few days when not to ask questions. That bothers me more than it should.