SHE knew it without turning.
The sudden flush to her skin, the disconcerting prickle
that crawled the length of her spine, told Sapphy
Clemenger that whoever had just entered Bacelli's Milan
salon was no ordinary customer. In an atmosphere that
suddenly felt superheated, instinct screamed that no way
was this one of her usual clients rushing in five minutes
before evening closing time to search for the perfect
outfit to woo her husband, or even her lover.
Her muscles strained and tensed, her senses heightening so
much that even the hushed click of the cushioned door
closing registered to her senses as significant.
Battling the sensations that continued to skitter up and
down her back, she blinked away the weariness bequeathed
by her 3 a.m. mornings leading up to this week's
successful fashion-week show and swivelled right, a smile
of welcome at the ready, only to have her eyes jag on
blackness.
His power hit her first. Like a rush of electricity she
felt his impact surge over her. He was a wall of power, a
wall of authority. Black roll-neck sweater, well-cut black
jeans topping hand-stitched black boots. Even his hair
glossed blue-black in the beam from the ceiling's
downlights.
But it was his eyes that reached across the room and
snared her. Dark and fathomless with a glint that came and
went like a shooting star in the night sky, their midnight
quality reeled her in.
Was it possible to feel your pupils dilate? Yes, if what
she'd just experienced was any indication. And given the
sensory heights she seemed to be suddenly subjected to in
the last few seconds, maybe she shouldn't be surprised.
He said nothing as he moved towards her, never taking his
eyes from her face and leaving no doubt in her mind that
he hadn't just stumbled upon the salon.
He'd come to see her.
She shivered, instantly regretting letting Carla, the
salon's permanent assistant, go home early. This was no
time to be alone. But still she didn't move. Not that she
was certain she could. It was all she could do to swallow
as he devoured the distance between them.
"Buona sera," he said, his voice rich and deep and
containing so many influences she couldn't place his
accent. "Or would you prefer I speak English?"
His lips curved slightly yet lacked any real warmth in a
face that seemed all harsh angles and planes. She felt her
eyes narrow. So he knew she wasn't Italian. What else did
he know about her? And why?
"Thank you. English will be fine." Her voice sounded
remarkably steadier than she felt as she readily accepted
his offer to use her native tongue. After four years
working in Italy away from her Australian homeland, she
spoke fluent Italian, but here, in this man's presence,
she didn't trust herself to think and speak her adopted
language without tripping over her tongue. "How can I help
you?"
"You are, I presume, Sapphire Clemenger? The designer?"
Still she couldn't place his accent. It held touches of
English, a trace of American and more besides. He wasn't
Italian, of that she was sure, even though his dark
features could have passed for Mediterranean. Yet he was
too tall, too broad in the shoulders.
And much, much too close. The heat came off him in waves.
She felt herself flush, her mouth desert dry. Finally she
nodded in answer to his question, incapable of forming the
words.
"I suspected as much," he continued. "I understood you to
be quite beautiful. Of course, until now I had no idea
just how much."
She blinked slowly as something lurched inside her. How
could just a few words affect her so deeply? She was used
to the flattery and attention she received from the local
males. They had a reputation for appreciating the feminine
form and they certainly lived up to it. But it was always
given in good spirit and in a way that was more
lighthearted than serious.
This man's words resonated on another level entirely.
Maybe it was something to do with the way his eyes
continued to scrutinise her face as if drinking in every
detail, to rake over her body with the hot power of a
blowtorch.
And still she didn't know who he was. She straightened her
back, pushing herself taller and battling to damp down her
own mounting temperature. She'd had enough of being on the
defensive.
"You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Signor...?"
"Call me Khaled," he said, offering her his hand. She took
it and almost immediately wished she hadn't, sensing her
new-found courage melt away. For now, with his long,
tapered fingers enclosing hers, their latent strength
seeping into her flesh, she felt as if he'd somehow taken
charge, as if he somehow possessed her.
And that was crazy.
She didn't belong to anyone, least of all to this dark
stranger. Even Paolo, whom she'd been seeing on and off
for more than two years, didn't instil this sense of
possession in her.
She tugged on her hand, aware the stranger had been
holding on to it for much too long, and stepped around
him, focusing on steadying the rhythm of her breathing as
she headed for the salon's lounge area. If she didn't have
to concentrate on standing up, maybe she could think more
clearly. She indicated an armchair while she glanced over
to the door, willing someone, anyone, to enter the
store. "Please," she said over her shoulder, "tell me how
I can help you."
He watched her panicked retreat and her longing glance at
the passing pedestrians with some entertainment. He'd been
right to wait until now to make his move. It was late and
unlikely anyone else would visit the salon and interrupt
them. Unlikely anyone would come to her rescue.
She turned and looked at him, the questions laid bare in
her large blue eyes. He could see her vulnerability and
how she was fighting it. He could feel her suspicion,
warring with curiosity.
He could taste her fear. She was much more interesting
than he'd been led to believe. And more beautiful. Even
with tell-tale smudges of tiredness around her eyes, they
shone with life and promise in features arranged perfectly
on her face. Her dark-gold hair was swept up into a sleek
curve that exposed the smooth sweep of her neck.
The face of a model and the body of a goddess. Paolo
couldn't have chosen better.
She would do perfectly. "What can I do for you, Signor
Khaled?" she asked as he curved his length into the plush
Venetian-style chair opposite her own. "Are you looking
for something for a special woman?"
He smiled, more to himself than outwardly. "You could say
that. Your designs are the talk of Milan. Your show was an
outstanding success. For a foreigner you have done
remarkably well in breaking into such a competitive
market."
"I've been very lucky." 'You are very talented," he
said. "Otherwise you would not be where you are." 'Thank
you," she said quietly, her cheeks surprisingly tinged
with pink, almost as if she was unused to
compliments. "Was there something in the collection that
particularly interested you?"
"It is all of interest. But that's not why I'm here. I
want you to make a dress."
He saw the interest flare in her eyes. "Certainly. That's
not a problem. I do commission work for many of my
clients."
He could see by her body language that she was finally
relaxing as they spoke, back in the familiar territory of
what she did best. Her shoulders looked less rigid and, by
the steady rise and fall of her chest, her breathing
appeared more under control. She assumed he was just one
more customer. This would be almost too easy.
"This will be no ordinary dress," he continued. "I am to
be married in four weeks. I want you to design and
construct a wedding gown for my wife-to-be."
A wedding dress. She loved all of her design work but
always the greatest satisfaction, the greatest thrill,
came in designing wedding gowns, a woman's most important
dress for her most important day. A dress that
complemented, that accentuated while it minimised and made
the most of the bride as it transformed her into a
princess; Sapphy loved nothing more than to make it
happen. But he was cutting it fine.
"A wedding gown in just four weeks? Usually we would
recommend at least three times that for something so
special." 'With your talent, I should not think that will
be a problem."
Her pulse raced at the opportunity he was offering while
her mind was busy negotiating the difficulties that still
stood in the way of accepting the job. "Thank you. You pay
me a huge compliment by even offering me this commission.
However, as much as I am tempted, I do have other
responsibilities and other clients I must consider before
I can accept."
He pushed himself from the chair and loomed over her. "But
you have just shown your latest collection. That is
completed. You will design this dress."
She felt her eyes widen, taken aback as much at his
physical presence before her as his bold statement. Until
now he'd given the impression he specifically wanted her
to design the wedding gown. Could it be that other
designers had already turned down the commission? Maybe
desperation was forcing his hand and he'd run out of
options.
Besides, as tempted as she was to take on any wedding-gown
design project, she would be mad to promise something she
could not deliver. Especially just because it was demanded
of her. "I'm still not a free agent. I do have my own line
now, it's true, but I still work within the House of
Bacelli."
"I have already spoken with Gianfranco Bacelli. He will
release you."
"I see." But she didn't see. She bit down on her lip as
she considered his revelation. This was no ordinary
commission, not if it had already been squared away with
the ageing designer who headed the Bacelli house. Whoever
this Khaled was, he was a man of influence. And he
obviously expected her to fall in with his plans.
He took a step closer. "You will be compensated well."
She stood up, forcing her five-feet-eight frame taller,
wanting to show him she would not be the pushover he
expected, though she still conceded a good six inches to
his height. "Be that as it may, you have left things very
late. As you are no doubt aware, I work to the highest
possible standards and that means it may simply not be
feasible to do the dress justice in the time available."
"Name your price, then."
She drew back, offended by the implication. "Signor
Khaled, you misunderstand me. I wasn't angling at securing
a higher price for my services, merely pointing out that
the time is very short even to complete the design to the
satisfaction of the bride, let alone to construct the
dress."
He waved away her umbrage with a flick of his wrist,
almost as if he was bored. "This dress will be your
design. You are the designer."
"But surely the bride will want to have her say? Perhaps
she'd like to come in, we can talk about it together, get
some ideas down on paper?"