The Secret Heiress (7 page)

Greg began shouting instructions to the lighting assistants, then to the four models. The camera began to flash, over and over again, as the models moved about according to Greg’s orders, and Bianca couldn’t help but notice Frans’s magnetism. He oozed a brooding sexiness through every pore, she thought, qualities that came across in the photographs of him. She’d often seen men and women who were stunningly good-looking in person but didn’t photograph well. The camera, happily, loved Frans. Bianca thought part of his particular magic was that he didn’t seem to give a damn about the appeal he had. It was as if he was totally unaware of his striking presence, and this, she thought, was a refreshing quality in a model. Most of them were hyperconscious of their beauty, and seemed to live for the attention it brought to them.

The shoot dragged on and on, but Bianca didn’t move from her chair. She was absorbed in Frans’s every movement, his every gesture, the sound of his German-accented English when he queried one of Greg’s instructions, his laughter when he or one of the other models made a silly mistake. She was love struck—there were no two ways about it—and she couldn’t get enough of him.

So what if I’m twice his age?
she thought as she saw one of the makeup artists step in and carefully stroke blusher on one of the men’s cheekbones.
He’s a grown-up. Eighteen years old. That’s old enough to know what you’re doing, isn’t it? Of course it is.
She knew that in her circle eyebrows would be raised when word got out that she was seeing a male model. But seeing an eighteen-year-old? It was like compounding a felony. She could hear it now. The vicious gossips that populated the worlds of fashion and business would crucify her, a thirty-six-year-old seemingly sane and responsible business executive, for robbing the cradle. Not only that, but dating a male model, a species that everyone knew was unreliable and unintelligent and therefore unpromising and undesirable as boyfriend, let alone husband, material.

Well,
Bianca had decided,
let them talk.
She was concerned about the reaction of only one person and that was her father. Angelo Coveri would be apoplectic—of that there was no doubt. He would storm and rage, call her names, and invoke the memory of her saintly mother. But Bianca knew that her father would come around to her side in the end. Despite whatever his initial misgivings might be, Bianca knew her father better than anyone, and she knew that under his thick skin Angelo Coveri was a romantic. He would eventually give her his blessings when he realized that Bianca was in love.

She’d wondered if this was true, if she was really in love. She was obsessed with Frans, and she knew it. But was she in love with him? Yes, she’d decided. That, too. She was in love with his long dirty-blond tangle of hair, his penetrating blue gaze and sensual lips, his prominent nose and lean, muscular body. Even his tribal tattoos had become imprinted on her mind as erotic touch-stones, and she loved nothing more than to lightly trace them with a fingernail. Even now, as she sat in the uncomfortable chair in the studio, Greg’s shouted instructions and the loud music faded into the background, and she felt her pulse begin to race and a rush of electricity run through her body as she remembered the warmth of his flesh against her own, the distinctly masculine aroma that he exuded, enveloping her in its erotic potency, and the powerful yet tender way he made love to her.

Bianca was jerked out of her reverie when Frans sauntered off the white ground and directly toward her, his walk cockier than ever and his arrogant, brooding expression more pronounced than usual. When he reached her, he abruptly came to a halt and thrust his groin toward her obscenely. Followed by the flash of a thousand-watt smile, exposing his perfect white teeth. Then he blew her a kiss before striding back to the white fabric within camera range.

“Frans, you motherfucker!” Greg screamed at the top of his lungs, the veins in his throat extended with the effort.

Bianca immediately made a decision and rose to her feet. She quickly tiptoed to the door and left the studio, closing the door as silently as possible behind her. She was obviously too much of a distraction for Frans, and she’d better wait for him downstairs in the limo.

“Leaving already?” Merilee said, gazing up at her.

Bianca nodded, slipping into her coat.

“Greg getting a little too worked up for you?” Merilee said with a glint of mischief in her eye. “I could hear him screaming some of his sweeter profanities, even over the music.”

Bianca shrugged and pushed the call button for the elevator. “I’m not in the mood to listen to it today,” she replied. “Besides, it looks like it’s going to be a great shoot.”

“Okay,” Merilee said. “See you later.”

“ ’Bye.” Bianca sketched a wave in the air as the elevator arrived. On the way down, she checked her wristwatch. She was surprised that so much time had passed since she’d arrived, but she knew it might last another hour or so. Even longer. Frans had her cell number, so she would run some errands and swing back by for him when he was ready.

 

Nearly three hours later, Frans opened the limousine’s door and slid onto the leather seat next to her. Wrapping an arm around her, he kissed her long and passionately, as if he had been starving for her. When he drew back at last and gazed into her eyes, his expression was that of a man deeply in love, Bianca thought.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she said. “So much.”

They began kissing again, disregarding the chauffeur, who made an effort to ignore them by staring out the window. When they drew apart again, Bianca brushed the side of Frans’s face with a hand. “I want to make a stop on the way to the apartment,” she said. “Is that okay with you?”

“It won’t take long, will it?”

She shook her head. “No. Just a few minutes. Besides, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise,” she replied mysteriously. She turned toward the front of the limousine. “Azad?” she said to the driver. “Take us to the address I gave you before.”

The handsome Kurdish driver nodded, and the big limousine began moving through the busy streets toward midtown. Frans took Bianca in his arms once again, peppering her face with kisses, his tongue darting out to flick at her ears and neck. When the car pulled over at the curb, Azad rushed out and opened the door on Bianca’s side.

“Let’s go,” she said, drawing back from Frans.

“Okay,” he said.

She exited the car with him following close behind her. On the sidewalk, Frans blinked at the heavy filigreed iron and glass door and the sign beside it. Harry Winston.

“What’s this?” he asked, taking her arm. “The jewelry store?”

Bianca nodded. “Hmmm,” she purred with a smile. She led the way, and before Frans could open the door, the uniformed doorman swung it wide for them. Bianca knew her way around the exclusive shop and went directly to the glass showcase where she would find what she wanted. Once there, she stared down into it, and Frans followed suit.

“It’s all rings,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she replied.

“May I help you, madam? Sir?” a middle-aged gentleman asked. The beautifully groomed and dressed Bianca seemed ill matched with Frans, a mass of tangled hair in an old surplus Russian-army greatcoat, leather jeans, and beat-up boots.

“I want to try on a couple of rings,” Bianca said.

“Yes?” the salesman said. “If you’ll point out which ones—”

“I love that. . . . Is it a canary?” She was pointing with one of her carefully lacquered fingernails.

“You have exquisite taste, madam,” the salesman replied, removing the diamond ring from its velvet display case. “It is a canary yellow diamond, round cut, set in platinum.”

“Whoa,” Frans said. “That’s some rock, Bianca.”

“Some rock indeed,” the salesman said with a smile. He held it out for Bianca to try on.

She slipped the ring on and held her hand steady, fingers splayed, then moved her hand from side to side, watching the diamond flash in the light. “How many carats is this?” she asked, her eyes remaining on the ring.

“Two,” the salesman replied. “And perfect, I might add.”

“What do you think?” Bianca asked Frans.

“It’s hot,” he said, smiling.

She returned his smile, then peered back into the glass display case. “May I see that one . . . there?” she said, tapping the glass. “The emerald-cut white one.”

“Of course.”

Bianca tried it on, then repeated the process with four more rings, consulting Frans each time. His responses were variations of his first one until she slipped on a perfect marquise-cut white diamond of five carats set in yellow gold. “Wow. Supercool zonker,” Frans enthused. “Makes the rest look like river rocks.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She waved her hand back and forth, watching the marquise-cut white diamond flash its fire in the light. “It’s less traditional than the others,” she said, “but I love the cut and the yellow gold. And the size.”

“Size matters,” Frans said with a lewd laugh. “Even with diamonds.”

Bianca punched his chest lightly. “Especially with diamonds,” she said, “and this one is big.”

“Five carats,” the salesman said.

“You don’t think it looks too . . . flashy?” she said.

“Oh, come on, Bianca,” Frans said, “how can a diamond be too flashy?” He grabbed the hand on which she wore the ring and kissed it. “Flash is what you’re after, babe. Why else bother?”

Bianca laughed lightly. “Oh, well. I’m Italian. I can get by with it, right?”

Frans put his arms around her and kissed her on the lips. “You bet you can,” he said. “It looks just right on you.”

Bianca looked at the salesman, and he nodded almost imperceptibly, a small smile on his lips. “Well . . . ,” she began, “it does fit.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem, madam,” the salesman said. “If it doesn’t fit perfectly, we could size it for you, of course.”

“No,” she said. “It fits perfectly.” She splayed her fingers again and glimpsed back up at Frans. He smiled, his sensuous lips spreading, and his intense blue eyes sparkled.

Her mind was suddenly made up. “I’ll take it,” she said.

The salesman nodded. “An excellent choice,” he said. “It will only take me a moment to box it and get the GIA paperwork together. How do you wish to pay, if I may ask?”

Bianca retrieved her wallet from her pocketbook and slid out her American Express card. “Here,” she said, handing the card to him.

He nodded and took the card. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“What paperwork?” Frans asked. “What’s he talking about?”

“From the Gemological Institute of America,” she replied. “You know, guaranteeing the weight and color. That kind of thing.”

“Oh,” Frans said. “So you’ll know you didn’t buy a fake or something.”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

The salesman returned with an envelope of paperwork, a velvet box for the ring, and the credit card receipt for her to sign. Bianca took the pen he offered, signed the receipt, and slipped her copy into her wallet.

“Do you want to put it in the box, madam?” the salesman asked.

“No,” Bianca replied, smiling. “I’m wearing this zonker out of the store. I’ll put the box in my pocketbook.”

Frans led her to the door and back out onto the street. The limousine, which hadn’t been able to idle at the curbside while they were in the shop, pulled over almost immediately. Azad started to jump out to open the door, but Frans waved him away. “Got it,” he said, opening the door for Bianca. They slid onto the luxurious black leather, and Frans put an arm around her shoulders. “The ring looks beautiful on you,” he said as the chauffeur pulled out into the traffic of Fifth Avenue.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s nice,” he said, “but you know you don’t really need things like that to make you beautiful.”

“But I need it for something else,” she said, studying his face. It was adoring, his face. That was the best way to describe it, she thought. And it had been since they’d first met.

“Need it for something else?” He gazed at her quizzically. “What?”

“If I want to get married, then I need an engagement ring, don’t I?”

“Get married!” he replied. “But—but . . . I mean . . .” His shoulders slumped, and his features turned glum.

“What?” she teased. She loved seeing his disappointment at her news.

He removed his arm from around her shoulder and stared into his lap. “I thought . . . I mean . . . I thought we had something, you know, going . . . and, well . . .” He gazed up at her with hurt eyes. “I can’t believe you’re suddenly springing something like this on me, Bianca.”

Her heart melted, and she couldn’t carry on her pretense any longer. “Oh, Frans,” she said, “what I meant was that I want to marry
you
. If you’ll have me. That’s why I got the ring.”

His blue eyes widened in astonishment. Then he smiled. “Are you serious?” he said in a whisper.

She nodded. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

Frans threw his arms around her and let out a shout of glee. “I can’t believe it! You want to marry me. Frans. A nobody from nowhere.”

“Whoa,” Bianca said with a gasp. “You’re about to smother me, sweetheart.”

He relinquished his powerful hold of her and began dispensing kisses all over her face. Her eyes and forehead, her cheeks and nose, her chin. “I can’t believe it,” he said, then threw an arm into the air. “I want to tell the whole world. Bianca Coveri is really in love with me! Bianca Coveri wants to marry me!”

He took her into his arms again, more gently this time, and kissed her long and passionately. When he finally withdrew, he gazed into her eyes. “This is the happiest day of my life,” he said. “When can we do it? Now?”

“Hold on, sexy,” she said laughingly. “This is New York, so we have to get a marriage license first. We can’t do that today because it’s too late. Then, don’t forget, we’re flying down to St. Barth’s later for that birthday party.”