Eye Candy

  He started for the door. Other than tossing by body down in his path, I didn't know how to stop him. So I started talking. Fast.

  "You weren't hired to make him jealous, you were hired to keep him away. And I thought—I thought that was all over now. But I found out that what I thought I knew wasn't right at all and I was all wrong about him and his secretary—Rhonda. You know her."

  When he tried to sidestep me, I leapt back and pressed myself up against the door, blocking the handle. Anything to keep him from walking away. Maybe for good.

  "So I wanted to see what I was missing—if I had made the wrong decision two years ago because I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering. It might not work out this time either but what if it did. I'm a different person now than I was then. Yes, I'm spending time with him, but I want to spend time with you too. I have fun with you—the kind of fun I didn't know I needed in my life until I met you, and I don't want to give you up for something that might or might not work out."

  I saw a teeny bit of softening in his eyes. Hoping that my inane, rapid-fire babbling was getting through, I stepped forward and pressed my hands to his steel-tense chest.

  "I know it's not fair to either of you but I—" This was low. I dropped my eyes. "—I can't choose. Not yet. Either way I would always wonder what if."

  Though no one could get me to admit it on the record, I had watched a few—okay all—of those shows where a bunch of singles vie for the eye of an eligible bachelor or bachelorette. And I, like the rest of the country, fell victim to the patriarchal view that the bachelors were sour balls, but the bachelorettes were sluts.

  Now, finding myself in the position of choosing between two guys and wanting to explore relationships with both of them before having to make my decision, I suddenly sympathized with those women.

  "Please, give us a chance," I pleaded. "Stay."

  His eyelids fluttered down, shielding his readable blue eyes from view. I could feel him weighing my argument. Weighing his own feelings.

  Then, eyes still closed, he lowered his forehead to rest against mine.

  "I'll stay," he whispered, "because I'm not strong enough to leave."

  His lips pressed softly against mine.

  The duffel dropped to the floor with a soft thud.

  "Besides," he said against my mouth, "I only packed half my things. I couldn't leave without the trench coat."

  "You brought it?" I asked, giggling more in relief that he was staying.

  "Of course," his hands dropped to squeeze my backside playfully. "What good is a fantasy if you don't bring the props?"

  Noticing the time on the filigree clock on the dresser, I pulled out from his welcome arms and sought my pajamas. The red satin ones from Victoria's Secret. Somehow candy hearts didn't belong in the fashion capitol of the world.

  "Good, because it's supposed to rain tomorrow and I wouldn't want you to get drenched on the moped. I am only attending the first two catwalk shows tomorrow and I expect a full tour to follow." I finally found the shiny red satin in the bottom drawer of the dresser. They slinked along the edge of the drawer as I pulled them out. "It just wouldn't do to have my tour guide getting sick and bailing on me."

  "No," Elliot's voice was low and slow, "it wouldn't do at all."

  Turning, I knew that lustful smile was there before I saw his face. "You, mister, need to get into your jammies and into bed."

  "Yes, ma'am," he replied, hurriedly tugging his sweater over his head and kicking his shoes off. "Been wearing my jammies all day just waiting for this occasion."

  For several tortuous moments, as I watched him disrobing before my eyes, I thought he was serious. My gaze riveted to every movement of his tan, masculine hands. When he was down to his t-shirt and slacks he hesitated, his fingers gripping his waistband but not undoing the button.

  My eyes, anxious and terrified at the same time, flew to his. Those bright blues laughed at my distress.

  "Get changed, princess."

  Elliot crossed in front of me, scooping his duffel off of the floor instead of stripping the rest of his clothes off—a prospect I was not opposed to on a purely aesthetic level, but if a girl is feeling out a relationship with two guys, I thought it would be quite sluttish to try either one out all the way.

  "I-I'll just be," I stuttered as I backed into the bathroom, "in here. Getting ready. Um, changed. For bed."

  My face flamed.

  Safely in the bathroom, the door firmly and swiftly shut behind me, I pressed my palms against the amber colored marble of the countertop. Only the last shreds of dignity saved me from stripping naked and laying on the equally-marble floor in a desperate attempt to cool off my burning body.

  Really, a girl's body was not designed to turned on and off like hot and cold running water. Especially not twice in one night.

  If it weren't already so late I might have been tempted to run an ice cold bath in the enormous garden tub and chill my libido into submission.

  "I don't know how polygamists do it," I said to my flushed reflection. Only one night in the company of two guys and already I felt caught and tugged in two directions like the last roll of Smarties the day after Halloween.

  Shaking the wayward thoughts out of my brain, I quickly stepped out of the ruffled tank and black cords I'd been wearing for thirty-six hours straight. After a momentary longing for a cold, refreshing shower, I resigned to a cool, damp washcloth and a quick sponge bath.

  "Hurry u-up." Elliot's voice sing-songed beneath the white and gold door. "I've got the bed all warmed up."

  If only closing my eyes would make this all go away, leaving only the right decision sitting front and center in my mind. But closing my eyes only brought conflicting thoughts of Gavin's hot kisses and Elliot's hot body into a knockdown drag-out for my attention.

  Well, at the very least I knew that no easy answers would be forthcoming. I had to make the best of the situation I had gotten myself into and not think about the—likely—naked man in my bed.

  What I hadn't counted on was my nightly routine taking so long that it bored him to sleep.

  I emerged from the bathroom—admittedly nearly an hour later—to find him fully clothed in plaid cotton pjs and sleeping peacefully.

  Pulling back the covers as quickly and gently as possible, I slipped between the 600-thread count sateen sheets and snuggled down into the downy soft bed. The room had chilled, thanks to an open window and dropping temperatures outside, and I found the fluffy duvet inadequate against the cold air.

  Soon I was shivering and my teeth chattered so loud I was surprised it didn't wake Elliot up. Then again, if the deep, even rhythm of his breathing were any indication, he was out like a light and wouldn't wake unless the sun was up or Vesuvius erupted again.

  Forty-eight hours without sleep and six hours’ worth of jetlag could do that to a person.

  Casting caution aside in deference to a good eight hours of sleep, I took a deep breath and rolled to the other side of the bed. Just being millimeters from Elliot's radiating warmth, my chills vanished.

  When, at somewhere around two a.m., he looped his arm around my waist and tugged me as close as I could get, my internal thermometer shot the opposite direction.

  But for some reason that didn't hinder my falling back to sleep at all. I was just thankful for the two layers of fabric between us. No matter how flimsy a barrier they made.

  "Caro mia, I am glad you came."

  I turned in my seat at the sound of Alberto's voice. With his position at Gucci now filed under "former", I was surprised to see him at their show.

  "Alberto, what are you doing here?"

  Before I could rise to give him a hug, he leaned across the row and gave me a quick kiss on either cheek.

  "My parting was not so bad that I do not still have friends on the inside." With a wink, he took my hand and lifted me out of my fifth row seat. "Come," he insisted, "sit with me in the first row."

  Apparently those were very good friends.
While the fifth row seats Janice, Kelly, and I occupied were amongst the local media representatives, the first row was reserved for celebs and VIPs.

  I hesitated, feeling guilty for leaving my fr— oh no, was I really going to call them that? Yes. My friends. It hardly seemed fair to leave them in the ranks of the unimportant.

  But the instant I started to decline, my friends started shooing me from behind.

  "You'll never get another chance like this," Kelly argued.

  Janice concurred.

  "Alright," I acceded, allowing Alberto to lead me to a pair of vacant seats between a rising Hollywood starlet and a royal-by-marriage socialite.

  "I understand congratulations are in order," Alberto said when we were comfortably seated. I must have looked confused, because he clarified, "For your knew promotion. It is wonderful that you will become a designer in your own right."

  "Oh," I answered quietly.

  With the uncanny insight he always had, Alberto saw right through me. "Ah, I see. You have not yet decided to accept the position."

  He signaled to the tuxedo-clad waiter attending to the front row, who immediately arrived with a tray of champagne. Alberto handed me a flute and took one for himself before shooing the waiter away.

  "To your future, caro." He lifted his flute to mine and carefully clinked the crystal. "Whichever path you choose will be the right one for you."

  I sipped at the bubbly, lost in thought over both decisions I had to make. At least it was only two decisions. Choosing between two great guys and making a monumental career decision was bad enough. If bad things always come in threes—not that I considered my options bad things—then I guess I could count myself lucky that another decision hadn't fallen into my lap.

  Not yet, anyway.

  As the lights dimmed and the Plexiglas catwalk glowed to life, I felt my phone vibrate in my purse.

  I dropped my head in resignation. Mental Post-It: Don't count your blessings before they've hatched.

  A quick glance at my phone showed a number with a 305 area code. Where on earth was 305? Whew, must be a wrong number. Flipping open the tiny phone I punched the power button, sending the colorful screen black.

  But the call did remind me that I hadn't gotten in touch with my parents yesterday. I would have to call them this afternoon.

  At least with an experienced deck hand on board, I knew I didn't need to worry too much.

  I emerged from the show an hour later, sequins in my eyes and shantung in my heart, full of inspiration and awe. All I could think of was locking myself away for a week and immortalizing all these ideas on paper.

  "Your chariot awaits, milady."

  Elliot sat on a cherry red moped, a helmet hanging jauntily from each end of the handlebar. In my euphoria I had totally forgotten our date. Again. My face must have dropped, momentary disappointment that my design time would not be anytime soon, because he scowled.

  "You aren't coming," he accused.

  "No," I argued. His scowl deepened. "I mean yes. I mean I am coming. Of course I am."

  "Oh. Good." He grabbed one helmet—the white one—and pushed it into my hands. "Then why the long face?"

  Handing him my purse so I could buckle the helmet into place, I explained. "The show was just amazing and I feel so inspired that I kinda wanted to get some sketches out of my system. But no big deal. They'll still be there later."

  I hope.

  Inspiration has a way of dispersing with increased distance from source.

  Oh well. If the ideas were any good I'd remember them. Right?

  "Have you got your sketchpad?"

  "Yes," I answered, throwing a leg over the moped and taking my place behind him. "Why?"

  He pulled on his helmet and started the engine before turning to answer. "Because you've got sketching to do and I've got just the place to do it."

  I thought I heard him say, "Hold on," before the moped burst to life and darted out into the narrow cobbled streets.

  Elliot navigated the streets like a native, choosing to view the street signs and crosswalks as mere suggestions, rather than traffic law. He merely waved at the American tourists who shouted after us for darting in front of them as they jaywalked between intersections. I half expected him to start pointing out the sights to me in fluent Italian.

  "That's the Teatro alla Scala," he shouted, indicating a yellow-fronted, Neoclassical building on the right. "Built in 1778 on the site of a Medieval church."

  We zipped through the little piazza without hesitation, slowing when we merged onto a slightly smaller street.

  "This over here," Elliot pointed to the left, "is the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. One of the first iron and glass constructions in Italy."

  I peered down the narrow alleyway, covered from above by a long glass roof. Where that alleyway crossed another at the center of the block, a huge glass dome rose above the intersection. All the little shops buzzed with shoppers despite the light drizzle beginning to fall.

  How wonderful. Shoppers could feel like they were shopping outdoors without falling prey to the elements.

  "How do you know all this?" I yelled in Elliot's ear, not sure if he could even hear me through the helmet.

  He turned his head so I could see his profile and smiled. "I did my homework." Taking his eyes off the road for just a second, he threw me a teasing glance. "Surprised?"

  "No," I answered quickly. I had learned early not to be surprised by anything to do with Elliot Phelps. Phelps Elliot. Whoever this enigmatic man was.

  "Impressed?"

  "Oh yes. Definitely impressed."

  With a self-satisfied smile he turned his attention back to the road. "Just wait."

  I was just about to voice my confusion when the buildings on our left disappeared and the moped pulled to a stop in the center of a clearing.

  "Il Dio mio," I breathed.

  "Precisely the point."

  I was struck speechless by the towering façade of a massive church. A cathedral, certainly. Shaped like a child might shape a gingerbread house, eight, no, ten Gothic spires topped the ornate limestone, reaching Heavenward.

  Dozens of tourists milled around the piazza in front of the main entrance, staring, pointing, and taking pictures.

  "Duomo. Third largest church in the world," Elliot explained. "The lower levels are Baroque, but the rest is Neo-Gothic. Though construction began in the fourteenth Century, it wasn't finished until Napoleon had the—"

  "Can we go in?" I finally managed.

  Though I was impressed with Elliot's knowledge, and thankful that he had brought me here, I needed to get inside. To see this beautiful building from the inside out.

  He laughed at my desperation. "Of course."

  My eyes couldn't leave the façade as Elliot pulled the moped to a designated parking area beside the church. Seconds later we were walking—okay, I was practically running and Elliot had to jog to keep up—through the main entrance.

  I fished a ten-euro bill out of my purse and pushed it into the donation box discreetly located as we crossed into the nave.

  "This is," I sighed, trying to capture the feeling of the dozens of stained glass windows illuminating the terrazzo floor like the light of God, "breathtaking."

  "How's your inspiration now?" Elliot asked.

  Tearing my gaze from the fine beauty of the church, I met his sincere eyes. "Magnified." I smiled and threw my arms around his neck. "A thousand-fold."

  "Well get to sketching, already," he joked, even as his arms slipped around my waist in a friendly hug. "We have about fifty more stops on our tour."

  If I didn't know him so well, I would have thought he was joking. But I had a feeling fifty stops was his bare minimum.

  "Yes sir." I saluted him playfully before heading for an unoccupied pew and pulling out my sketch pad.

  Rather than explore the rest of the church, as I was sure he would want to do, Elliot slid into the pew in front of me and took up people watching. He seemed content to rel
ax and absorb the energy around him.

  As my pencil moved across paper, I managed only a few sketches for jewelry pieces before I found myself sketching the work of art in front of me.

  Master sculptors and artisans had nothing on the fine eye of Mother Nature. Any woman would rush to buy a t-shirt with Elliot's beautiful mug on the front. Before I knew it, I had a dozen sketches of every detail of his face.

  A girl has to take inspiration where she can.

  "Do you know," Gavin mused across the dinner table Friday night, "I haven't seen you eat a single piece of candy this entire trip."

  I gulped down the last of my minestrone before answering. "I'm—" Dabbing at the corners of my mouth with my napkin bought me a few seconds. "—trying to quit."

  I expected shock or teasing or even superioristic advice, but Gavin simply smiled and said, "Good for you."

  Like nothing else, that hit the problem home for me.

  And it was true, I was trying to quit. The gummy bear incident had solidified for me what my mother had been trying to tell me for years. I placed too much emotional value on sweets. Either I needed to find a better outlet or a better dentist.

  Actually, my teeth were in perfect condition, but any crutch in a storm is a problem if you bring it out in every slight breeze.

  So, I had carefully packed my suitcase candy-free. Even with the dish of Mike&Ikes on the foyer table calling to me as I walked out the door.

  Not that I had been entirely on the candy wagon.

  I couldn't come to Milan without sampling the marron glaces from some quaint, Old World shop on a quaint, Old World street. Giving up my obsession didn't mean giving up on every ounce of edible delight in my life.

  Still, my sugar consumption was at an all-time low, and I was—surprisingly—invigorated. I had energy to spare and, with all the fashion shows, must-see sights, and competing dates, plenty to spend it on.

  "What is the plan for your birthday?" Gavin asked.

  He couched the question with enough nonchalance to fool someone who hadn't known him half his adult life. Me, I saw right through.

  I knew my birthday would be difficult to coordinate. Both Gavin and Elliot wanted to claim the day for their own—though I had to contend that it should really be for me, but that seemed a secondary concern.