Sunday, 2 September 1984 — Min, Italy

  Itinerary

  10:30 AM — Arrival at Mino Centrale

  12:30 PM — Check-in at Grand Hotel et de Min Afternoon — Light lunch, unpack, decompress

  6:00 PM – 9:00 PM — Welcome Cocktail Reception

  Location: Pazzo Serbelloni

  Hosted by: Camera Nazionale del Moda Italiana

  Dress code: Elegant cocktail

  They’d arrived in Min on time, and il direttore of the Grand Hotel et de Min had taken one look at the couple as they entered and immediately called his staff to action. As a result, Aric and Delphine had extra time to rex—and in Delphine’s case, unpack—before enjoying a light lunch in the grand dining room just off the equally grand lobby.

  They set off on foot for the short ten-minute walk through the Quadritero del Moda—Min’s high-fashion district—to a private studio tucked above a historic building at no. 10 Via Santo Spirito. Massive double doors of dark mahogany opened onto a courtyard, but it was an unobtrusive side door that Delphine stopped at. She pressed the buzzer next to a polished brass namepte that said simply: Luca.

  “Chi è?” a woman’s voice asked impatiently. Who is it?

  Delphine smiled. Inhospitality was almost a spectator sport in Italy. But this was a tactical dispy meant to scare off tourists. “Sono io, Arianne. Gian ci sta aspettando.” It’s me, Arianne. Gian’s expecting us.

  The woman’s voice changed immediately—cheerful now, and a little pyful. “Vieni su. Stiamo tutti aspettando di vedere il tuo nuovo giocattolo.” Come up. We’re all waiting to see your new toy.

  Delphine rolled her eyes. She leaned closer to the intercom as she gnced at Aric. “Non è un giocattolo. E anche se lo fosse, non te lo presterei mai. So come tratti i tuoi giocattoli.” He’s not a toy. And even if he were, I’d never lend him to you. I know how you treat your toys.

  “I treat them the way they deserve to be treated,” Arianne continued in Italian. “So he’s special, whoever he is.”

  “He’s standing right here. Open the goddamn door and let us in and you can see for yourself.”

  The door buzzed. Delphine pushed it open with authority.

  “You didn’t want to tell her I could understand her?” Aric asked.

  Delphine’s mischievous grin bloomed.

  “Where would the fun in that be?”

  Gianluca was nothing if not fmboyant. In manner. In speech. In attire.

  His assistant Arianne was quite the opposite: sleek lines, straight Titian hair cut just below her earlobes. A slim figure in a slim sea-green dress that matched her eyes exactly.

  “Who cut his hair st, a dog groomer?” Gian asked, lifting Aric’s overgrown locks with two fingers.

  Aric sat as still as possible. Something between a sheet and a shower curtain was draped around him, hiding the clothes he’d walked in wearing—an immediate improvement, as far as Gian was concerned.

  “Can you do something with it?” Delphine asked from her own chair, a short distance away, the space between giving Gian and Arianne room to work.

  Gian adopted a theatrical pout. “Really, darling. You wound me. You cut me to the quick. You—”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she interrupted.

  They spoke in Italian. When Gian wanted something from Aric, he switched to English. Aric had to gnce at Delphine before replying, but he was beginning to get a feel for the change—the cadence, the rhythm, the pure sound of Italian versus the coarser edges of English.

  Gian worked steadily, talking nonstop while another assistant made quiet tsk tsk noises as she worked on Aric’s fingernails and cuticles. Every so often, Aric caught her sneaking a gnce at him. Each time, she smiled and returned her attention to his hands.

  “He’s really attractive,” she whispered to Gianluca. “Is he new?”

  “He’s not a model,” Gian replied just as quietly. “He’s a friend of Delphine’s.”

  “A friend? I saw the way they came in together. The way they looked at each other. I wish I had a friend like him.”

  Aric did his best to keep his expression neutral. He let his mind drift back to the night before—the night when their love for Edith had just barely won out over rising passion. He smiled at the memory, but also wondered what Edith would think. What she’d say.

  It had been her idea—her suggestion—that he give himself to Delphine. That fact alone, the generosity behind it, had disturbed something inside him. Delphine had balked at the very notion—whether at the idea itself or the painful charity behind it, he still wasn’t sure. He’d thought that was the end of it. And part of him had been sad. Edith was offering something that would certainly hurt her if accepted, just as Delphine would have suffered if she’d refused. He was caught in between, wanting both women to be happy.

  Maybe, in the end, they’d managed that. A special night shared with Delphine. A special act still reserved for Edith.

  It might’ve been his wandering thoughts, but he sensed Delphine was thinking of it too. Arianne was talking about her test boyfriend, but Delphine wasn’t really listening. Aric tested that theory by recalling a particurly pleasant moment from their shared cabin and floating it gently toward her.

  Her face broke into a smile before she caught herself, then gnced sideways at him.

  malvagio, she sent.

  Wicked.

  Aric’s attention snapped back to the present—specifically, to the straight razor now hovering near his face in a finely manicured hand.

  The woman who’d just finished tending his hands id a warm, damp towel across his jaw before applying fragrant ther. His eyes grew rge as the bde approached.

  “Stay perfectly still, bello." The stylist’s voice was low and reverent. “God himself would be cut by this bde if he flinched.” He paused, then crossed himself quickly. ”Dio mi perdoni."

  Delphine caught the faint shimmer as Aric reflexively armored his face with a thin veil of energy. She shook her head.

  Gian began with a confident downward stroke—but removed nothing but ther.

  “I would have sworn it was sharp,” he said, puzzled, stropping the bde with more force.

  Delphine cleared her throat to get Aric’s attention. He gnced at her like a man about to meet the guillotine.

  She gave him a wide-eyed look and tilted her head toward Gianluca.

  Stop being a baby.

  The shimmering vanished just as the ther was reapplied.

  “Much better,” Gian said, satisfied. “He has such beautiful skin. So fair. Not a pore. Not a blemish of any kind. It’s like porcein.”

  “His family’s from Scandinavia,” Delphine said.

  Arianne perked up. “Dark hair and gray eyes, in Scandinavia? He’s unique.”

  Delphine smiled faintly as Arianne continued to fuss with her hair.

  “You have no idea.”

  The charcoal-bck wool crepe dinner jacket had a subtle sheen. Single-breasted. Sharply tailored. Its slightly longer line lent it a lean, architectural silhouette. Satin-faced peak pels—slim, understated. A steel-gray silk shirt—open at the colr, no tie, top two buttons undone. Lightweight, fluid, and slightly reflective under the lights, it picked up the silver in Aric’s eyes and offset his pale skin beautifully.

  The slim-cut bck trousers tapered perfectly at the ankle above patent leather loafers polished to a mirror shine.

  “Would you like to choose a cologne?” Gian asked, gesturing toward a gss sideboard lined with bottles.

  “I think I’ll leave that to a professional,” Aric said, offering a slight bow after viewing the selection.

  “Beauty and wisdom,” Gian sighed. “My, my, my.”

  Delphine emerged in a column-style silk charmeuse gown in gunmetal gray, bias-cut to drape like liquid across her frame.

  The plunging cowl neckline in front revealed the graceful arc of her colrbones and just a whisper of cleavage—suggestive, not vulgar.

  The back dipped low, revealing her spine, with spaghetti-thin straps that crisscrossed at her shoulder bdes.

  The hem grazed the floor with a subtle train, flowing like smoke.

  That’s when Arianne noticed something.

  “Where’s your scar?”

  “My what?” Delphine asked as she turned her head as far as she could.

  Arianne’s fingers brushed lightly across her back.

  “Your scar. The one you got skiing. The one we always cover up.”

  Gianluca materialized at her side, inspected the area, then moved quickly to a box of index cards. He flipped through until he found the one he wanted.

  “Two-centimeter crescent, three fingers down from the scapur spine. Pale. Raised. Chanel Beige 20 to cover.”

  It wasn’t a pce Delphine saw every day—if ever. It was easy to forget the scar was there.

  Which she had.

  Until now.

  “Scars don’t just—” she began.

  Disappear.

  Except when they do.

  She looked at Aric.

  And she knew.

  Not the exact moment it had vanished. She knew Aric’s healing continued to work long after the fact. Ed Martell had continued to get younger for months after the event. How long had it taken her scar to fade? An hour? Two?

  Aric's mind had been racing for something to offer. Anything.

  “Must be all that vitamin C you’ve been taking,” Aric said lightly.

  Delphine gave him a look. Hand on hip.

  And sent a thought.

  malvagio.

  Aric didn’t know why he felt so rexed in a crowd of people he didn’t know.

  He and Delphine had arrived together, and she immediately drew attention. A pair of men—older, balding, portly—from opposite ends of the room began to approach, but veered off when she took Aric’s hand in hers. He felt her tension and—being not entirely clueless—quickly identified the cause. He leaned over and kissed her gently on the bare curve of her shoulder. The two men changed direction as if they’d received a missile lock warning. Delphine’s legs tingled at the touch of his lips, her mind wandering briefly to the fantasy of how they might spend the night once they returned to the hotel.

  The Galleria degli Specchi—the Gallery of Mirrors—was a stunning neocssical jewel tucked behind a modest stone fa?ade on Corso Venezia. Massive floor-to-ceiling mirrors, framed in gold, lined both sides of the room, reflecting candlelight and movement in infinite succession. A painted fresco of Apollo driving the chariot of the sun across a rosy dawn sky covered the ceiling. Three Murano crystal chandeliers hung above a floor of geometric marble in cream and ste, polished to a mirrored gleam.

  Delphine gave Aric a moment to take it all in. She could almost remember her own first impression of the room—a seventeen-year-old provincial girl, privately amazed by everything, publicly feigning practiced boredom.

  A gaunt man in a charcoal suit raised his gss to Delphine but made no attempt to approach.

  “Clément Giroux,” she said quietly. “Senior Booker, Elite Paris. He’ll be at all the shows. Every few years, he repces his girlfriend with a younger model—an exact copy of the one before.”

  “Is he reted to John Derek?” Aric asked, watching the man before realizing Delphine probably had no idea who that was.

  A woman with a sleek bck bob, cat-eye liner, and a sculptural bck dress nodded to Delphine, then turned her gaze to Aric, appraising him from top to bottom.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  Delphine smiled at the woman, who wore what Aric estimated were twenty-four-inch heels with effortless grace. “Silvana Riva. Fashion Editor, Vogue Italia. She’s made half the models in this room.”

  “She’s looking at me like—”

  “—like she wants to eat you alive,” Delphine finished, smiling. “Which she probably does. But only professionally. She doesn’t sleep with her models—as she calls the ones she made famous. The others—” She trailed off.

  “Fair game?” Aric asked, gncing back at the woman whose gaze hadn’t wavered. Her eyes bore into him without the slightest hint of self-consciousness.

  Delphine looked at him with hunger of her own. Gianluca had worked his magic. He was absolutely stunning. “She’s a big game hunter, after all.”

  Warm affection colored his voice as he looked back at her. “It seems she’s not the only one.”

  She felt her heart expand in her chest, but she was professional enough to keep her tears in check.

  She had never said I love you to him. Not in words. Not out loud. Neither had he. Not even st night. A year ago, it would have crushed her—to share a night like that and not hear it. Or worse, to say it and not hear it back. But not now. Not after what they’d shared. For love’s sake.

  She knew why he had given her that gift st night—and, hopefully, would again tonight, and every night they had in Min. Not out of lust. But because he loved her. Because he wanted to make her happy. And in that moment, standing in a room full of people, as his voice sent a wave of joy through her, she almost said it out loud.

  She was saved at the st second when a familiar face approached.

  They’d been speaking French since entering the venue, and several other men and women—models, Aric assumed—were close enough to hear them. All except the woman with bronze skin, espresso-dark curls in a fwless chignon, and a navy wrap dress. She held a clipboard in one hand and a flute of prosecco in the other. Delphine switched to Italian as she approached.

  “Giulia, this is my guest, Rico. Rico, this is Giulia Moreschi—Director of Public Retions, Camera Nazionale del Moda Italiana, and our host this evening.”

  Aric shifted nguages without thinking. He smiled at the woman and—since both her hands were full—substituted a bow in pce of a handshake.

  “Pleased to meet you. Thank you for the invitation.”

  Giulia’s perfectly manicured brows arched in surprise. She’d assumed he was French. Now she wasn’t sure. His Italian was fwless—Roman in accent—but something about his speech was a mystery. As if neither French nor Italian was his native tongue.

  “Delphine mentioned she’d be bringing someone special,” she said. “I didn’t realize how special.”

  She was only a few years older than either of them—and unlike Silvana Riva, she had no reluctance sleeping with models.

  “Giù, ragazza. Non saltare,” Delphine said, only half-joking. Down, girl. No jumping.

  Aric let out an involuntary snort before covering his face. “I’m so sorry. I think I inhaled a piece of dust.”

  “It happens,” Giulia replied breezily, before moving on to easier prey.

  Delphine chuckled and slipped her hand back into his. “Come on,” she said. “I need a drink.”