in and endured the “from the ground up” apprenticeship that his father had deemed necessary for taking over the business. He’d got his hands dirty. He’d worked days and nights, holidays and weekends. He’d done everything that was ever asked of him—and he’d done it well.
A dozen years ago he’d even let the old man pick his bride because he understood why his father wanted ties between his company and Carin’s family’s. It had been good business sense, and he’d liked Carin—what he knew of her. He’d been sure he would have made a good husband.
It was Carin who had run. Not him.
And when she had, leaving him hurt and humiliated beyond belief, still Dominic had believed in the theory behind his father’s actions.
Even now—God help him—he believed Douglas was right. In business married men did seem more trustworthy. More predictable. Less like loners or loose cannons. Some of the CEOs in other corporations he’d done business with recently had implied as much. They’d suggested that he bring his wife to various functions and had lifted a brow just a little when he’d said he didn’t have one.
He imagined his father was right, too, that this Viveca, whoever she was, would be the consummate corporate wife. Blonde. Brilliant. Bloodless. Charming. Capable. Clever. The perfect accessory for a CEO to wear on his arm.
Dominic shut his eyes for a minute and saw the future. Saw himself and the bloodless blonde his father had chosen for him.
He opened his eyes and stared out the window at the streaming rain.
It was warm inside, cold out there. The windows were fogging up, reminding him of other foggy windows, of a night out of time—of steam and sex and a woman who wasn’t bloodless at all.
And he felt his body harden now at the mere memory of her—and of that night.
For the past three months he’d been doing his damnedest to forget.
He’d been trying since February to pretend it never happened, Then, because he couldn’t manage that, he’d tried to convince himself that it would never happen again.
He didn’t believe it ever could.
Sex like they’d had that night was a once in a lifetime thing. It had to be. He’d certainly never had it before—or since.
It certainly hadn’t happened with Marjorie.
What if—
He tried not to pursue that thought. He couldn’t help himself.
What if it hadn’t been a fluke? What if they could do it again? And again?
His mouth went dry. His palms got damp. A very unprofessional, unbusinesslike reaction was taking place in his fine worsted charcoal wool trousers. He tugged at his grey-and-burgundy striped tie. It was the same tie…the one she had…
He sucked air.
Then he shoved himself out of his chair, stalked across the room and flung open the door to the outer office.
Shyla held out the phone to him. “Dominic, Mr. Shiguru on line two and Ms. Beecher has been on hold—”
“Not now.” He didn’t even break stride as he grabbed his raincoat and headed for the door.
“Dominic! Where are you going?”
“To get a wife.”
Sierra should have known it was going to be one of those days.
The moment she opened her eyes to see the rain pounding down the tulips in the window box on her fire escape, she should have closed them again and pulled the covers over her head.
Instead she’d pasted on one of her eternal-optimist smiles and told herself how good the rain was for the flowers. She refused to think how bad it was for hair.
Her mistake.
Of course it was bad for hair. It was also bad for tempers and taxis and terminally temperamental clients with the artistic vision of brain-dead walruses, not to mention for photographers whose babies had been teething all night and models with naturally curly locks.
No, it was not a good day.
Sierra did not expect every day to be stress-free. But the bitch-quotient in Finn MacCauley’s studio this morning was threatening to blow Manhattan right off the map.
“Hurry up,” Finn was saying for the fiftieth time that hour. “Move it! Move it! Move it! Do you know how many damn dresses we’ve still got left to shoot?”
Sierra didn’t know. She didn’t care.
The dresses weren’t her problem. Her problem was the hair.
Sleek hair. Piled hair. Severe shellacked hair.
“She’s frizzing again!” Ballou, the temperamental client pointed at Alison, the goddess from the Bronx. “Look at her!” He grabbed fistfuls of Alison’s long wildly curling hair straight out from her head and yelled at Sierra, “She can’t frizz! She has to be sleek! Make her sleek!”
It would be easier to make a porcupine bald. Sierra sighed. “Hang on. Let me put on some more gel. Just a little gel.”
“Sierra, for Pete’s sake!” Finn was tearing his own hair. “Let’s go. Stop messing with her and get the hell out of the way.”
“I just need—”
“Sleek,” Ballou insisted. “Smooth. Straight as a die.” He made up and down knifing motions with his hands.
Then why did you ask for a model with naturally curly hair? Sierra wanted to scream.
“I’m frizzing, too!” Delilah, the other model, complained.
“And not the blue. I don’t like her in the blue,” Ballou decided, scrutinizing the dress Alison had just put on. “Let’s try the yellow.”
“I can’t wear yellow!” the model objected. “I look dead in yellow.”
“You’re going to be dead in yellow,” Finn said, “if you don’t shut up. We have thirty of these damn things to get finished and we’ve only done six! Sierra! Let’s go!”
They went. The models stood patiently while Sierra slicked them down again. Ballou fussed and fumed and fretted and changed his mind and Finn griped and growled and cussed and shot.
And all the while Sierra tried to stay up-beat because after all, she told herself, in the greater course of the universe what difference did it make?
It was rain. A yellow dress or a blue one. Curly hair. Frizzy hair. Straight hair. What difference did it make?
It didn’t.
Not like Frankie.
That was really what made it a lousy day—thinking about Frankie.
Frankie Bartelli was going to die.
