at her. Her heart lifted to her throat. She did not want to do this. The guillotine seemed preferable. But she nodded back at her. The sooner she did this the sooner it was going to be over.
“I have to go.”
The tremulous note in her voice drew her husband’s eye. He slid his fingers under her chin and drew her gaze up to his. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not.”
She waited for him to release her, but he pulled her closer instead, his eyes flashing as he anchored her against his hard, muscled length. “There was always one way to cure your nerves...”
Lilly started to protest, but he’d already brought his mouth down on hers. His palm cradled her jaw, holding her still while he explored the soft curves of her lips so thoroughly it felt as if he was memorizing them all over again. The heat that flashed between them was undeniable, as life-giving as it had been destructive. She told herself to stop, to end it, but it was impossible not to rise on tiptoes and kiss him back.
No one kissed like Riccardo. No one.
She stepped back, her gaze on his face, wanting him to feel as shaken, as flustered as she was. All she saw was a man still so firmly in control he looked as if he could have been carved out of stone. “Now you have color in your face,” he murmured, releasing her and giving her a tap on the behind. “Off you go.”
Confused, not sure which way was north and which was south, Lilly did as she was told, following the organizer, Kelly Rankin, to the temporary fitting rooms. Funnily enough, she did feel calmer.
Antonia Abelli stripped Lilly down to her underwear. “Buon Dio,” she breathed, casting a critical eye over the demure bra and panties Lilly had on. “Really?” She disappeared and came back with flimsy, lacy, non-existent underwear. She told Lilly to put it on. “They’re yours. Riccardo will thank me later.”
No, he wouldn’t. Lilly tried to tell herself that as she closed the curtain on the tiny little changing space and exchanged her own “nothing” underwear for the exquisite lace. This was not a real marriage. And she was definitely not sleeping with Riccardo.
“You need to give me the dress,” she told Antonia, peeking around the curtain. “I’m not going out there like this.”
The designer whipped the curtain away and gave her a critical look. “You look hot in those.”
“Yes, well—” She gasped as Antonia grabbed her arm and yanked her out. Shoulders slumping, cheeks on fire, she stood there, in the middle of all the pre-show chaos, a multitude of mirrors surrounding her, wanting to sink into the floor. Riccardo might have said he liked the changes, but there was too much flesh on her butt for comfort, and too much in her cleavage too, if the truth were told. And her thighs—well, they just looked big. She’d bet five of her extra pounds were there, as if she’d reached down and slapped a piece of chocolate cake on them.
“Turn,” Antonia ordered, whipping her around with firm hands.
Lilly did her best to ignore all the rail-thin women being dressed around her. But it was hard to because that was her ideal. That was what she thought she should look like.
“You have an unrealistic view of your body that has nothing to do with reality.” Her therapist’s words echoed in her ears. “You need to change the input you give your brain.”
She tried to look at herself objectively, but it was impossible to concentrate in the middle of a gazillion bodies racing around tucking people in, touching up hair and makeup and waving clipboards. She felt dizzy just watching them. Or was that because her chest felt so tight it was hard to breathe?
One pass down the runway, she told herself, pressing clammy palms together. That was all she had to do.
Antonia pulled the stunning white gown emblazoned with vibrant purple roses over her head and knelt to adjust the hem. Lilly’s eyes connected with a hard-looking blond’s in the mirror. “Hell,” she muttered, her throat tightening. Lacey Craig. Gossip columnist and bitch extraordinaire. The woman who’d begun the end of her marriage.
Lacey sauntered up. “Nice to have you back on the scene.”
Why? Because you missed having a punching bag? Lilly looked down at Antonia’s updo for fear she might lose it. Lacey had been the worst of the worst when it had come to her and Riccardo’s breakup. She’d splashed lurid details—some of them true, some of them not—across the pages of Manhattan’s most widely read tabloid. And would have done worse if Lilly hadn’t stopped her.
“You might want to watch the weight, though,” Lacey commented, running her gaze over her. “Wouldn’t want your sexy husband straying again.”
Antonia rose to her full five-foot-two inches and nodded at a security guard. “Get her out of here.”
Lacey shrugged. “Just a bit of friendly advice. You might have forgotten just how competitive the scene can be.”
As if Lilly could ever forget her husband’s infidelity. The room swayed around her, the floor tilting under her feet. Perspiration broke out on her forehead and she reached out an arm to steady herself against the wall. It must be a hundred degrees in here...
Antonia grimaced as the security guard ushered Lacey out. “Why can’t she ever behave?”
Lilly closed her eyes and told herself to focus. To put the nasty words out of her head and concentrate on getting through this. But visions of those photos flashed through her head like a film strip that wouldn’t stop. Riccardo in Chelsea Tate’s apartment, standing face-to-face with her in intimate conversation, his dark head bent to hers as he kissed her. Remembering the rest of the blurry series made her stomach churn anew.
Bile rose up in her throat. The sense of betrayal had been all-consuming. Had sucked her down into a cauldron of self-doubt so deep it had been impossible for her to climb out.
Antonia handed her some water. “Forget that horrible witch,” she murmured as she slipped a different pair of shoes on Lilly, then decided she liked Lilly’s own better with the dress. “You have a real woman’s body that most would die for.”
Lilly only barely registered the designer’s words. Lost in the world that had destroyed her, she twisted her hands together and stared down at the blindingly beautiful ring on her finger.
The stage manager called for the models. “You need to go,” Antonia said. “Keep your head up and don’t slouch. I’ve left the hem a bit long.”
She lined up behind the other women at the entrance to the stage, fourth in the queue, but she wasn’t really there. All she could see was the brilliant smile on Chelsea Tate’s face as she pulled Riccardo in for that kiss.
She ran the back of her hand across her damp forehead. The woman in front of her went out. The show director motioned that she was on.
“Go,” he said, giving her a nudge.
She stepped onto the runway. The lights blinded her. The beat of the music pounded in her ears. She started walking, but her legs were shaking so much it was hard to make any progress. The hundreds of faces in rows around the stage were a blur. The
