No Strings Attached

Chapter One

I follow her, also taking note that every person passing me is show-stopping attractive. Like the cover of Vogue attractive. And every single one of them observes my styling choices with confused wonder. I glance at my purple suit, smoothing out the relaxed material.

"Thank you for flying out so quickly. It's been hell dealing with his publicity and gearing up for the winter show."

"Yes, I saw he was mobbed last night at Probe with the upcoming model, Lana Nguyen."

"Wow, you're good."

"It's the job," I maintain as she grabs the shiny door handle, ushering me inside. I step into the room, already hearing a prominent voice ringing with confidence.

"The linen suits will start the show; the formal will end."

"I'm just suggesting the linens come out after the pastel palette suits."

"You've suggested it. I've listened. I'm set on the current chart."

I turn a corner, finding the space mostly unoccupied apart from a long table in the middle of the room, lacking chairs. There are fabrics everywhere. Mannequins dressed in crisp, bright suits. There's a crowd of people standing in a semi-circle, their attention focused on the man occupying the opposite side of the space, his back turned while he observes the lineup of artificial mockups. From behind, I notice how fit he is, how his cream-colored dress-shirt tightens by the shoulders, stretched material that clings to the rivers of muscular back visible from behind.

"Get the models. We'll do a mock show, and I'll see if I can understand what you're talking about, Maurine," he finally declares, turning to the table. The crowd faces my direction then, set on exiting the room. I guess that was their cue to go.

I shift out of the way with Sasha, holding my portfolio to my chest, ignoring the looks of disdain I get from the colorful designers as they leave.

"Gio?"

"Sasha, I'm very busy."

"Your new publicist is here to see you. Scarlett Bardot, remember? The vice president? Of Norman White's firm?" Clearly, he knows I'm coming.

I watch him as he scribbles something down on a sheet, not bothering to look up, having judged he was an asshole before even meeting him. It's disappointing how predictable he suddenly becomes. I breathe in deeply, giving him a serious once-over. His hair is jet black, curly, with perfect ringlets of shiny waves that sit on his shoulders. Sasha shuffles beside me uncomfortably. Normally, I'd snap and say something. Not today.

His profile is like a work of art, a medieval painting without the years of age. Despite the clean stubble on his face, his jaw is defined and sharp. His skin glows, not from tanning. No, it's naturally dark. There are no imperfections I can spot. Not even when he straightens and finally turns my way.

With dark and full brows, his sultry eyes look nearly the same color as his hair. I'm taken aback by them, especially since he bleeds a hole into my face before his eyes take in the rest of me with a calculating slowness.

I plant a smile on my face, hoping he won't see how ingenuine it is. I'm unusually unhinged, off my game, by this man's ability to stun me and insult me without a single word.

His lips turn up suddenly, his eyes shifting to his assistant.

"You've got to be kidding me..." he utters with amusement.

My already fake smile fades slowly, as I hear snickers from two interns removing the suits from the mannequins behind him.

"Giovanni!" Sasha chastises in a warning. He frowns.

"Are you for real? Honestly?" He looks at me, gaping, trying to find words. "You are going to represent me? You do know I'm in the fashion industry?"

I remain silent as the grave, still as stone, steadily surveying him.

"Giovanni, she is the best out there," Sasha grumbles, red with embarrassment. "She is the vice president of the company. She didn't have to fly out here to meet you."

Her reminder doesn't faze him in the slightest.

"I just... I'm sorry... I'm in awe of you, Mrs.—?"

"Bardot," I hear myself murmur calmly. "And it's Miss."

"Ms. Bardot, all right. Well... and believe me when I say this, I don't mean to be an ass. I am sure you are very, very good at what you do but unfortunately, in my line of work—"

I hold up my hand to stop him, having heard enough of his patronizing, egotistical dribble. "In your line of work, Mr. Martinelli, you spend half of your time pissing people off and the other, fucking every model in sight."

The way Sasha stiffens in fear emboldens me even further. The way his eyes slant deeply as he stares unabashedly into my icy stare makes what I have to say all the easier.

"And as your kind assistant informed you, I am the best out there. You need someone to cover up your seemingly constant fuck-ups, and get your passion out there into every eye in the world. I can do that and more for you. But if I'm doing that, I'm going to suggest you develop some manners. I'd also suggest you focus on what I can do for you rather than the type of suit I wear or how much makeup I can attempt to cake on my face. If you cannot do what I request, then I will not let you waste any more of my time."

Crickets.

Just as I like it.

His gaze doesn't leave my own, unwaveringly steady. I wait for him to say something, and when he doesn't, I try another approach. I turn around, gliding toward the door. The obnoxious girls are laughing again.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

I grab the handle and jerk hard, a small smile of triumph touching my mouth when a shadow darkens the doorway, his large looming presence directly behind my back. His slender hand is pressed flat against the sleek French door.

One.

"You're hired," he murmurs gently.

There's no laughing now. Those schoolgirls are dead quiet.

I turn around, surprised when he doesn't recoil to give me space. As my sleeve grazes his crisp linen suit, as his endless eyes observe my features thoroughly, my heart rate soars to unhealthy highs, unused to this kind of unnatural intimacy with a client.

I've never met anyone so intense.

"Let me give you a tour," he insists after a moment, his sculpted lips curved slightly.

"Lead the way." I hope he didn't hear the voice crack. My senses are affected by the intoxicating scent surrounding him. Jesus, what is that? Lavender? Wood? He grabs the door handle, pulling it open, knowing exactly what he's done to me. As I force my legs to work, striding from the room, Sasha's heels begin to clack as she follows us.

"Sasha, please reschedule the conference call with Pierre, and tell the group I want them back here in an hour."

"Of... course," she says with delay, clearly stunned. It's my realization then that he's planning on doing this tour alone, something he doesn't often do or she wouldn't be staring at him dumbfounded the way she is.

He stops suddenly, perching the door open with his elbow.

"Oh, and get rid of those interns," he adds coolly, gesturing his head toward the two girls by the mannequins, peering at us in disbelief. Shutting them away behind the door, he guides me into the slim hallway, pressing a firm hand to my back as if he'd done it a million times before, intent on introducing me into his outlandish world. I look at everything around me as we begin to walk, admiring the splendor. And then I look at him.

Hell, I can't deny. it It's a beautiful world.