“I know people.” She shrugged, lifting her hands. “Or is it yourmaritothat you are worried about?”
Marito.Husband.Was I worried about what he thought? Yes, I was.
“Do not worry,bella,” she said lavishly. “You have the type of hair meant for any cut! It is wavy, no?”
I patted the top of my head. “It was a bit curly when I was young and it was shorter.”
“It will beperfecto! Do not worry about yourbestia. He is, ah, creative in the bedroom, no?”
I refused to answer that. Not that I was a prude, but I was jealous. Just the mention of my husband made her moan.
“He is. You are blushing. That is good! You need to be creative for him. Transform yourself. Your eyes will take center stage. We will make your Pandora’s box even moremalvagio—wicked—to him. Do not worry about the other one—Nemours. I will take care of it.”
She nodded once, a move even more final than the papers that I’d be signing come morning,tutto risolto.
All settled.
Chapter Six
Scarlett
Holy Mary, what did I do?
Standing in front ofDare Alla Luce,a half-drunk bottle of Chianti dangling from my fingertips, I counted the windows toour villa. A villa that my husband had no idea I’d purchased to make a life for us in Italy. And not just any villa, no, this was an extremely expensive villa. All bought with the money I made from the deals Nemours had secured for me. Brando was a proud man—the money he made he considered “ours.” The money I made he considered “mine.” No matter how he considered it, I considered our funds to be joined, just as we were in everything else. Therefore,webought this villa with— “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…” I counted—ten windows with beautiful wooden frames.
A surge of hot air rose up under my maxi dress, billowing it out, and I almost lifted my arms, tempting the wind to take me with it, like a hot air balloon.
I went to feel for my hair and only found my neck.
As final as her nod, Rosaria had sent her hairdresser from Rome to see to my hair. Lorenzo had studied me in earnest, both of them circling my locks like a bunch of vultures.
“Bob,” he said on a nod.
“Bob,” she agreed with a nod.
“Who the eff is Bob?” I said.
They both tittered.
After Lorenzo, I was left with bob, which meant that my hair felt so much thicker, and it was tussled around my head with beautiful, fat relaxed curls, but most of it was…gone. Rosaria reassured me that the cut Lorenzo had given me was a reflection of theà laSophia Loren bob, and that our eyes were shaped the same, and I looked…what had she called me?You are a mixture between a classic beauty and a sex kitten.
I told her that she couldn’t use those, it was a mixed metaphor, but she said that she could do as she pleased—if it is the truth, who is to tell me no?
“Certainly not me,” I mumbled into the bottle.
I took another deep drink, tilting a little with the gigantic Tuscan farmhouse.
Hair remorse. Buyer’s remorse. Perhaps I should’ve thrown all caution to the wind and gorged myself into next week—go up a dress size or two. Really change everything about myself in one grand sweep.
Even the thought of eating myself into next week felt—okay though. I felt good. I was just a bit shocked, but it was starting to wear off and dissolve into pleasurable warmth.
The sound of a motor and tires made it to me before the car did. Thinking that it was Rosaria or some of the workers she sent over coming back, I walked toward the driveway. Another Ferrari. This one all black. It looked like the Batmobile gone Italian. The driver was missing. I peeked through some low branches of a few trees to see any sign of legs, or a body.
“Signora! Signora!” The voice came through the trees. The man prattled off in Italian, and it sounded heated.
We met up at the same time—me moving toward the tree and him emerging from around it.
“Holy Mary,” I breathed out, stumbling back. I narrowed my eyes when the shock waned some. “What are you doing here? How did you—h-how did you find me?”
