The man, who was also wearing a tux with cowboy boots and cowboy hat, was walking toward us. It was hard to tell what colorhair he had underneath the hat, but his features were chiseled, and it was clear to see he was muscular underneath his tux.
He did not bother holding his hand out to Mariano when he reached us. He only tipped his hat before he began speaking. “I wanted to introduce myself. Clint Herndon. I’m from Houston and a good friend of Lou Blackett. He signed Atta to his record label.”
It was not Mariano who he was telling this to, but me.
“I felt compelled to introduce myself,” he continued. “I had to meet the woman who created such a stunning piece of jewelry for the auction. You are as stunning as your art, Ms. Capella.”
I set my hand to my neck, over my jugular notch, my mind conjuring the piece I had designed specifically for the auction. It seductively wrapped around the neck in gold, the round garnet pressing against the throat. It was a baroque-style piece, which I was known for.
He nodded at me. “I look forward to owning such a stunning piece of…jewelry, since I understand you and your family personally serve the Fausti family only, except for the rare pieces that are allowed in instances such as these.”
Correct. Money could not be earned from our pieces unless it was the Fausti family who paid us. Occasionally, we were allowed to design for design powerhouses, such as the one Sicilia was affiliated with, and for charity.
The Fausti family had approved my designing for Atta’s charity gala years ago. Every year, I designed something exclusively for it. Every year, my jewelry brought in a nice sum for the charity.
“For your other half,” I said to Clint, suddenly feeling chilled by the man standing next to me.
Casanova. His eyes were in the distance, but there was no doubt he was listening. His body had turned hard, frigid, and it was turning the once warm room cold.
Clint Herndon laughed, but it was low, seductive. “I know who your family are, Ms. Capella. I have followed your career for a while. Let’s just say I’m a fan and want it for personal reasons.” He winked at me, and I was suddenly afraid for that eye. “Talk again soon.” He tipped his hat to me and shuffled toward the ballroom with another glass of whiskey in his hand.
Sighing, I refused to look at Casanova. I could feel how rigid he had gone next to me. When we had arrived, he had still been stunned by my personal concert in the car. Clint Herndon’s gallant speech had turned him to a block of ice. I did not want to face off with him. He was pissed off. Probably thinking about all the nefarious things he could do with that winking eye.
I was incensed as well. Even thinking about all the women whose wallets were burning with impatience for the bidding hour was making mehot. I could feel my skin flushing from it.
Stop it, Sistine! Casanova isnotyours. He belongs to all the women in the world, remember?
Atta’s hand snaked around my waist, directing me toward the room where my necklace was on display. Angelo hung back to walk next to frigid Casanova. He was downing whiskey as if it might run out.
Atta leaned in and whispered in my ear, “First. Stop talking to yourself—prying ears are listening to your secrets.Second.Clint Herndon’s interest in your necklace goes beyond your necklace, if you catch my drift.”
I nodded. “I caught it.”
“He’s one of the most sought out bachelors in this circle. Or he was.”
I stopped, and she stopped. We faced each other. She nodded before she took me by the hip and we started walking again.
“Your Casanova is as popular as your necklace.”
“Mine,” I grumbled. “I bet he is.”
She squeezed my hip. “Clint is biddingbigtime on your necklace. His family owns a high-value equestrian ranch in Houston. He branched off and started his own jewelry stores. He has a chain. One of the youngest millionaires in the world, atm.”
“Points for him,” I said.
She laughed. “You’re not impressed, I take it?”
“I am never impressed by money.”
“Atta girl.” She hip-bumped me.
We both grinned at each other. When Atta was first born, she refused to take a breath on her own. Once she did,ZiaBianca told us her father had said to her,Atta girl.And that was how she got her name. Cecilia was named after our great-grandmother, the one my family told me I favored.
Atta stopped at a table showcasing a few random items up for silent bids. Her table was next to it. She was auctioning a private performance. My table was next to hers. Security was heavy. Atta nodded to the lead guard, and he stepped away from my spot but not far. He might as well have disappeared. Casanova stood behind me. He was not budging from his spot as my knight, as Angelo was not moving from his spot behind Atta.
The line for the silent auction was long, and most of the patrons wanted a word with the artists who made the pieces they were bidding on.
“Look at her, Lyle! Isn’t shesopretty?!” An older lady with her older husband said as she walked up to my table. “The roses in her hair. Her bone structure! Look at those high cheek bones.SoMediterranean.” She smiled at me. “In another life, I was a makeup artist.” She tittered. “Did you really make that necklace?” She put a hand over her heart. “I must have it!”
