Page 107 of For Your Eyes Only

I skip over to answer, feeling a little nervous now, after our conversation, but when I open the wooden barrier, a woman is there. She’s about my height wearing oversized dark sunglasses, and her red-velvet mouth is curved in a fierce scowl.

“Are you Giana Rossi?” Her voice is sharp, all business, and she removes her sunglasses to glare at me with ice-blue eagle eyes.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” I feel like I’m in trouble with the school principal, which in my case would be Mother Superior.

“You do not know me.” She strides into the room, dressed in a sleek black shift dress with a small triangle Prada logo at the shoulder. Her dark hair is bobbed at her ears, and her bangs are cut in a straight line. “My name is Anabella Vitolo, and it seems you are in possession of a dress that belongs to me. I’m on my way back to Milan this afternoon, and I have no more time to wait for you to return it.”

“What dress?” My brow furrows, and I try to think.

“Don’t play stupid with me, young lady. It’s a couture Prada from the Fall ready to wear collection. That dress is worth five thousand dollars, and if you think—”

“The Prada!” I shriek. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry! I was working on it and my friend here was injured. I put it aside to take care of him, and I guess I forgot.”

“I have no interest in your personal life.” She crosses her arms, glaring at me. “Give me the dress.”

“Of course!” I quickly dash to the large armoire, removing the dress. “I was so close to being finished. Look…” I go to where she’s standing. “Only a few stitches left. If you have five minutes, I can whip it up real quick. No charge.”

Her eyes narrow. “I wasn’t planning to pay.”

“It truly is my fault.” Trip is on the bed, looking so handsome in spite of himself. His hair is a little messy, and the scruff has returned to his cheeks. Michele loaned him a white button-up shirt, and it’s open to reveal the white bandage stretched around his athletic build. “I burst in without a warning, turned everything to complete chaos, and I’ve taken up all her time for the last week.”

She studies him. “You’re American.”

“I live in New York, and you’re from Milan?”

“Yes.” Her answer is clipped, and she glances at the dress I’m holding. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

Grabbing my kit, I quickly remove the needle I’d placed in the skirt when I pricked my finger and step out to the balcony where I left my chair. I can work better without the pressure of them watching me.

“What do you do in Milan, Ms. Vitolo?” Trip’s voice has a touch of business in it.

Our unexpected visitor hesitates, but she answers him with an air of entitlement. “I’m the outreach coordinator at the House of Prada. I report directly to the creative director.”

Swallowing hard, I try not to faint.The House of Prada?

“Outreach coordinator…” Trip continues unaffected. “That sounds like marketing. You might know my friend Blake van Hamilton. She modeled for Prada in the last September issue ofVogue.Jacque Carlisle shot it?”

“Your friend modeled our clothes for Jacque Carlisle?” Her tone changes, and I lean closer, listening as I finish my stitching.

“For AmericanVogue.” Now Trip’s tone is entitled, and a grin wrinkles my nose. “My friend here, Giana Rossi is an aspiring designer. You should take a look at her sketches.”

“Hmm… What fashion school did she attend?”

Cold flushes my skin. I only graduated high school, and I’ve never had a day in any sort of design school or formal training.

Trip doesn’t hesitate. “The same fashion school as Karl Lagerfeld, Coco Chanel, Jean Paul Gaultier.”

Blinking hard, I swallow the sob in my throat. He’s fighting for me. Why is he doing this?

“I see. So no design school?”

“But she has experience.” He’s so confident. “She designed the dance costumes for several of my employees in south Florida. Ask her to show you what she’s done when she comes back. Or better yet, check out her newest sketches on that table there. I’m sure Prada wants to cultivate talented, young Italian designers. She could be the next Gianni Versace, and if you don’t watch it, I’ll steal her away to Miami.”

I blink hard against the tears. Anabella doesn’t reply, but I hear her moving around the room. I’m finished with my work, and I tie it off, cutting the thread with my teeth like my mother taught me.

Hesitating, I step inside, carrying the dress to where she’s standing beside the dining table, looking down at my sketches.

“Again, I’m so sorry this was lost in the confusion.” I hand the beautiful dress to her. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m usually very organized.”

---