Page 116 of For Your Eyes Only

“Thank you…”I guess?Is this allowed?

“Yes, thank you, Giana.” Pietro puts a finger on my shoulder, turning me towards the makeup tent. “Mira needs your help, and I’m sure the models are parched.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

The older man watches me scurry away with the case of water, while Pietro rolls his eyes as if I’m the most annoying insect on the planet. “Our new second assistant is always bumbling where she’s not supposed to be.”

His comment stings, but I remind myself I’m paying my dues. Ducking into the tent, I go to where Mira is blotting a model’s finished face with a giant setting sponge.

“Water, thank you!” She takes one for her and one for the model, who’s, like, a foot taller than me and half my weight.

She’s wearing a long, black dress with tiny red flowers dotted sparsely throughout the fabric. The quarter-length sleeves fall in voluminous puffs at her forearms, and the skirt is a high-low design. Her hair is braided right at the top and frizzed out big to her shoulders, and black Birkenstock sandals are on her feet.

“Did you show him your sketches?” Mira leans over, whispering.

“He turned me away with his finger like I was a stray dog.”

“So I take that as a no.”

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “Who’s the old man with him?”

Mira frowns at me. “Jacque Carlisle. I thought you knew him.”

“I never said I knew him.”

Brianna, the photographer’s assistant, bursts into the tent. “Okay, Giana, Mr. Carlisle wants to use you in the editorial. Let’s get moving.”

“What?” Shaking my head, I look from her to Mira.

“Let’s move it, people, we don’t have all day!” Briana orders. “We need makeup and hair here… I don’t know what we have that’ll fit you.”

A flurry of assistants surrounds me, removing the pins from my hair and taking my portfolio bag off my shoulder. Before I can argue, a black denim jacket is draped over my white blouse, and a guy applies heavy black eyeliner to my eyes.

Mira whips out a pair of black jeggings. “These will stretch!”

I pull them on, and when she sees my red toenails, she claps. “Excellent! Shoe problem solved. He’ll love your feet.”

Nerves jangle in my chest as I walk out from behind the black canvas changing area to where the platforms and lights are set up in the square.

I know what I look like, and I know what the models look like. I expect he’ll use me as a prop somehow. I’ll be the girl holding flowers or the street vendor selling fruit or the assistant carrying her little dog. I’m not expecting to be the focus of the shoot.

“Yes!” Jacque strides to where I’m standing, catching me by the wrist and leading me to the center of the stage. “You’re perfect. How do you feel?”

“Like I have no idea what’s happening.” Wide-eyed, I look around at the models on the sidelines with their arms crossed. “Like a fish out of water.”

“You are not a fish.” Jacques fixes his smiling blue eyes on me. “You are a mermaid, a magical creature. I want you to imagine you’re on a holiday. You’re in this beautiful new city, seeing the sights for the first time. I want wonder, excitement, playful energy. Okay?”

I swallow the dryness in my throat. “Okay.”

It’s not difficult to do what he asks, since itisthe first time I’ve visited Duomo. I look around, feeling very awkward, especially when I see Pietro beside the other models glaring at me.

Jacque goes to a small table and picks up a giant camera, then he presses a button and energetic, sexy music begins to play. It’s a song I don’t know, “Want Me” by Jodi Whatley, he says.

He returns, giving me a wink. “You are the woman in this song. Now make us want you. Seduce the camera.”

Taking a deep breath, I channel muscle memory, listening to the music and taking on a character the way I would do when I danced. Picturing Trip in the audience, I bat my eyes, throw my hair, and become the woman he desires, the woman I want him to want.

For the next two hours, I’m posed and arranged in a tiny metal chair. I recline on the side of the fountain, stand with my back to an enormous Corinthian column, bend one leg and allow my shirt to fall off my shoulder.

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