his time, dragging the shirt and jacket he was supposed to be wearing along behind him. Bianca felt her heart leap when she saw him. He had such a dazzling presence that she didn’t think she would ever become accustomed to his extraordinary handsomeness. Each time she saw him she was shocked anew. He was over six feet tall, muscular but lean, so that every movement he made, even the slightest, was accompanied by the visible motion of a set of muscles. He was born with perfect proportions: wide shoulders, a long torso, narrow waist and hips, and long legs. His dirty-blond hair hung well below his neck, and his blue eyes were startling, mesmerizing even. She watched as he slid the shirt on, covering the tribal tattoos on one arm, then lazily tucked half of it into his trousers, deliberately leaving the other half out. Finally, he put his jacket on.
Greg began shouting instructions to the lighting assistants, then to the four models. The camera began to flash, over and over again, as the models moved about according to Greg’s orders, and Bianca couldn’t help but notice Frans’s magnetism. He oozed a brooding sexiness through every pore, she thought, qualities that came across in the photographs of him. She’d often seen men and women who were stunningly good-looking in person but didn’t photograph well. The camera, happily, loved Frans. Bianca thought part of his particular magic was that he didn’t seem to give a damn about the appeal he had. It was as if he was totally unaware of his striking presence, and this, she thought, was a refreshing quality in a model. Most of them were hyperconscious of their beauty, and seemed to live for the attention it brought to them.
The shoot dragged on and on, but Bianca didn’t move from her chair. She was absorbed in Frans’s every movement, his every gesture, the sound of his German-accented English when he queried one of Greg’s instructions, his laughter when he or one of the other models made a silly mistake. She was love struck—there were no two ways about it—and she couldn’t get enough of him.
So what if I’m twice his age? she thought as she saw one of the makeup artists step in and carefully stroke blusher on one of the men’s cheekbones. He’s a grown-up. Eighteen years old. That’s old enough to know what you’re doing, isn’t it? Of course it is. She knew that in her circle eyebrows would be raised when word got out that she was seeing a male model. But seeing an eighteen-year-old? It was like compounding a felony. She could hear it now. The vicious gossips that populated the worlds of fashion and business would crucify her, a thirty-six-year-old seemingly sane and responsible business executive, for robbing the cradle. Not only that, but dating a male model, a species that everyone knew was unreliable and unintelligent and therefore unpromising and undesirable as boyfriend, let alone husband, material.
Well, Bianca had decided, let them talk. She was concerned about the reaction of only one person and that was her father. Angelo Coveri would be apoplectic—of that there was no doubt. He would storm and rage, call her names, and invoke the memory of her saintly mother. But Bianca knew that her father would come around to her side in the end. Despite whatever his initial misgivings might be, Bianca knew her father better than anyone, and she knew that under his thick skin Angelo Coveri was a romantic. He would eventually give her his blessings when he realized that Bianca was in love.
She’d wondered if this was true, if she was really in love. She was obsessed with Frans, and she knew it. But was she in love with him? Yes, she’d decided. That, too. She was in love with his long dirty-blond tangle of hair, his penetrating blue gaze and sensual lips, his prominent nose and lean, muscular body. Even his tribal tattoos had become imprinted on her mind as erotic touch-stones, and she loved nothing more than to lightly trace them with a fingernail.
Greg began shouting instructions to the lighting assistants, then to the four models. The camera began to flash, over and over again, as the models moved about according to Greg’s orders, and Bianca couldn’t help but notice Frans’s magnetism. He oozed a brooding sexiness through every pore, she thought, qualities that came across in the photographs of him. She’d often seen men and women who were stunningly good-looking in person but didn’t photograph well. The camera, happily, loved Frans. Bianca thought part of his particular magic was that he didn’t seem to give a damn about the appeal he had. It was as if he was totally unaware of his striking presence, and this, she thought, was a refreshing quality in a model. Most of them were hyperconscious of their beauty, and seemed to live for the attention it brought to them.
The shoot dragged on and on, but Bianca didn’t move from her chair. She was absorbed in Frans’s every movement, his every gesture, the sound of his German-accented English when he queried one of Greg’s instructions, his laughter when he or one of the other models made a silly mistake. She was love struck—there were no two ways about it—and she couldn’t get enough of him.
So what if I’m twice his age? she thought as she saw one of the makeup artists step in and carefully stroke blusher on one of the men’s cheekbones. He’s a grown-up. Eighteen years old. That’s old enough to know what you’re doing, isn’t it? Of course it is. She knew that in her circle eyebrows would be raised when word got out that she was seeing a male model. But seeing an eighteen-year-old? It was like compounding a felony. She could hear it now. The vicious gossips that populated the worlds of fashion and business would crucify her, a thirty-six-year-old seemingly sane and responsible business executive, for robbing the cradle. Not only that, but dating a male model, a species that everyone knew was unreliable and unintelligent and therefore unpromising and undesirable as boyfriend, let alone husband, material.
Well, Bianca had decided, let them talk. She was concerned about the reaction of only one person and that was her father. Angelo Coveri would be apoplectic—of that there was no doubt. He would storm and rage, call her names, and invoke the memory of her saintly mother. But Bianca knew that her father would come around to her side in the end. Despite whatever his initial misgivings might be, Bianca knew her father better than anyone, and she knew that under his thick skin Angelo Coveri was a romantic. He would eventually give her his blessings when he realized that Bianca was in love.
She’d wondered if this was true, if she was really in love. She was obsessed with Frans, and she knew it. But was she in love with him? Yes, she’d decided. That, too. She was in love with his long dirty-blond tangle of hair, his penetrating blue gaze and sensual lips, his prominent nose and lean, muscular body. Even his tribal tattoos had become imprinted on her mind as erotic touch-stones, and she loved nothing more than to lightly trace them with a fingernail.
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