The Change in Di Navarra's Plan. Lynn Harris Raye
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could feel her eyes upon him. It was nothing he wasn’t accustomed to. Women often stared. It was not something he felt was an inconvenience. No, it was an advantage, especially for a man in the business he was in.
In the business of making people more beautiful, it did not hurt to be attractive yourself. If much of that was genetics, well, it was not his fault.
He still used Navarra products—soap, cologne, skin care, shampoo—and he would always maintain, to whoever would listen, that they benefited him greatly.
Now he sat in the back of the limousine with his projections and printouts, and studied the focus-group information for the newest line of products NC was bringing out this fall. He was pleased with what he saw. Very pleased.
He was not, it should be noted, pleased with the agency that had sent this girl over. She was the fourth model he’d seen this morning, and though they’d finally got it right, he was angry that it had taken four attempts to get the correct combination of innocence and sex appeal that he’d desired for this ad campaign.
He was selling freshness and beauty, not a prepackaged look that many of the models he’d seen recently came with. They had a hard edge about them, something that looked out from their eyes and said that, while they might appear innocent, they had actually left innocence in the rearview mirror a thousand miles ago.
This girl, however...
He looked up, met her gaze boldly, appraisingly. She dropped her eyes quickly, a pink stain spreading over her cheeks. A sharp feeling knifed into him, stunning him. He had a visceral reaction to that display of sweetness, his body hardening in a way it hadn’t in quite some time. Oh, he’d had sex—plenty of it—but it had become more of a box to check off in his day rather than an escape or a way to relax.
His reaction just now interested him. His gaze slipped over her again, appraised what he saw, as he had the first time. She was dressed in a cheap suit, though it fit her well. Her shoes were tall, pink suede—and brand-new, he realized, looking at the sole of one where she’d turned her legs to the side. The price tag was still on the shoe. He tilted his head.
$49.99
Not Jimmy Choo shoes or Manolo Blahnik shoes, certainly. He didn’t expect her to be wearing thousand-dollar shoes, or even the latest designer fashions, but he had rather expected she would be more...polished.
Which was odd, considering that polish was precisely what he did not want. Still, she was a model with a highly respected New York City firm. He’d have thought she might be a bit more prepared. On the other hand, perhaps she was fresh from the farm and they’d sent her over straightaway in desperation.
“How many of these jobs have you done before?” he asked.
She looked up again. Blinked. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was the most extraordinary shade of strawberry-blond, and a smattering of light freckles dotted her pale skin. He would have to tell the photographer not to erase those later. They added to her fresh look.
“Jobs?”
Drago suppressed a stab of impatience. “Modeling jobs, cara.”
She blinked again. “Oh, I, um...”
“I’m not going to send you away if this is your first time,” he snapped. “So long as the camera loves you, I couldn’t care less if you’ve just come up from the family farm.”
Her skin flushed again. This time, her chin came up. Her eyes flashed cool fire, and he found himself intrigued at the play of emotions across her face. It was almost as if she were arguing with herself.
“There’s no need to be rude, you know,” she snapped back. “Manners are still important, whether you’ve got a billion dollars or only one.”
Drago had a sudden urge to laugh. It was as if a kitten had suddenly hissed and swatted him. And it had the effect of making some of his tension drain away.
“Then I apologize for being rude,” he said, amused.
She folded her arms over her breasts and tried to look stern. “Well, then. Thank you.”
He set the papers down on the seat beside him. “Is this your first time to New York?”
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip. A slice of sensation knifed into his groin. “Yes,” she said.
“And where are you from?”
“Louisiana.”
He leaned forward then, suddenly quite certain he needed to make her feel comfortable if he was going to get what he wanted out of this shoot. “You’ll do a fine job,” he said. “Just be yourself in front of the camera. Don’t try to act glamorous.”
She dropped her gaze away and slid her fingers along the hem of her jacket. “Mr. Di Navarra—”
“Drago,” he said.
She looked up again. Her blue eyes were worried. He had a sudden urge to kiss her, to wipe away that worried look and put a different kind of look there. He gave himself a mental shake. Highly uncharacteristic of him. Not that he didn’t date the models—he did sometimes—but this one wasn’t his usual type. He liked the tall, elegant ones. The ones who looked as if ice cubes wouldn’t melt in their mouths.
The ones who didn’t make him think of wide-eyed idealists who chased after dreams—and kept chasing them even when they led down self-destructive paths. Women like this one were so easily corruptible in the wrong hands. His protective instincts came to the fore, made him want to send her back to Louisiana before she even stepped in front of the camera.
He wanted her to go home, to stop chasing after New York dreams of fame and fortune. This world would only disappoint her. In a few months, she’d be shooting drugs, drinking alcohol and throwing up her food in order to lose that extra pound some idiotic industry type had told her made her look fat.
Before he could say anything of what he was thinking, the car came to a halt. The door swung open immediately. “Sir, thank goodness,” the location manager said. “The girl isn’t here and—”
“I have her,” Drago said. The other man’s head swung around until his gaze landed on the girl—Holly, was it? Now he wished he’d paid more attention when he’d first seen her outside his office.
“Excellent.” The man wiggled his fingers at her. “Come along, then. Let’s get you into makeup.”
She looked terrified. Drago smiled encouragingly. “Go, Holly,” he said, trying the name he was fairly certain was correct. He didn’t miss the slight widening of her eyes, and knew he’d got it right. Clearly, she hadn’t expected him to remember. “I will see you again when this is over.”
She looked almost relieved as her eyes darted between him and the location manager. “Y-you will?”
She seemed very alone in that moment. Something inside him rose to the fore, made him ask a question he knew he shouldn’t. “Are you busy for dinner?”
She shook her head.
Drago smiled. He shouldn’t do this, he knew it, and yet he was going to anyway. “Then consider yourself busy now.”
* * *
Holly had never been to a fancy restaurant in her life, but she was in one now—in a private room, no less—sitting across from a man who might just be the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life. The longer she spent in Drago di Navarra’s company, the more fascinated she was.
Oh, he hadn’t started out well, that was for sure—but he’d improved tremendously upon further acquaintance. He’d actually turned out to be...nice.
There was only one problem. Holly frowned as she listened to him talk about the photo shoot earlier. She wasn’t a model, but she’d stood there in Central Park and let people fuss over her, dress her in a flowing purple gown, paint her with makeup, tease her hair—and then she’d stepped in front of