Anything for You Ch. 04

"Why?"

"Because," I began slowly, "Marco's worked long and hard at not being a womenswear designer. Of course, he's probably going to have to give in and give it a whirl someday." I grinned as Marco made a growling sound under his breath. "Seeing as that's the family business, an' all."

"The family business?" Roxy repeated, her brows furrowing. "Maretti?"

"No, Maretti is just my mother's name." Marco released a world-weary sigh then scowled again. "I'm Marco Maretti-Salvani."

"Salvani..."

We waited patiently, knowing it could be only seconds before the penny dropped. And when it did, Roxy uttered an ear-piercing shriek.

*

I must have ordered stock from Marco for over a year before I discovered the truth, I reflected, checking my lipstick in the mirror one last time before opening the bathroom door and heading back towards the stairs. Marco had persuaded me that it might be a good idea to accompany him to a few other trade shows that year and we'd been on a flight to Milan. He'd asked me to hold his passport while he adjusted his seatbelt and out of sheer nosiness, I decided to check it out. It was only after I'd finished giggling at the particularly delightful sideburns he was sporting in his passport picture that I spotted his full name, a moment that'd had a similar effect on me as it had on Roxy.

"Maretti-Salvani?" I'd exclaimed, expecting him to laugh off the coincidence. "Huh, no wonder you never tell anyone that bit. It'd be pretty tough to live up to expectations, wouldn't it? Not that your ranges aren't fantastic—'course they are," I babbled on at once, conscious I might be digging myself into a hole. "But if people thought your clothes actually were Salvani, they'd expect—"

And then I'd stopped, the look on his face a sight to behold. "Oh no. Oh God, no. You have to be kidding."

But he hadn't been—and neither was it a coincidence. Marco was son and sole heir to the founders of one of the largest fashion houses in Europe, a fact he'd somehow managed to hide from nearly all of his customers, including me.

"Why?" I'd demanded, just as soon as I'd managed to get over the shock. "Why set up under a different name? Surely if you'd labelled your maternity wear as Salvani, it would've flown off the shelves."

"Exactly." Keeping his voice low so that no one would overhear, Marco had given me a withering glance. "But I don't want women to buy my clothes because they're Salvani—I want them to buy them because they like them. Because I designed something they really want to wear, not because they think it's something they should wear."

It was impossible not to admire Marco's desire to make it in the rag trade on his own terms. He'd raised his own finance, made his own contacts and set up his own design team, refusing to accept any assistance from his parents. And over the last ten years, he and his now ex-wife Elena had built the company into a thriving and extremely successful business.

But as I descended the last of the stairs and pushed open the kitchen door, I remembered that the last time he visited, Marco had admitted he was facing increasing pressure to bring the company in under the Salvani umbrella. His parents, particularly his father, were keen to see him take a leading role in the family firm. "Papa seems to think that now I've had a chance to get my little project out of my system, I'm ready to play in the big league," Marco had told me, rather bitterly. "He doesn't seem to understand how important Maretti is to me."

There was a bit of me that envied him that, though. At least his parents cared about his future and what he did with his life. My parents appeared to take little interest in my business. Or in me, for that matter.

"Here she is," Alice said brightly when I entered the shop, giving me a wholly approving smile as she surveyed my appearance. "Marco's outside, dear, waiting in the taxi."

"Oh, right." I didn't try to hide my surprise as I reached for my coat and shrugged it on. Marco usually hired a car when he visited. "Maybe we're not going all that far tonight, then."

"Bet you still end up going somewhere really posh. You're both all dressed-up," Roxy put in as she passed me with an armful of clothing from the changing rooms. She still looked star-struck, I noticed with amusement. "And hey." She stopped, leaning closer to whisper in my ear. "Who needs Drew when you can have that sexy studmuffin Marco, eh? Pwoar."

"Roxy!"

But she whirled away giggling before I had a chance to protest, and with a heartfelt sigh, I retrieved my handbag from under the counter and left them to close up for the day.

"So that's the famous Roxy," Marco said with a grin once I'd settled next to him in the taxi, feeling more than a little self-conscious at being so glammed-up. "Quite a character, isn't she? I think I'm flattered, though. I just heard her tell Alice that I'm 'pretty fit for an old bloke'."

"Oh God." I bit my lip then laughed at his mock-aggrieved expression. "Well, technically, I s'pose, at thirty-six you're old enough to be her father."

His eyes widened. "Thanks a lot," he murmured, grimacing at me as I continued to laugh. "I can always rely on you to keep my feet firmly on the ground."

"Is that why you're not driving tonight?" I asked innocently, motioning around the taxi as we pulled away from the kerb. "Night vision not quite as good as it used to be, now that you're getting on a bit?"

"My vision, night and day, is perfect, thank you," Marco retorted. "No, I just thought that seeing how I've accidentally booked myself into one of Britain's better hotels—well, so far it seems to be, anyway." We exchanged smiles, it being a running joke between us that he found hotel accommodation in Britain less than satisfactory most of the time. "I thought I might risk taking you back there for dinner."

"Okay. So which hotel is that, then?" But even as I asked the question, I realised it was entirely possible I knew what he was going to say.

Dear God, no. Anywhere but there.

"The Park. Do you know it?"

Oh, I was extremely well-acquainted with the interior of the Regent Suite. The rest of the hotel remained a bit of a blur, though.

"I know it," I said, trying to keep my tone as light as possible. "The food's supposed to be good."

Well, I could vouch for the chicken goujons and the thickly-sliced, hand-cut potato wedges, anyway. From the children's menu. Oh, and the hotel's Full English breakfast had looked fabulous, not that I'd managed to eat much of it.

"Excellent," Marco said, looking pleased. "I thought we could go for a drink in the bar first and eat later, if that's okay?"

It was fine. As long as nobody recognised me as the girl who'd checked out of the very same hotel this morning, of course. With another guy. But surely the odds of that were low, I decided. For a start, I looked completely different tonight—I barely recognised my own reflection. And the chances of the same staff being on duty had to be equally low, didn't they?

"I take it you had a good time last night?"

I started at the question, for a split second wondering how he knew what I'd done the previous evening. "I—er..."

"Your birthday?" He smiled. "Happy birthday, by the way. I do have a present for you, but I left it at the hotel—don't let me forget to give it to you later, will you?"

"Oh!" Doh. "Right, yes. Thank you," I got out at last. "You didn't need to get me anything. That's so sweet."

Marco shrugged off my reply. "You spent the evening with Drew?"

"I—yes." Nonplussed again, I brushed an imaginary speck from my dress. Was it possible he knew something after all? Had Roxy dropped a hint? "How did you know that?"

He grinned. "Samantha, there are very few people whom you allow to take you to dinner. I consider myself lucky to be one of them. If it wasn't Drew, then it would've had to have been someone new in your life."

"Oh." Really? I didn't allow people to take me to dinner? News to me. I didn't get that many invitations. And then all at once, I understood his true motive for asking the question. "Oh." I started to laugh. "I get it, you're fishing. Is this your roundabout way of asking whether I've got another boyfriend yet?'" I demanded, groaning when he raised his eyebrows. "Sorry to disappoint you, but no."

"Do I look disappointed?" Marco gave me a butter-wouldn't-melt smile. "And Drew...?"

"Is out tonight with his latest girlfriend," I said, knowing that Marco knew Drew of old, and trying to ignore the flare of pain I experienced in my chest at the thought. "Angie, I believe her name is."

"Good for Drew."

Yeah, good for Drew. I tried to draw in a deep breath, my lungs still tight. Drew being with another woman wasn't something I wanted to think about—and yet I couldn't help but think about it. Somehow, I was going to have to pull myself together. Somehow, over the next few days and weeks I was going to have to learn to carry on as though nothing had ever happened. Get through another crappy Christmas and behave as though what happened between Drew and me last night hadn't affected me in any way—save for ridding me of my virginity.

But how the hell was I going to do that?

"Samantha?" Marco rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Er..." I swallowed down the sudden lump in my throat. "Yes, of course. I'm just a bit tired—I'll be fine in a minute. It's been really busy in the shop today."

"Because of the article in the Daily News?"

"Yes—you saw that? Wasn't it fantastic?" Grateful for the change in topic, I injected as much animation into my response as I could muster and by the time we'd finished discussing the pictures—not to mention the inevitable exposure the feature had provided for some of Marco's business rivals—we'd arrived at the hotel.

To my relief, I didn't recognise either of the receptionists behind the front desk, but I stood well back when Marco went to check his messages, just in case one of them remembered me. Not that I was entirely sure why I was worried. It wasn't as though anyone was going to shout, "Oi, weren't you here with that other bloke last night?" across the foyer, was it?

But I experienced a sense of release as we moved into the bar, a large and airy space filled with curving leather sofas and sturdy round tables which extended at the far end into a conservatory, a huge Christmas tree taking pride of place just inside the French doors. As it was early, there were only a few couples dotted around the dimly lit room and a lone barman stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. He smiled as we approached—probably in relief, he'd looked bored out of his mind—and threw the cloth he'd been using under the counter. "Good evening, sir—madam."

Marco looked at me. "Champagne?"

"Um..." My still-delicate tummy gave a none-too-subtle lurch at the idea. "Maybe later," I hedged. "I could do with a soft drink first, actually. If that's okay? A coke, please?"

I heard Marco sigh. "Ah well, at least you didn't ask for diet coke," he muttered resignedly before adding in a louder voice, "and I'll have a large red wine."

"House red all right for you, sir?" the barman asked, already readying my drink. And only half-listening as Marco murmured his agreement, I suddenly realised how thirsty I was. It'd probably been a mistake to refuse the tea Alice had made me when she woke me up, I reflected, smiling my gratitude as the barman pushed the glass towards me before taking a long, satisfying sip.

"And your room number, sir?"

"Er..." Marco fished in his jacket pocket for the cardboard folder that contained his key card. "'The Regent Suite'," he read aloud.

A small fountain of coke spewed from my lips, spattering droplets all over the highly-polished bar in front of me.

Marco began pounding me on the back, apparently under the impression I was about to choke to death. "Samantha, cara!" he exclaimed. "Are you okay?"

"I'm—I'm f-fine!" I coughed as the barman sprang into action, his cloth reappearing within seconds, all evidence of my misdemeanour almost immediately blotted away. "Oh G-god!"

Oh God, indeed. The Regent Suite?

"Just—just went the wr-wrong way," I spluttered helplessly, not sure which fact to be mortified by most—the fact that I'd almost vomited coke all over the barman or the fact that tonight, Marco would be sleeping in the very bed in which last night, I'd lost my virginity.

The second fact. Hands down. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck...

"Are you sure?" Marco looked horrified. "What was in that coke?" He peered into the glass as though half expecting to find it laced with rusty nails. "Samantha..."

"Nothing—it was fine, really," I pleaded, recovering now, but still breathing hard. "I was drinking too fast, that's all. My fault. Stupid." I risked a glance at the barman. "I'm so sorry," I apologised meekly.

He waved a dismissive hand but didn't meet my gaze. "Happens all the time, madam, don't worry."

Ha. I was damned sure it didn't.

"Maybe we should go and sit down?" an anxious-sounding Marco suggested in my ear.

"Okay." And still cringing, I turned away from the bar, only to see the heads of all the other couples in the room immediately look away in turn. Oh, great.

"Actually," I faltered, "maybe we could go out on to the terrace for a few moments? I know it's cold, but the fresh air..."

Marco planted his wineglass on the bar and moved behind me, one hand easing beneath my elbow and his other arm sliding around my waist. Moments later he was guiding me across the floor, steering me around the tables towards the Christmas tree then out through the door, the wintry air feeling cooler than ever as it blasted over my super-heated face.

"Well," I said flatly as we began to walk across the patio, "that wasn't at all embarrassing."

Marco uttered a soft snort of laughter, hugging me closer to him. "Being with you is never less than entertaining."

"Gee thanks," I sighed with a weary laugh of my own, leaning my head against his shoulder. "You'll be telling me next that's why you bother making the extra trip to see me every time you come to London. The sheer entertainment value."

"Hmm." I could tell Marco was pretending to consider the idea. "Obviously, that does come into it. But it's got more to do with you being my best customer."

It was my turn to snort. "Marco, I'm not your best customer. You've got dozens of customers who order more stuff from Maretti than me. What about that guy in France—Durand? He's got a whole chain of shops."

"That's not what I meant. I don't mean 'best' as in 'makes me most money'—well, not yet, anyway."

"Not yet?" I lifted my head, twisting around to face him. "Marco, we've talked about this before. I haven't got the funds to start another shop, and if you're going to suggest the mail order thing again—"

"No, that's not what I had in mind. Not this time. But I've been talking to Elena, and although we don't agree on much these days—"

That was an understatement. The words 'acrimonious divorce' scarcely covered the animosity between them.

"—we are agreed that somehow, every time we launch a new collection, you seem to know instinctively which items will sell well."

"I wouldn't say instinctively," I protested, nonetheless cheered by the praise. "I s'pose I know what will work and what won't—what colours will work and what won't. I mean, for example," I carried on, warming to the theme, "blocks of neon pink might well be on-trend for the rest of the fashion world, but it's a hard colour to carry off when you're the size of a small hippo."

"Exactly." Marco nodded adamantly. "But these things, however obvious they might sound, still seem to pass some of my best designers by. You, though—you seem to know what trends will adapt to maternity wear. You only have to look at the pieces we produce each season and you seem to know which ones will sell and which ones won't. You only buy the ones you know will sell."

"I know." I bit my lip, feeling rather guilty. "I should probably take more chances, but I know my customers and—"

"No, cara, you misunderstand me. I'm not saying you should. I'm saying that I think you're right to pick the pieces that you pick. Every season, the pieces that you pick are the pieces that sell the best. Like this dress you're wearing." He stopped, turning me around so that I faced him again, causing a fresh wave of heat to ripple through me, despite the chill. "You knew it would sell. And we've completely sold out."

"Pity," I murmured with a grin, attempting to lighten the mood. "I was going to order some more."

He smiled, shaking his head. "I'm being serious."

I frowned, suddenly getting the oddest feeling that somehow, I'd missed a crucial part of the conversation. "Serious about what?"

"I need you." He gave a shrug. "Simple as that."

"You need me?" Oh dear God, where was this going? "For what?"

He reached forward to take my hands, his expression now completely solemn. "Samantha, I need you to come and work for me. I need you to come to Italy."

*

Wooo, this was a tough chapter to write—and I truly hope you can forgive me for making you wait so long to read it. My 'other' life's been pretty chaotic lately but it's looking like things are finally settling down, which should mean I have lots more time to write.

Thank you so much for all the encouraging emails and comments—they mean the world to me—and special thanks to all those of you who wrote to express your condolences when my father-in-law died. I was really touched that so many people cared. x

Thanks for reading—and as always, all votes and comments you may care to leave are gratefully received.

Hugs

Lily

-x-