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began to unbutton his shirt.
    “Wait, Amadeo, wait,” she murmured in his ear, “let me do it for you.”
    First the shirt, carefully folded and placed across the chair, then the trousers urged lingeringly down over his erection. She still hadn’t touched him, she was going so slowly, taking her time, tantalizing him. Amadeo had never wanted any woman so much in his life. Ah, ah, that was it.
    Paris knelt in front of him and slowly, slowly, slid her hands across his belly. “Oh, Amadeo,” she breathed admiringly, “Oh, Amadeo … now you don’t have to wait any longer.” Her black silken hair was soft against his thighs as she leaned over him, and her mouth was even softer. Amadeo’s fingers knotted in her hair as the long orgasm rushed through him—he couldn’t wait, he couldn’t hold back any longer.
    He lay back drained, but Paris Haven’s voice was silkily coaxing while her hands moved across his body. Amadeo opened his eyes and met her dark blue intense gaze.
    “Wait, Amadeo, just you wait, that was only the beginning.”
    His body was nice, she thought, straddling him. He was lean and smooth and tanned, and he was almost ready for her … it could have been worse.
    Jenny Haven’s daughter was selling herself.
ROME
    India was lucky again. The space on the corner across from the Paroli Studios was just big enough to squeeze in her tiny red Fiat, or almost. The front stuck out just a little, but not enough to matter. India slammed the door cheerfully and slung the satchel over her shoulder. Bending quickly she checked her face and tidied her hair in the offside mirror. She smoothed her black skirt and pulled down the scarlet sweater that wrapped around her in a luxury of evening softness. She was very pleased with that sweater. Perhaps she should pay only one month’s rent when the pictures sold and buy the jacket that went with it! She’d see if Marella could get her a discount.
    She wondered for a moment whether it was Fabrizio she wanted to look pretty for, or whether it was because his wife would be there tonight. Marisa had never shown even the smallest scrap of jealousy. In fact, she barely showed any interest in India at all, and somehow it made India feel as though she were too insignificant to threaten Marisa Paroli’s security. And Marisa was right; India knew it.
    A string quartet seated on futuristic chairs that seemed to be carved from blocks of translucent topaz was playing Vivaldi very delicately in the foyer and already the showroom was crowded. Several hundred smartly shod cosmopolitan feet were treading Fabrizio’s pastel carpet, and India eyed it with dismay. Spilled champagne, crushed hors d’oeuvres, and cigarette ash were scattered over its newness. She had begged Fabrizio to put down the black just for today, but he’d said that it would defeat the purpose. “They must see the place and the designs as a whole,” he’d told her. “Putting in the black would ruin the effect. They’ll go back to their papers and write that Paroli has lost his touch, or they’ll go on to the next party and tell each other that it was a fiasco, that thecolors were all wrong.” Hesitating by the door, India wasn’t at all sure that he was right this time. After the first dozen, how many had even noticed the carpet?
    There was no gentle hum of conversation; it was a full-throated roar, and as she pushed her way through to the bar set up against the right-hand wall, India kept her ears open for snatches of conversation, eager to pick up any comments. Hardly anyone seemed concerned with Paroli Studios or its wonderful interior; all the snippets of talk she heard were of summers on the Costa Smeralda or plans for skiing in Gstaad from women as glossy as any of Paroli’s lacquered tables, or of the state of the lire and the latest Wall Street average from bronzed and handsome men who looked as though they need never worry about either.
    Fabrizio Paroli watched her elbowing her way through the