She pulls herself up to her full height of four-feet-eleven inches and sniffs. “And no more s*x in the dressing rooms. Who do you think has to clean in there?”
She turns on her heel, calling over her shoulder, “If you want to meet a good man, read a book! Now let’s get back to work!”
When I get home that night, the house is eerily dark and quiet. I flick on the light in the kitchen and find a note from Lorenzo on the small white pad near the telephone. It says the marchesa has gone to Milan in advance of Fashion Week as she does every season. There’s a phone number where they can be reached in case of emergency and the name of a swanky hotel.
“The plot thickens,” I mutter. A few weeks in Milan isn’t cheap, especially with a butler and two dogs in tow. She’d need connecting suites in the
