“I am holding still,” Kingsley said, rolling his eyes. First Magdalena, and then Signore Vitale. Kingsley decided he had more than fulfilled his quota for suffering the abuses of irascible Italians for the century.
“Hold more still,” the little white-haired man at his feet said.
“King,” Sam said, tapping her foot in annoyance. “Hold the fuck still.”
“When I have a man on his feet in front of me, it’s usually considered an insult if I hold still,” Kingsley said.
“Don’t f latter yourself. You aren’t my type.” The tailor, Signore Vitale, looked up from the f loor.
“Are you straight?” Kingsley asked. He was everyone’s type. Except Sam’s.
“No, but you are French.”
“Italians…” Kingsley shook his head. “Look, I’m no fan of Napoleon, either. But it was a hundred-and-ninety years ago.”
“Italians have long memories.”
Kingsley forced himself to stop moving, stop breathing, stop thinking.
“Better,” Signore Vitale said. “Much better. Soon we’ll have you looking like a new you.”
“I thought the old me looked good.”
“You dress like a gay hobo,” Signore Vitale said.
“That’s not true,” Sam said, coming to Kingsley’s defense.
“Merci,” Kingsley said.
“He dresses like a bisexual hobo.”
Kingsley glared at her.
“For the record, I consider myself pansexual.”
“Does that mean you like to fuck cookware?”
“It means I like to fuck everything.”
“Typical francese.” Vitale sighed.
“Am I paying for these insults to my heritage?” Kingsley asked.
“Yes,” Vitale said. “Five percent surcharge for French clients.”
“Make it two-and-a-half percent. I’m only half French.”
In his twenty-eight years, Kingsley had had many a man kneeling before him at crotch level. Signore Vitale would win the award for the oldest and least appealing of all the men who’d ended up in this position. He tried not to look down as Vitale made the most minor of adjustments on his trousers, pinning the fabric and marking it with chalk.
“Good. You’re finished.” Vitale clapped his hands once and, with Sam’s help, rose off the f loor. “You can take those off.”
With a sigh of relief Kingsley walked behind the changing screen where he’d left his regular clothes. He should never have let Sam talk him into getting a new wardrobe. She had taken over his entire life in a month. Sam had gotten all his files in order. She’d hired a housekeeper—a woman who’d once worked at a pornography studio and was thus unfazed by anything that happened under Kingsley’s roof. And after one session with Anita, the pain in his chest had lessened considerably.
Kingsley pulled off the jacket but paused when he noticed something on the wall. He walked to it, stared at it, studied it…
“King, what it is?” Sam asked, standing at his side.
He pointed to the cross on the wall. A small pretty thing, six inches tall, six inches wide. He hadn’t noticed it at first because the golden color blended into the green-and-gold wallpaper.
“It’s a Huguenot Cross,” Kingsley said. “See? The top is a Maltese cross—the four points are the four Gospels, the eight ends are the eight Beatitudes. The dove at the bottom, he’s the Holy Spirit.”
“Don’t touch that,” Signore Vitale said as he came back into the fitting room. “That was my grandmother’s.”
“Your grandmother was descended from the Huguenots?”
“She was, yes,” Vitale said, seemingly taken aback by the question. “I told you we have long memories. What of it?”
“My father’s family is descended from them, too. Supposedly we hid out in Italy for three generations before returning to France.”
Vitale craned his neck and studied Kingsley through his small rounded spectacles.
“You have Italian blood in you,” Vitale said. “I can see it now.”
“My grandmother was from Amalfi.”
“That’s where my family is from.”
“Beautiful city,” Kingsley said.
Vitale looked Kingsley up and down and for the first time seemed to see him.