by Avery Flynn
“Tyler and I were engaged about a million years ago,” Irena said as she hooked her arm through Carlo’s waist and drew in close to him, looking up at the other man as if he were her guardian angel instead of the meal ticket to the land of the rich for the poor heiress who’d burned through her trust in record time. “But don’t get jealous. It was eons ago and it didn’t work out, which was for the best because all that heartbreak led me to you.”
Heartbreak? It took everything he had not to laugh out loud at that bit of theatricality. All she needed was some fake tears and Alberto’s sucker of a son would wrap her up in his arms and carry her off. What a load of crap. Laying out all of Irena’s dirty laundry was tempting, but that wasn’t the Harbor City elite way. As much as he hated seeing the bitch, he couldn’t let it show. That would only endanger the deal. He knew it. She knew it. Movement to his left caught his eye. Helene stood next to Everly looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. The grande dame of Harbor City high society hadn’t ever steered him wrong before. He’d follow her example again—the deal with Alberto was worth more than the satisfaction of causing a scene. He may have grown up with parents who reveled in public spectacle, but he didn’t cause scenes. He’d left that part of his history in Waterbury.
“You’re the ex-fiancée?” Everly asked, stepping away from Helene and toward Irena, her accent thick with disgust and a look on her face that screamed, “You are dead meat.”
Irena’s dark eyes went wide. Obviously, her bitchy cat-fighting skills weren’t up to getting a stomp-walk challenge from an Amazon from a neighborhood in Harbor City that made his blue-collar roots look like a shining beacon on a hill. Okay, there was a part of him that was dying to see what would happen next—maybe a bigger part than he wanted to admit—but it couldn’t happen.
He intercepted Everly before she could make Irena pee in her pants, slipping his arm around her waist. “Everly Ribinski, may I introduce you to Irena Iverson.”
Irena held out her hand, the left one with the gargantuan diamond solitaire on her ring finger. “Is that a Riverside accent? I just love it. Too bad it’s so unusual for this area.” The women shook hands like enemies on the battlefield. It was polite, but just. “Carlo has told me so much about you that I was a little worried, but I see that you’re with Tyler and that’s just perfect. I’m sure you two have so much more in common than Tyler and I ever did.”
Yeah, things like not trying to sleep with your fiancée’s best friend on your wedding night. God, he hoped Carlo didn’t have friends who were richer than him—or then again, maybe he did. The idiot had the same made-stupid-by-love look Tyler had worn before he’d figured out what a deceitful hag Irena was. That’s what happened to a person when emotion and passion mixed: temporary insanity, which was why keeping emotion out of it with the flip of a coin was the right move to make on the chessboard of life.
Everly must have sensed the tension locking his body tight because she softened her own stance, stretched to her tiptoes, and brushed a kiss across his cheek.
“We’re like pasta and sauce; we go together,” she said, her tone as light as the look she sent him was serious. Then she blinked, her face muscles relaxed into an easy grin, and she turned toward the others. “So I guess it was lucky that you two didn’t work out because of…”
Tyler’s heart stopped.
“Reasons,” Everly finished after a pause that lasted a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Alberto may not know the reasons for that extra breath of Everly’s, but he sure picked up on it. He stood next to Helene, his gaze going from Everly to Irena to him. It might take a little digging, but the older man would figure it out. He hadn’t created a hotel empire by being dumb—or letting the rest of the world in on what he was thinking, it seemed, because the expression on his face went back to that of happy host.
“Come, everyone.” He opened his arms and gestured toward the table, already laid out with food. “Let’s sit. Mangia, mangia.”
Tyler made sure to sit directly across from Irena. As Michael Corleone put it, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It made sense—just as long as he could keep his inner impulse to go all Waterbury tapped down and distract Everly from going into attack mode, then they’d make it through lunch without sinking the mission of connecting with Ferranti. It couldn’t be easier. The devil on his shoulder laughed. Yeah, and Everly isn’t kissable at all.
Chapter Nine
After lunch, when Alberto suggested a tour of the house to see his collection, Everly had to fight not to let out a sigh of relief. The meal had been awkward to put it mildly. Judging by the stilted conversation, everyone—with the exception of Carlo, who was on another business call—had noticed the negative undercurrent of what was supposed to be a fun, casual meal among friends and family. Never had baked ziti tasted so much like cardboard paper.
Of course, her relief had been short-lived.
“Oh, I’d love to join you,” Irena said, her eyes sparkling with fake sincerity. “It’s such a marvelous collection, and I’m dying to hear the stories behind your favorite pieces.”
Next to her, Helene mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “That can be arranged,” but Everly must have misunderstood. The older woman hadn’t been anything but gracious, if a few degrees colder than normal, since they’d sat down, continually drawing Irena into conversation. Of course, that could have been just so the woman kept her claws sheathed. Everly gave Helene a covert once-over and caught the other woman’s nearly silent groan of frustration. Yep, Helene hadn’t been acting nice, she’d been acting as distractor-in-chief.
“Don’t you want to spend more time with Carlo?” Alberto asked, obviously wanting to soften the edges building up around their little party and keep her with his son when he returned.
“We have the rest of our lives for that.” Irena flashed a beauty-queen smile at her future father-in-law and stood up. “Shall we?”
A flash of annoyance tightened Alberto’s features, but he recovered quickly and ushered everyone out of the dining room and through the house on a sort of art appreciation scavenger hunt before ending the tour in front of a Rembrandt in the sitting room. It was fantastic. Irena gazed up at the painting, everything about her screaming “art lover” except for the bored, slightly glazed look in her eyes. Alberto and Helene stood nearly shoulder to shoulder, discussing the painting, while Tyler stood a few feet away, thumbs flying as he texted on his phone. The rush of protective fury that had filled her when Irena unleashed her poisoned claws evaporated. How in the world could anyone be so close to something as amazing as this Rembrandt and not be in awe? Irritation pinched her nerves and a flush of frustration heated her cheeks. There was something seriously wrong with that man when he couldn’t take even a few minutes to turn his attention from whatever plot for world domination he was hatching to a painting that had brought tears to people’s eyes. Turning, she caught Alberto staring at her, an indulgent expression on his face.
“I know you disapprove of breaking up the collection,” he said, standing with his hands clasped behind his back as he admired the painting. “But art is like love; you never really own it, you can only enjoy it with an open heart while you have it. Anyway, beauty should be shared with the world, not hoarded indefinitely.”
It was hard to argue with his logic even if it broke her heart a little—the leftover nicks and scrapes of growing up watching everyone leave, no doubt. Getting maudlin about someone else’s art collection wasn’t going to patch up those hurts, and it sure wasn’t going to end in a commission that helped to keep her gallery afloat.
“If your mind’s made up, then I know several people who would be interested in this Rembrandt and the others you have,” she said. “We could host an invite-only show or make it an exclusive one-on-one sale so you can find the right buyer for your paintings.”
“All I ask is to find someone who will love them as much as I do, but I’ll do what you think best,” Alberto said. “Howe
ver, I do have several more pieces that I’m not sure about parting with. Irena, I know you have wedding arrangements to make, but why don’t the rest of us go down to my house in Key West next weekend, and you can argue with me to keep them.”
“What makes you say I’d argue?” she asked with a chuckle.
He laughed. “Because I know you, tesoro.”
She could argue about a lot of things, but not that. The Italian had her number.
“So I’ll arrange for the jet to take all of us to Key West,” he said.
Helene’s eyes widened, but she recovered quickly. “I don’t think my schedule will allow it.”
“Bellisima,” he said, beaming at Helene. “We both know you could will the world to your liking. Something like a calendar with activities penciled onto its pages can’t stop you.”
“You’re a horrible flirt. It’s most unbecoming,” she responded, the beginning of a smile curling her lips. “But I’ll see what I can move around.”
Seemingly satisfied—for the moment—with her answer, Alberto turned his big brown puppy-dog eyes on her. Oh, that was so not fair. She traveled for clients on a regular basis to appraise or advise, but a trip to the Keys when winter was just starting to think about slamming into Harbor City seemed more fun than work. She rolled options in her head as Alberto watched her expectantly. Even Tyler had looked up from his phone and was watching her.
“Oh, say yes,” Irena said, sauntering closer to the rest of them, an evil little glint in her eye. “I’m sure Alberto will cover everything so you don’t have to worry about cost.”
Everly didn’t think of herself as a violent person. Argumentative? Okay, she’d cop to it. A pain in the ass? Sometimes. But actually fist-to-face violent? No way. Then she met Irena the bitch ex-fiancée who’d gotten her talons into totally too trusting Carlo, and Everly had a sudden urge to smack the other woman stupid—or, more correctly, stupider.
Oblivious to the risks she was taking with her life, Irena went on. “I remember, Tyler, how you used to worry about how much to spend on things. This one time we were at dinner and he saw the wine list and he had to ask…”
The rest of what the hag was saying faded into static as red ate away at Everly’s vision. Oh, that was it. What a classist bitch. Pulling back from the hold-my-earrings edge, she strutted over to Tyler with an extra bit of aggression in the sway of her hips. The muscles in his jaw were getting a workout with the effort it was obviously taking him not to lash out at the future daughter of the man whose business he was so determined to land. Everly had been there, done that, and it sucked. She wasn’t about to stand by and watch someone else get humiliated in the snide little rich bitch fashion.
“Alberto,” she said, cutting off Irena’s passive-aggressive verbal attack and taking Tyler’s hand in hers. “Of course we’ll come. And no need to worry about cost. Tyler’s become incredibly successful since his days with his ex-fiancée.”
One of Tyler’s black eyebrows went up in question. “We will?”
“Wonderful,” Alberto answered before Everly had a chance to respond. “So it’s decided. Let’s celebrate with a glass of champagne and then we can look at our schedules, Tyler, because I believe we have some ideas of yours to discuss about bringing my hotels to America.”
Irena, Helene, and Alberto headed back into the dining room, but Everly lingered in front of the Rembrandt, trying to unravel what she’d just done. Spending time on a tropical island with Tyler was the last thing she wanted. The man was one of the most exasperating people she’d ever met, but her passion had gotten the better of her—something that seemed to happen all too frequently around him.
Tyler squeezed her hand, making her realize she was still holding his. A blush creeped up her chest, and she tried to unwind her fingers from his, but his strong grip held her close.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, something that looked like a mix of confusion and gratitude swirling in his eyes. “Our agreement was just for the introduction. You did your part.”
“I know,” she said, her gaze falling to their hands again before she forced her attention back to his face. “I just couldn’t help myself when she was acting like that. It was either say yes on your behalf or punch her in the face.”
He didn’t laugh, but one side of his mouth went up in a crooked smile that did funny things to her stomach. “You are the epitome of restraint.”
Hoping to cover the shakiness jumbling her insides because of the uncharacteristic easy camaraderie flowing between them, she laid her accent on thick. “Don’t you fuckin’ know it.”
They laughed, just two people from the wrong side of the tracks, trying to make it in a foreign land. They might be unlikely allies, but for the moment that’s exactly what they were—and it felt good…right. This wasn’t the time to unpack what that might mean, though, so she started to walk toward the dining room where the others were waiting—or at least tried to. Tyler hadn’t taken a step, and he hadn’t let go of her hand.
She glanced back at him. He stood there, staring at her—the look on his face all but screaming that he was plotting all sorts of devious schemes that would leave her naked, sweaty, and satisfied. Her stomach did the flippity-flop thing again with the addition of her thighs going quivery and a rush of electricity going straight to her core. Fuck. What in the hell had she been thinking? She hadn’t been. And that was the problem.
Tyler stepped closer, his eyes stormy with a predatory want that made her breath catch. Her lips parted of their own volition and her nipples puckered in anticipation. But all he did was look at her. Not that it mattered. She was still on the edge of falling over into pure unadulterated trouble of the naked kind.
“We’d better catch up,” Tyler said as he tucked a hair behind her ear that had fallen from her French knot.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice barely audible over the thundering in her chest.
Neither of them moved for a second as the world skittered to a stop around them. Anticipation thick as a cotton ball encased them, and her core clenched. Then, just when she was ready to kiss him or pass out, he shook his head, mumbled something under his breath that she couldn’t catch, and let go of her hand.
The tightness was back in his jaw. “Come on, before they send a search party back for us.”
Nodding her agreement, she fell into step beside him as they walked toward the dining room, passing the portrait of a woman in Regency garb looking out very judgmentally as if she couldn’t believe Everly’s life choices.
You and me both, sister.
…
The next day, guilt was messing with Everly’s ability to down her regular pot of morning coffee. There was no way she could let Carlo marry Irena without letting him know about what the woman had done to Tyler. She didn’t want to. Really, who wanted to have that conversation, but she and Carlo had been friends for too many years for her to wimp out on him because she had to spill information that was not going to go over well.
If she said nothing, she’d be no better than how Sawyer had treated his best friend. And she knew firsthand how that kind of betrayal could hurt someone far worse than the person in question.
After pouring one more cup of java for good luck, she picked up the phone and hit Carlo’s name on her contact list.
“Ciao, Everly,” he answered on the first ring.
Of course he couldn’t have been underwater basket weaving or something else that made having his phone on him an impossibility. “Do you live with your phone attached to your ear?”
“Will you be mad if I say yes?” he asked, his accent giving the question a roguish charm.
What she wouldn’t give to just play along, but she couldn’t. Squeezing her eyes shut, she stood in the middle of her living room, the soft Ikea rug tickling her bare toes, and pressed forward. “You might be mad at me after this call.”
There was a beat of silence in which every single horrible possibility of how this conversation could end played through her
head.
“What’s wrong?” Carlo asked.
“It’s about Irena.” There you go. Suck it up, girl.
“Is this about how she tried to sleep with Tyler’s best friend the night she was supposed to marry Tyler?” Carlo asked with an easy chuckle.
Her eyes popped open in surprise. “You knew?”
“My father and I share more than just our genes. We have the same private investigator, too.”
Needing to get out the stored-up adrenaline that built while she was giving herself a mental pep talk to make this call, she started pacing from one corner of the rug diagonally across the middle and back again. “And you’re okay with all this?”
Carlo made a noncommittal sound. “Considering that this marriage is more of a business deal than anything else, yes, I’m okay with it.”
Just when she thought it couldn’t get weirder. “What are you talking about?”
“In Italy, things go smoother in the business world if you’re married. It’s old-fashioned but it’s true.”
“So you’re doing it for work?” That sounded about as romantic as a handful of unsalted pistachios, but at least it helped explain why in the hell he’d asked Irena of all people to marry him. His chances of actually falling for the she-devil were next to nil. “That’s crazy.”
“It’s the complete opposite of that. It’s business. Speaking of which, I need your help with some family business. You remember my nonna?”