Except it wasn’t. She had been working long hours, too, at the studio getting Alexander’s collection ready, with Lorenzo’s support. Her husband, however, had insisted they share dinners together, even if they had to work afterward. He was intent, it seemed, on making this marriage work. They talked, shared things about their day, managed, for the most part, to be civil. But soon afterward, Lorenzo retreated to his office to work, not coming to bed until the early hours, ensuring her strategy had worked perfectly.
Tonight, however, she conceded as she watched a perfect East Hampton sunset stain the sky, there would be no escaping—not from her combustive relationship with her husband, nor the past she’d worked so hard to leave behind. Tonight they would host the toast of high society for cocktails at their sprawling waterfront estate, an event that had the gossip hounds frothing at the mouth and her insides curling in an intense, visceral reaction that begged her to retreat.
But it was too late. It had been too late ever since Gillian had sent out the cream-and-silver embossed invitations via courier and the RSVPs had started flooding in by the dozens, proving Lorenzo’s point that a helping of titillating gossip would always command the day.
She watched a graceful, forty-foot sailboat navigate past on the gray-blue Shinnecock Bay, the high waves and white foam a perfect mirror for her churning insides. She adored the peace and tranquility of this exclusive enclave, the ability to escape a tourist-infested, muggy Manhattan and enjoy the cool breezes that tempered the island. What she didn’t enjoy was the microcosm of Manhattan society the Hamptons were at this time of year. Taking part in the requisite social circuit, forging the right contacts through her and Lorenzo’s recreational activities, being seen with the right crowd.
“You might as well be at work,” her entrepreneurial friend, Cassidy, had once said, referring to the intense networking that went on here 24/7. “At least in Manhattan, you can disappear into your town house, plead a prior engagement and no one will ever know. In the Hamptons, everyone knows.”
Her mouth twisted. And the cliquishness? The competitiveness? The feckless alliances that changed with the wind? She had seen the devastation they could wreak, had watched her mother shredded by their vicious bite and yet Bella Carmichael had, unfathomably, always gone back for more because headlining an American dynasty wasn’t something you just walked away from.
Her mother had learned to grit her teeth and smile as all Carmichaels did, even when her world was falling apart, pretending the gossip chasing through the room about Alistair Carmichael’s infidelities, which of his “assistants” he was sleeping with now, didn’t faze her in the least. That her husband’s predilection for twenty-five-year-old blondes and the power that came along with his ability to command them was par for the course in the world they lived in.
She smoothed clammy palms over her cranberry-red silk dress, praying her father’s indiscretions would not come up tonight. She’d already briefed the waitstaff her mother was not to be served alcohol under any circumstance. Watching her go off the rails in front of the upper echelons of Manhattan society was the last thing she needed.
“I like this dress.” Lorenzo materialized behind her, his hands settling on her hips. “Although,” he drawled, turning her around, his inspection dipping to the plunging neckline of the dress, “I’m not sure I’m going to appreciate every other man in attendance tonight enjoying the same view.”
Her pulse fluttered in her throat. Heat radiated from the light spread of his fingers to forbidden places, dangerous places, warming her insides. She took a step back, putting some distance between them.
The dress was provocative—the flesh revealed by the low neckline leaving a hint of the rounded curves of her breasts bare. It was more than she would normally put on display.
“It’s one of Alexander’s designs. He insisted I wear it tonight.”
“I’m not surprised. It was made for you.”
The sensual glitter in his eyes sent a skittering up her spine. Or maybe it was how good he looked in a silver-gray shirt and dark trousers that set off his spectacular dark coloring and beautiful eyes.
Her gaze dropped away from his. He curved his fingers around her jaw and brought it back up to his. The appraising look he subjected her to made her feel like glass—utterly transparent and far too vulnerable. “You’ve been off all day. What’s wrong?”
She pulled free. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“No, you aren’t.” Irritation clouded his expression. “There’s this thing that happens when we socialize, Angie. You turn into a plastic version of yourself. Aloof. Unreadable. Why?”
“That’s hardly true.”
“Every time, cara.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the sill. “You can tell me or we can keep your parents waiting. It’s all good with me.”
Heat sizzled her blood. “Perhaps because it’s always about a goal, a business transaction, rather than us enjoying ourselves. I was graded on my ability to accomplish those goals. Romance a partner of yours, flatter his wife, impress a potential target with my impeccable lineage...” She waved a hand at him. “Tonight it’s Marc Bavaro—what’s the goal with him? What would you like me to be, Lorenzo? Amusing? Intellectual? Cultured? Flirtatious?”
His gaze narrowed. “Not in that dress, no. And here we are getting somewhere, bella mia. Communicating. Because I had no idea you felt that pressure. I enjoy the thrill of the chase, accomplishing something by the end of the evening. To me it’s us being a team. But I would prefer for you to be yourself...for you to be the woman I have always appreciated that never seems to show up on these occasions.”
She leaned back against the sill, fingers curling around the edge. “And which woman is that? I’m intrigued despite myself, since I never seemed to get it right.”
“The vibrant, spirited woman I met that night in Nassau who didn’t seem to care what anyone else thought of her. Where has she gone, Angie? Where has that light gone?”
She blinked. Who did he think had snuffed out that spirit by asking her to be something she wasn’t? By shutting her out when she displeased him? By constantly making her aware she wasn’t measuring up?
She lifted her chin. “Why this sudden obsession with what makes me tick? It never seemed to concern you before.”
“Perhaps because I’m realizing the woman I thought I knew has all these vulnerabilities lurking beneath the surface, vulnerabilities I think might be the key to why she is the way she is, and yet she won’t let me near them.”
“I think you’re overthinking it.”
“I think I’m not.” He scowled and pulled his hands from his pockets. “I had some things to work through before, things I have worked on. It has proven illuminating to me. I would like to learn from it.”
Things like Lucia? Her heart beat a jagged rhythm in her chest. To allow herself to believe that, to believe he truly cared, that he wanted to know her, understand her, that he truly wanted this time to be different between them, threatened to poke holes in the composure she desperately needed as she faced her old social set tonight. Not to mention her parents, who were waiting for them downstairs.
“We should go,” she said quietly. “My parents will be waiting.”
He pushed away from the sill. “We’ll continue this later,” he warned, setting a hand to the small of her back to guide her from the room. His warmth, his undeniable strength, bled into her skin. She swallowed hard. Somehow in the midst of all the chaos in her head, among all the conflicted feelings warring inside of her, his touch anchored her as it always had. Perhaps that was why it had hurt so much when he’d taken it away.
The poolside terrace was lit with flaming torches as they joined her parents outside, the lights from the sprawling, Italian-inspired villa reflected in the infinity pool that served as the star attraction of the space. Sleek waitstaff dressed in black
hovered at the ready, the marble-and-brick bar stocked with rows of the perquisite champagne on ice.
Della and Alistair Carmichael were already holding drinks, listening to the local band they’d hired to play. Angie gave her mother, who was looking her usual elegant self in a powder-blue cocktail dress, her silver-blond hair a perfect bob to her ears, a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Her gaze slid down to the drink her mother held as she drew back, the tightness in her chest easing when she saw that it was sparkling water.
“You look beautiful, Mother.”
“Thank you.” Her mother gave her a critical once-over. “Faggini?”
“Yes.” A wry smile twisted her lips at their practiced small talk. It was how they’d learned to coexist after their fiery relationship during Angie’s teenage years, when her mother’s alcoholism had emerged and everything between them had been a war of wills. Their practiced détente still didn’t quell the pain of losing the mother she’d once had, before Bella Carmichael’s disease had devastated her, but at least it was a norm she knew how to maneuver within.
“Lorenzo.” Her mother turned her attention to Angie’s husband, the feminine smile she reserved for handsome, powerful men softening her face. “It’s so lovely to see you.” She kissed him on both cheeks. “Although,” she said in a pointed tone as she drew back, “I think we’ve seen you more than our daughter over the past couple of years. Perhaps your reconciliation will remedy that.”
“We’re counting on it,” her father said, stepping forward. Tall and distinguished with a hint of gray at his temples, his eyes were the same slate blue as his daughter’s. That was where their similarities began and ended.
Eschewing the embrace he knew Angie would reject, he shook Lorenzo’s hand. “Angelina knows how thrilled I am to see her back where she belongs.”
Back where she belongs? A surge of antagonism pulsed through her. She wouldn’t be in this situation if her father hadn’t allowed his arrogance to blind him to the business realities staring him in the face. He was using her as a pawn and showed not the slightest conscience about it.
Lorenzo read the tension in her body, his palm tightening at her back. “My parents are in town next week,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps you can join us for dinner? It would be nice for us all to reconnect.”
Angie’s back went ramrod-straight as her mother gushed on about how lovely that would be. It wasn’t lovely, it was the worst idea ever. To put Saint Octavia, Lorenzo’s supremely dignified mother, in a room with her own, given Della Carmichael’s loose-wheel status of late, was a recipe for disaster.
Thankfully they were saved from discussing it further as the first guests began to arrive.
* * *
Hand at his wife’s back, Lorenzo greeted the arrivals. Guest after guest arrived in cars piloted by drivers who would spirit them from party to party that evening. His wife grew stiffer and stiffer with each new arrival and the open curiosity about their newly resurrected relationship. By the time Marc Bavaro, the CEO of the Belmont Hotel Group, arrived with his beautiful redheaded girlfriend, Penny, Angie had perfected her plastic self.
Lorenzo’s inability to understand what was happening to her, as his need to connect on a personal level with Bavaro pressed on his brain, made his impatience boil over.
“That’s Marc Bavaro and his girlfriend walking in now,” he murmured in his wife’s ear. “Can we try for happy just for the next few minutes? Less like you’re facing the executioner being by my side?”
Angelina pasted a smile on her face. “Of course,” she said sweetly. “Your wish is my command.”
Even without her real smile, his wife captivated Marc Bavaro. The CEO’s leisurely once-over of Angelina’s red dress, despite the stunning date at his side, made his wife’s cheeks redden. So Marc Bavaro did have a roving eye, as advertised. Lorenzo couldn’t necessarily blame him, given Angie’s ability to mesmerize any red-blooded male with whom she came into contact.
He tightened his fingers around her waist. “Great that you could make it,” he said to Marc. “Good to get out of the boardroom.”
“Agreed.” But Bavaro still wore the cagey expression that had been making Lorenzo mental as they debated the last few points of the deal.
“Your necklace is beautiful,” Penny said to Angie. “Is it one of yours?”
“Yes. Thank you. It’s one of my favorite recent pieces.”
“I love your stuff.” Penny threw Marc a wry glance. “I’ve given him lots of hints on what he can buy me for my birthday.”
“Perhaps you’d like to come in to the studio and I’ll design something for you?”
The redhead’s eyes widened. “Would you?”
“Of course.” Angelina slid Lorenzo a glance that said she was playing the game for now. “Why don’t I introduce Penny around while you two talk business?”
Penny agreed and the two women set off through the crowd. Bavaro’s eyes trailed after Angelina. “That’s quite a dress.”
“It is,” Lorenzo agreed, amused. He didn’t doubt the connection he and Angie had. It ruled out any other male as a threat. He was content to play the waiting game when it came to bedding his wife. Figuring out what was going on in her head was another matter entirely.
He nodded at Marc. “Let’s find a quiet place to talk.”
* * *
By the time Angie had introduced Penny around to anyone the real estate broker might have found interesting or useful, she’d had enough of this party for a lifetime. She hated small talk with a passion, had always dreaded the legendary Carmichael parties she’d been forced to attend, not to mention the fact that all roads seemed to lead back to her and Lorenzo’s unexpected reconciliation in the sly side conversations she was drawn into.
“I thought maybe there was a baby in the works,” joked their next-door neighbor. “But clearly that can’t be true. That dress is amazing on you.”
After the last, thinly veiled attempt to pry the story out of her, she returned Penny to Marc. The Belmont CEO asked her to dance in turn, and Penny didn’t seem to mind, so Angie accepted, eager to get away from prying eyes. Marc was a good dancer and conversationalist. He was charming, despite Lorenzo’s depiction of him as a shark.
They danced two dances before Lorenzo cut in. “I’m not sure if I should lock you up or use you as a weapon,” he murmured as he took her in his arms. “Bavaro is like a puppy salivating after a bone.”
“Ah, but I don’t have a purpose tonight.” Sarcasm stained her voice. “I’m just supposed to be me in all my glory. The woman you appreciate.”
His lips curved. Bending his head, he brought his mouth to her ear. “I do appreciate you in that dress. It screams ‘take me,’ mia cara. Too bad we are still learning to communicate verbally. The timing is all off.”
Fire licked up her spine. He pulled her closer, a possessive hand resting on her hip, his splayed fingers burning into her skin. A slow curl of heat unraveled inside of her. She’d enjoyed her dance with Marc—he was handsome by any woman’s standards and equally charismatic. But being in Lorenzo’s arms was a whole different story. Dancing with her husband was...electrifying.
Her nerve endings sizzled as her hips brushed against his muscular thighs, erotic tension in every muscle. The masculine warmth of him bled into her, heating her blood, weakening her knees. She took a deep breath to center herself, but it was his dark, delicious scent that filled her head, heightening her confusion.
She stepped back, putting some distance between them, heart thudding in her chest. His ebony eyes glittered with a banked heat, moving over her face in a silent study. “Thank you for offering to design the piece for Penny. You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s fine.” The husky edge to her voice made her wince. You hate him, remember? He had just turned her life upside down.
“Perhaps we will ma
ke that superior team,” he suggested on a speculative note, eyes holding hers. “If you manage to move past that anger you’re holding so tightly to.”
Her gaze dropped away from his. She focused on the other guests, sticking determinedly to her vow to keep her shields bulletproof when it came to her husband.
A high-pitched laugh stole her attention. The blood in her veins turned to ice. Whipping her head around, she found her mother in the crowd, talking to a well-known society columnist, a glass of champagne in her hand. Oh, no! She’d found someone to enable her.
Panicked, she scanned the crowd for her sister. Abigail was all the way across the terrace in a group of people. She looked back at her mother, champagne sloshing from her glass as she laughed at something the columnist had said. It was not her first drink.
“Your mother is in fine form,” Lorenzo said mildly.
Her brain frozen, she just stared at him. When the music ended, she slipped out of his arms. “Keep socializing,” she said, nodding at Marc. “Abigail’s just waved for me to go meet someone.”
He frowned at her. “Are you okay?”
“Perfect. Back in a minute.” With as blasé a smile as she could manage, she set off through the crowd. Approaching the group her sister was in the middle of, she caught her eye. Abigail disentangled herself and came over. “You okay?”
“It’s Mother. She has a glass of champagne in her hand. It’s not her first.”
Abigail frowned. “I’ve been watching her all night. She’s been drinking sparkling water.”
“She found someone to enable her.” Angie’s stomach lurched. “She’s talking to Courtney Price, Abby.”
Her sister’s face grayed. Leading the way, Abigail wound her way through the crowd, Angie on her heels. Her mother had drained the champagne and procured another glass by the time they reached her. Her loud voice penetrated the din of the crowd, drawing glances from those around her. Angie’s heart plummeted.
“You grab her,” Abigail muttered. “Get her out of here. I’ll do damage control.”
A Debt Paid in the Marriage Bed (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 6