They shared a cocktail with the other couple in one of the bars. Sparkling water, sadly, for Angie, when a glass of wine might have mellowed her out. She focused all her attention on the Belmont CEO and his girlfriend, ignoring her husband completely, to the point where Penny jokingly asked her if Lorenzo was in the doghouse as they settled into their seats in the Belmont box to watch Puccini’s La Bohème.
She denied it, of course. Made a joking comment that Penny would see what it was like when the honeymoon phase was over. Lorenzo must have heard it with that laser-sharp hearing of his because his face turned dark. A mistake, she recognized, as the whisper of a chill rose up her spine. She had insulted his male pride.
She focused on the performance. He had earned that one.
La Bohème was one of her favorites, but tonight it couldn’t have been a worse choice. The story of Mimi and Rodolfo, the fiery, star-crossed lovers, sung to perfection by the visiting Italian soprano and her American tenor—had always moved her. But tonight, given her rocky emotions, her insecurities about her and Lorenzo, it affected her in a way she couldn’t hide. By the time the two lovers decided to stay together in the face of Mimi’s heartbreaking illness at the end of the third act, her imminent death on the horizon, tears were running down her face.
Lorenzo put a hand on her thigh. She ignored him, kept her eyes focused on the stage. When the act came to a close, she rooted around desperately in her bag for a tissue, a necessity at the opera, and dammit, how could she have forgotten them?
Lorenzo shoved the handkerchief from his front pocket into her hand. “Excuse us, will you?”
“What are you doing?” she whispered as he grabbed her arm and propelled her out of the box.
A tight, intense look back. “We are going somewhere to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Well, that’s too bad, amore mio, you don’t get to choose.”
Into the multistoried lobby they went, past the two glorious murals Marc Chagall had painted. Somewhere along the way, Lorenzo dropped the general manager’s name. The next thing she knew, he was directing her down a hallway and into an empty dressing room marked Visiting Performers.
* * *
Lorenzo twisted the lock on the door and turned to face his wife. What the hell was wrong with her? Watching her cry like that had made him want to crawl out of his skin, because he didn’t think all of it had to do with the admittedly heartbreaking opera.
Angie swept her hand around the room, dominated by the sofa that sat along one wall and a dressing table and mirror on the other. “We can’t be in here.”
“I was just told we could.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain to me why you are so angry, cara. I asked you to do me a favor. You know how important this deal is to me. What’s the problem?”
She jammed her hands on her hips, eyes flashing. “You ordered me to come. You know how important my career is to me and yet you completely discounted my work. The bracelet I’m creating is for Juliette Baudelaire—a huge commission, particularly if she spreads the word to her friends. It’s not just a bracelet, it’s a stepping stone in my career. And yet here I am, not delivering on time—twice—because of you and your needs.”
His irritation came to a sudden, sliding halt. “I had no idea it was for her.”
“How could you? You hung up on me before I had a chance to tell you.”
He muttered an oath. Pushed a palm over his brow. “Mi dispiace. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I called you. I was behind, annoyed because I had prior commitments I, too, had to cancel.”
She hugged her arms around herself. Glared at him. He scowled back. “You,” he said, waving a hand at her, “are so emotional tonight. What’s going on? Is it the pregnancy effect?”
The daggers in her eyes would have sliced him to shreds if they’d been real. “You, Lorenzo Ricci, are so oblivious, so emotionally unaware sometimes it blows my mind.”
He didn’t think that was fair. He thought he was very emotionally aware at times and had been with her a lot lately. They were talking. Communicating. Being honest with each other. The last couple of weeks had just been particularly brutal.
The thought vaporized from his head as his wife headed for the door. Moving with a swiftness born of his superior height and muscle, he made it there at the same time she did. Jamming his palm against the wood, he looked down at his very beautiful, very angry wife.
“We aren’t done talking.”
“Oh, yes, we are.”
“No,” he said deliberately, “we aren’t.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What else would you like to say?”
“I’d like to say I’m sorry again. I sincerely feel badly that I did not check to see what it was you were working on. If I’d known, I would have come by myself.”
Her stormy blue gaze softened.
“I would also like to know how I am being emotionally unaware.”
She pursed her lips. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” He frowned. “I thought we had the pregnancy thing out in the open. We’re dealing with it.”
“It’s not that.” She shook her head. “Women cannot stand when a man plays the hormone card, Lorenzo. It’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull.”
“Oh. Certo,” he said, nodding. “I will remember that for the future. I had no idea. I thought pregnancy hormones were a documented thing.”
“Lorenzo.” She glared at him. “I’d stop while you’re ahead.”
“Bene.” He snagged an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Is there anything else you would like to tell me? Why you are so upset?”
Her gaze dropped away from his. “You haven’t been emotionally present the last few weeks. I don’t know where your head is. I don’t know where we are. I miss you.”
Guilt tied a knot in his chest. In trying to pull back, to not lead them down a path he couldn’t go, he’d hurt her.
“I’m sorry.” He bent his head and buried his mouth in the curve of her neck. Drank in her irresistible scent. “Things have been crazy. I will do better.”
“It’s... I—” She sighed. “We should go. Find Marc and Penny.”
“Not until you say you’re not angry with me anymore.” He slid his hands down over her bottom and pulled her closer. “I hate it when you’re angry with me.”
Tracing the line of her neck with his lips, he sank his teeth into the cord of her throat where it throbbed against her skin. Her breath hitched. “Fine. I’m not angry at you anymore.”
“I’m not convinced.” He dragged his mouth up to hers. Pushed his fingers into her hair and kissed her. Dominant, persuasive, he sought to fix whatever was going on with her. To fix them in the only way he knew how.
She melted beneath his hands. “Okay,” she whispered against his lips. “You’re forgiven.”
But he was too far gone now, his body pulsing with the need to restore the natural balance of things. Denying himself Angelina was carving a hole inside of him he didn’t know how to fill.
He backed her into the wall, pushed his thigh between hers, imprinting her with the throbbing evidence of his need. She gasped. “Lorenzo.”
“What?”
“We can’t do this here.”
“Why not?” He slicked his tongue over her lush bottom lip, tasting her. “You liked it in Portofino. The element of risk...”
“Yes, but—”
He delved inside the sweetness of her mouth. Made love to her with his tongue like he wanted to do to her body. Her bag clattered to the floor, a low moan leaving her throat. Lust coursing through him, he nudged her legs farther apart and swept her dress up her thighs. She was damp when he cupped her between her legs, as turned on as he was.
He ran his palm over the hot, wet si
lk that covered her. Moved it aside to find her slick and ready for him.
“I need to have you,” he rasped.
Her stormy blue gaze locked with his. “Yes.”
He stroked her. Readied her. She made more of those sexy sounds at the back of her throat, arching into his hand. Shallow strokes of his fingers inside her tight channel to tease, insistent circles against the tight bundle of nerves at the heart of her with his thumb. Throwing her head back, she said his name in a broken voice that ripped right through him.
Urging one of her legs around his waist, he released himself from his pants, pushed aside the wet silk and entered her with a hard, urgent thrust. She gasped, the sensation of her tight, velvet warmth gripping his swollen flesh indescribable. It had never been so good.
“Okay?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
Bending his knees, he drove up inside of her with an urgent desire that annihilated anything but the need to have her. His erection pounded in time with his heartbeat, his control shredding. He captured her hand in his and brought her fingers to the hard nub that gave her pleasure.
“Touch yourself,” he whispered. “Come with me, Angelina.”
She closed her eyes. Rotated her fingers against her flesh. He kept his hand over hers, absorbing the tiny quakes that went through her. Held on to the very threads of his control while she pleasured herself. When she was close, when the deeper shudders came, moving from her through him, he gripped her hip tighter and stroked deeper, setting a hard, wild rhythm that blew his brain apart.
His body tightened, swelled, his breathing hoarse in the silence of the room. In perfect sync, they came together in a soul-shaking release like none he’d ever experienced before.
Mouth buried in her neck, he held her as her legs gave out. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, wrapped around each other, before he recovered enough to straighten and push back.
Bracing a palm against the wall, he leaned in to kiss her, to acknowledge what that had just been. His heart stopped in his chest at the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Angelina?” He cupped her face with his hands. “What is it?”
She shook her head. Pushed away as she straightened her clothes. “It’s nothing. I’m emotional from the performance.”
The bell sounded to end the intermission. He ignored it, focusing on his wife’s tear-streaked face as he zipped himself up. “It’s a hell of a lot more than that.”
She swiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands.
“Angelina,” he roared. “Out with it.”
She bent and scooped her purse off the floor. Straightening, she rested her blue gaze on his. “I’m in love with you, Lorenzo. Silly me, I forgot the rules.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LORENZO’S JAW DROPPED. “Angie—”
The bell rang again. His wife turned, unlocked the door and walked out. Blood pounding at his temples, he straightened his shirt and followed her out.
How he sat through the last act, he wasn’t sure. It was like someone was driving nails into his head in some kind of ancient torture. When it was finally, mercifully over, they bid Marc and Penny a good night and acquired the car from the valet. Neither of them spoke in the loaded silence of the car.
The penthouse was in shadows as they entered, Manhattan spread out before them in all its glory. He threw his jacket on a chair and headed straight for the bar and a stiff shot of whiskey.
Angelina kicked off her shoes. When she headed for the bedroom, he pointed to the sofa. “Sit.”
She lifted her chin. “What’s the point? I know you can’t tell me what I want to hear. You would have said it to me in that dressing room if you could.”
It was a truth he couldn’t deny. He wanted to—he wanted to tell her everything she wanted to hear if it would wipe the hurt from her eyes, but he’d promised her honesty and they’d come too far to give each other anything but.
He set down the whiskey. Pushed a hand through his hair. “To lose someone you love like I loved Lucia changes a person. You know too much. Things you should never have to know...things that make you question everything you once took for granted—the natural order of things. It isn’t a faith I’ll ever have again. Loving someone like that isn’t something I’m capable of doing. But it doesn’t mean I don’t care for you. You know I do.”
Her eyes grew suspiciously bright. “Not capable,” she asked quietly, “or simply unwilling to try?”
He lifted a shoulder. “It is who I am.”
The brightness in her eyes dissolved on a blaze of fire. “You know what I think, Lorenzo? I think it’s a cop-out, this ‘I am who I am’ line of yours. Saying you can’t love again is easier than making yourself vulnerable...easier than exposing yourself to the potential for pain, so you choose not to go there. You choose to believe you are incapable of love.”
He shook his head. “I won’t tell you lies. We promised each other that. But what we have, Angelina—is something more than love. What we have is based on rationality, on that great partnership you’ve always wanted, on the affection we have for each other. It is real. It’s what’s going to make this marriage work. Last.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. Turned to look out the window. He closed the distance between them, curled his fingers around her shoulder and turned her to him. “We have a good thing,” he said softly, “an electric connection—a special connection. The kind that rarely, if ever, comes along. We will be great parents to our child because we know the gift it is. What more could you ask for?”
“The love of a lifetime,” she said quietly. “You had yours. Maybe I want mine. Maybe this isn’t enough.”
His stomach contracted, her words sucking the breath from him. He inhaled, dragged in a breath. Searched for something, anything to say. But he knew what she was saying was true. She deserved to have that untainted love—everything he couldn’t give her. But he’d thought he could make her happy by giving her everything else. He should have known it would never be enough.
Naked pain wrote itself across her beautiful face. “I have to go to bed. I need to deliver that bracelet to Juliette tomorrow and I still have to figure out the clasp.”
He watched her leave the room, a heavy, hollow ache in his chest, because he wasn’t sure he could fix this. It was the one thing he couldn’t fix.
* * *
Bleary-eyed from a restless, sleepless night, Angie forced herself into the studio shortly after her husband left for the office, putting on coffee just as the birds were beginning to sing.
She sat down at her desk with a cup of the strong brew, numbly processing the events of the night before. She hadn’t meant to confront Lorenzo. She’d meant to give him time. But somewhere along the way, her emotions so raw, it had just come tumbling out. Maybe it had been the way she’d been desperately begging for crumbs in that dressing room when they’d made love, terrified they were falling apart again—needing to know they were okay. How they were once again using sex to solve problems they couldn’t fix.
Her heart throbbed. How could she have allowed herself to make the same mistake she’d made the first time around? To think, on some instinctual level, her husband might love her but not be able to admit it?
It was never going to happen even if he did. And she knew, even if she convinced herself that what they had was enough, even if she bought his whole line about them being more than love, she’d end up hating him for never offering her what she so desperately wanted. Because she wanted it—she did. The love she’d never had. The love she knew they could have together.
She deserved it. She had always deserved it. She was worthy of it. She knew that now. And what hurt the most was her husband was capable of it. He’d loved Lucia once. He just wasn’t going to offer it to her.
The ache in her insid
es grew. She wanted to be the light in Lorenzo’s life, his everything as he was becoming to her. As he’d always been to her. This wasn’t her sabotaging them, it was him sabotaging them.
She took another sip of her coffee. Pulled herself together. Allowing her work to slide wasn’t going to make this any easier.
A return email from Juliette Baudelaire sat in her inbox. A short, curt reply.
Not to worry. I found another piece to wear to the luncheon. Given that, I no longer require the bracelet.
Her heart sank. Thousands of dollars of diamonds had gone into that bracelet. But that wasn’t even the point—she could resell it. The point was that Juliette knew everyone and loved to talk. Her reputation was going to take a bump for this, she knew it in her bones.
She sat back in her chair. Closed her eyes.
“You okay?” Serina breezed in and hung up her coat.
No, she decided, tears stinging her eyes. She was most definitely not okay. But she wasn’t going to let that man take her apart again. Not this time.
* * *
“Do you want the good news or the bad?”
Lorenzo eyed his lawyer, his mood vile. “Why don’t you start with the bad and work up to the good?”
“The Belmont lawyers called while you were in your meeting. They want to meet tomorrow in Miami to discuss some final issues.”
Lorenzo’s fingers curled tight around the toy football he held. Marc Bavaro was going to be the one to finally make him snap. He could feel it.
“What’s the good news?”
“The meeting will be at Erasmo Bavaro’s place.”
He sat forward. “That is good news.” But Miami...tomorrow?
A Debt Paid in the Marriage Bed (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 15