Cris eyed his scowl. “Please tell me we’re saying yes.”
“Bene.” He blew out a breath. “Make it happen. We need to get this done. But I swear this is the swan song.”
His lawyer left. Lorenzo sat back in his chair, his satisfaction at finally moving this game to a place he was comfortable with only slightly improving his foul mood. His volatility had as much to do with his wife’s ultimatum as it did with Bavaro’s antics. With the fact that she’d thrown that explosive three-word phrase at him, pushed him for things he couldn’t give and destroyed the delicate, satisfactory stasis he’d had going on. Backed him into a corner with nowhere left to go.
Flying to Miami tomorrow seemed unwise given the current state of affairs. But what could he do? If he didn’t get Erasmo Bavaro on board this deal was as good as dead.
Swinging his feet off his desk, he threw the things he’d need for Miami in his briefcase and headed home to solve his problem. His wife was making herself some hot milk in the kitchen when he walked in.
“How was your day?” he asked, setting his briefcase on the floor. Reintroducing stasis.
“Busy.” She put down the cup and rubbed her palms against her temples.
“Did you get Juliette’s bracelet done?”
She lifted her gaze to his, her face expressionless. “I lost the commission. She went out and bought something else to wear.”
Uh-oh. This did not bode well for the conversation they needed to have. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “that was wrong of me. But we still need to talk. Work this out.”
She shook her head. “You need to work this out. I know how I feel.”
A twinge of unease spread through him. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I can’t live without love. I can’t stay in this marriage unless you can offer that to me.” She shook her head, teeth sinking into her lip. “You have made me face up to my past, Lorenzo. You have made me see how I run from the things that scare me so I won’t get hurt. Well, I’m not running now. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to have all of you. And if you can’t offer that to me, it will break my heart, but I will walk away because you’ve also helped me realize how strong I am.”
His chest clenched. “You’re willing to throw everything we have away because I can’t say three words?”
Her eyes darkened. “It’s more than that and you know it. I’ve watched you struggle over the past few weeks. I know how hard this is for you. But I can’t live with pieces of you. It would break my heart. We would end up hating each other. You know we would.”
“No, I do not know that.” His fists tightened at his sides. “This is not negotiable, Angelina. You are carrying my child. Our fate was sealed the day that happened.”
“No, it wasn’t.” She shook her head. “You have your heir. We will work that out. But you can’t have me. Not like this. I must have been insane to ever agree to that deal we made.”
“You aren’t walking out on me again.” His voice was pure frost. “You know the conditions I attached to this.”
“You won’t do it.” Her eyes were stark in a face gone white. “The other thing I have learned is that under that armor you wear is the man I met. The man I would have given anything to have. He wouldn’t let my family suffer. He would not hurt me.”
Blood pounded in his ears, a red-hot skewer of rage lancing through him. “Try me, cara. Just try me. You think you can leave me and cozy up to Byron again with my child inside you? It will never happen. I will drag this divorce out for all eternity.”
She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He couldn’t believe what he was saying. But the rage driving him didn’t care who or what he hurt.
She didn’t flinch. Held his gaze. “Byron and I were over when I realized I was still in love with you and you damn well know it.”
He raked a hand through his hair. Struggled to see past his fury. “I have to go to Miami tomorrow. Erasmo Bavaro has agreed to meet with us. We will talk about this when I get back.”
“I won’t be here.” The pain staining her blue eyes nearly tore him in two. “I know who I am, Lorenzo, and I know I can’t do this.”
She turned on her heel and walked toward the bedroom.
Corrosive anger roped his heart. “Goddammit, Angelina, get back here.”
She kept going.
In the center of the red zone, well aware of where it could take him, he downed the rest of the whiskey. He could not afford to go there, not now with the most important deal of his life hanging in the balance. Not ever when his wife was asking more of him than he could ever give.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ERASMO BAVARO WAS as cagey as his son Marc and as animated as Diego, a fearsome combination in a silver-haired fox who reminded Lorenzo of his father.
It would have been fascinating to see the two titans face off in their heyday, but on a brilliantly sunny afternoon in Miami, with the Bavaro scion’s palatial poolside terrace the backdrop for the negotiations, his focus was on pulling Erasmo into the twenty-first century.
Erasmo, for his part, looked content to stay right where he was. Flanked by his lawyers at the long, olive wood table, coolly dressed in a flamboyant short-sleeved shirt and trousers, he swept a palm over his neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper goatee and eyed Lorenzo. “Let me tell you a story,” he said in a deeply accented voice. “Perhaps it will help you to understand where I’m coming from.
“The night we opened the Belmont in South Beach in 1950, we had the most popular blues singer on the planet, Natalie Constantine, lined up to play. Near the end of her set, Arturo Martinez walked onto the stage and joined her for the last two songs.”
Arturo Martinez. The Spanish megastar who had sold more albums in those days than any singer alive.
“They closed out the night in the piano bar. Two legends. Such was the mystique of the Belmont legacy. You could not have paid to be there that night.”
“They were great days,” Lorenzo acknowledged. “I wish I had been there that night. But that time has come and gone, Erasmo. It’s time for the mantle to be passed on. All good things must come to an end.”
“Speaks the man who puts money above meaning.” The Bavaro patriarch lifted a brow. “Can I share something with you, Ricci? Money will not give your life meaning when you are my age. Money will not keep you warm at night. Money won’t nourish your soul when you’ve spent fifty years in this business and every boardroom table looks like the rest. Meaning will. Your legacy will.”
“Speaks a man perhaps lost in his own sentimentality...”
Erasmo dipped his head. “Perhaps. But I would prefer to be remembered as a man who built things rather than tore down the work of others.”
The rebuke stung his skin. Lorenzo lifted the glass of potent, exotic rum his host had unearthed from his cellar to his lips and took a sip. It burned a slow path through his insides, but it didn’t take the sting out of the old man’s words. Nor did the fact that his wife, who’d walked out on him again, felt the same way.
Angelina thought he’d sold his soul for his success. Bartered it for an escape from the guilt he refused to acknowledge—the feelings he refused to address. The ironic thing was, in that moment, as the cast of lawyers digressed into legalese he couldn’t be bothered to follow, he couldn’t remember why this deal had ever been so important to him. Why he was sitting here haggling over a name when the most important thing in his life was back in New York. Refusing to take his calls.
And why would she? Regret sat like a stone in his stomach. He’d threatened to withdraw his funding of Carmichael Company if she left...to drag their divorce out for all eternity. Had he really thought that would make her stay?
His insides coiled tight. What the hell was wrong with him? He had no idea what he was doing anymore. Hadn’t since Angelin
a had laid all his truths out for him and challenged him to do the same. Since a phone call in the middle of a meeting in Shanghai had obliterated the life he’d known and had him planning a funeral rather than the family he and Lucia had envisioned.
He rubbed a palm across his forehead, a low throb sitting just below his skin. He’d told Angelina he wasn’t capable of loving again. Had meant it. But watching her walk out on him a second time, watching her lay her heart on the line about how she felt about him had done something to him. If his wife, who’d been hurt so many times it was a scar on her soul, could be that courageous, what did that make him? A coward?
The tightness in his chest deepened. He’d allowed her to walk away, continued to pretend he didn’t feel the things he did for her because then he wouldn’t have to face the truth. That he loved her. Had loved her from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. That he was so afraid of losing someone else, so afraid of losing her, so angry at her still for leaving him, he didn’t have the guts to put himself out there. To tell her how he felt.
His heart punched through his chest. Blaming yourself for Lucia’s death is easier than making yourself vulnerable again.
He curled his fingers into his thighs, waiting for the shame, the guilt, to dig its claws into him, to claim him as it always did when he allowed himself to think of that night. But it didn’t come. His fear was greater—his fear of losing his wife, the woman who made him whole.
He closed his eyes. What would she think if she knew the true story? That his inability to be present for his wife, to listen to her, the same failings he had brought to his marriage with Angelina, had led to Lucia’s death? That he was responsible for it?
He finished his drink in a long swig. Set the glass down. What was clear was that he hadn’t fulfilled his end of his bargain with his wife. He’d insisted Angelina be an open book, but he hadn’t been with her. He owed her the truth, because if he continued to use his guilt as a crutch, to hide from his emotions, he would lose her anyway. And losing his wife, he realized, wasn’t an option.
The lawyers droned on. The sun beat down on his head. Perhaps knowing, accepting he should have done things differently and forgiving himself for Lucia’s death were two separate things. Maybe he needed to forgive himself for being human in the decisions he’d made...maybe that was something he could live with.
He leaned forward, palms on the table. “We will cobrand the hotels,” he interjected, cutting through the din. ‘“The Ricci South Beach, formerly a Belmont hotel.’ That’s as far as I’m willing to take it.”
Cristopher gaped at his about-face. Lorenzo stood up. “You have twenty-four hours to give us a response—after that, the deal is dead.”
Marc eyed him. “You’re walking out?”
“I’m taking a page out of your father’s book. I’m finally getting my priorities straight. You’ve had a year to do that, Bavaro, I’m giving you another twenty-four hours’ grace.”
Whether he had that with Angelina after the things he’d said to her remained to be seen.
* * *
“Why don’t you just take his calls if you’re this miserable?”
Angie looked up from her bowl of pasta to find her sister’s watchful gaze on her. “Because we both need space. And,” she said, dropping the fork in the bowl and pushing it away, “I’m angry at him.”
Furious. Lonely. Miserable. But she wasn’t about to add fuel to the fire by dragging her sister into this. They were supposed to be having a nice night out at their favorite restaurant, something she desperately needed.
“You know,” Abigail said quietly, “Lorenzo called James this afternoon.”
She sat up straighter. “James? Why?”
“Father is stepping down and making James CEO. Lorenzo’s going to come in and work side by side with him to right-side Carmichael Company.”
Her jaw dropped. “And I don’t know about this why?”
“Apparently it’s been in the works for a while, but Father just made the decision this week. According to James, Lorenzo gave Father an ultimatum a few weeks back—step down or he will withdraw his financial support.”
“He’s good at that,” Angie muttered. “Throwing his weight around.” She frowned, playing with the straw in her iced tea. “The question is why? He can barely manage his own schedule. How is he going to accommodate this?”
“I don’t know,” Abigail said softly, her attention on something behind Angie, “but you could ask him. I think your space just ran out.”
She whipped her head around. Felt the blood drain from her face. Lorenzo, in a silver-gray suit, navy tie and white shirt, stood talking to the hostess. All magnetic, bespoke elegance, the pretty blonde was clearly dazzled by him, her megawatt smile as she pointed to their table blinding.
Angie turned back to her sister, butterflies swarming her stomach. “How did he know I was here?” Her gaze narrowed. “You told him.”
Abigail sat back in her chair, wineglass in hand. “You just said you’re in love with him. Not that that’s a news flash. You two need to work things out.”
“Traitor,” Angie growled. But then her husband was standing beside their table and everything inside her seemed to vibrate with the need to hold him, to have him, she’d missed him so much.
She pressed her lips together. Looked up at him. “What are you doing here?”
He eyed her, his dark stare making her heart thud in her chest. “I’ve come to get my wife.”
Her stomach lurched. “You can’t order me around, Lorenzo. I’m done with that.”
“It wasn’t an order. I’m asking you to come home with me and talk this out.”
She sank her teeth into her lip. “Lorenzo—”
“Please.” The husky edge to his voice raked her skin. Deepened the ache inside of her to unbearable levels.
She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
“You think I don’t love you?” he rasped, his gaze holding hers. “What do you think this has all been about, Angelina? Me running after you like a lunatic? Me not being able to forget you? Me acting like a complete jackass? I’ve been in love with you since the first moment I laid eyes on you. If my behavior hasn’t made that clear, I don’t know what will.”
“He has a point,” Abigail said dryly. “As much as I’m enjoying this spectacular grovel, however, there are at least two tabloid reporters in the house tonight. Perhaps you should hear the man out.”
Angie barely heard her, she was so utterly gobsmacked by what her husband had just said. At the truth glimmering in his black eyes. Never had she expected to hear him say those three words. Certainly not in a restaurant full of people now staring at them.
She glanced at her sister. Abigail waved her off with an amused lift of her hand. “I’ll have the fudge cake while I imagine being a fly on the wall. Go.”
Lorenzo captured her fingers in his and dragged her to her feet. Through the crowded restaurant they went, her half running to keep up with his long strides.
The car sat waiting with the valet. Lorenzo tucked her into the passenger seat, got in and drove home. Angie watched him, head spinning. “What happened in Miami? Did you sign the deal?”
“No. I told Erasmo Bavaro I would cobrand the hotels, that was my final offer, and gave them twenty-four hours to take it or leave it.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “You said you’d never do that.”
“Things change.”
“The Bavaros got to you, didn’t they?”
“Perhaps. My wife also made it clear she disapproves of my slash-and-burn approach to business.”
She eyed him. “Why are you helping James?”
“Because I think Carmichael can be great again, but it needs your brother at the helm. A modern leadership. And,” he added, flicking her a glance, “I like
the idea of building something again.”
“You have no capacity. What if you land Belmont?”
“I will hand it off to the VP I hired last week. It’s all part of the plan.”
“What plan?”
“To keep you.” Quiet words, full of meaning. Promise. “It was always about keeping you, Angelina. I just didn’t go about it the right way.”
Oh. Her heart melted. It was hard to stay angry when he said things like that.
Traffic unusually light, they made it home in minutes. Lorenzo flicked on the lights in the living room, poured them glasses of sparkling water, handed one to Angie and lowered himself into a chair. She curled up in the one opposite him.
“I need to tell you about Lucia,” he said quietly. “All of it.”
Her heart beat a jagged rhythm. “Lorenzo—”
He held up a hand. “I need to do it.”
She sat back, heart in her mouth.
“My trip to Shanghai, the week Lucia died, was an intense trip for me. Three days in and out—nonstop meetings. Lucia wanted to come. I told her no, I wouldn’t have any time for her. She was...nervous living in New York. She was from a small village in Italy, she didn’t feel safe here. I thought by not taking her with me on that trip, not dragging her through those time zones when we were trying to conceive, she would be better off.” His mouth flattened. “I also thought it would help toughen her up. Show her she could do it on her own.”
Oh, no. She pressed her fingers to her mouth. The guilt he must feel.
“When the robbers left her alone,” he continued, cheekbones standing out like blades, “she called me instead of 911. The call went to my voice mail. I was in a meeting. When I listened to the message, I lost my mind.”
Her throat constricted. “No,” she whispered. “Lorenzo, no.” Tears welled up in her eyes. She got up, closed the distance between them and slid onto his lap. “It wasn’t your fault,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his cheek. “Tell me you don’t think it was your fault.”
The soul-deep wounds in his eyes said otherwise. “I should have respected her fears and taken her with me.”
A Debt Paid in the Marriage Bed (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 16