Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Get Connected
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Excerpt: The Boss’ Desire
Also By Z.L. Arkadie & T.R. Bertrand
About the Authors
The Artist’s Love
Her Perfect Man Series
Z.L. Arkadie
T.R. Bertrand
Z.L. Arkadie Books
Copyright © 2018 by Z.L. Arkadie & T.R. Bertrand
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-1-942857-24-2
Created with Vellum
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the following:
Edited by Cassie Cox of Joy Editing, Inc.
Cover Design by Jacqueline Sweet Design
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Get Connected
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Excerpt: The Boss’ Desire
Also By Z.L. Arkadie & T.R. Bertrand
About the Authors
1
I sit on the chair, stooped over with my face buried in one hand. What my older brother, Nolan, just told me hits me so hard that it somehow knocks my soul out of my body.
“Liza?” he says.
Tears fall in a steady stream as I smash my lips together more tightly and whimper like a hurt puppy.
“I’ll give you a moment, Mouse,” he says, realizing that it’s impossible for me to speak when I feel this way.
My brother just said that my ex-husband, John, has been arrested for murdering our father. Nolan claims that the evidence against John is mostly circumstantial but strong.
The most hurtful thought going through my mind right now is the fact that I’m not shocked. Everyone accepted that John was bad news even before we said, “I do.” After my father died, I conceded to the fact that John was a selfish prick. While my father was still alive John stole and falsified documents in order to get his grubby hands on my inheritance and more.
Nolan had uncovered John’s dirty dealings and threatened to go to the police with the evidence if he didn’t offer me an uncontested divorce in which he got nothing, not even unsupervised visits with our son, Aiden. But after the lawyers left John and I in the room to have a final conversation, I learned who he really was.
“So why did you do it? Why did you lie and steal?” I asked.
He gave me an evil scowl as if he was mocking my existence. “I never loved you, do you know that?”
My face dropped. I remember wondering how I was supposed to answer that question. Do I answer truthfully, or do I continue deluding myself?
“You never loved me?” I said.
John continued to glare at me as if he wanted to rip off my head. No, he couldn’t love me because all I saw in his eyes was hate.
“I did it because it was what I was owed for being married to you.”
After a long moment, I cleared my throat and said, “What about our baby?”
John sniffed bitterly and stood. “The kid was your idea, not mine.”
His words made me feel as if I'd shattered into a million pieces. My lips parted. I watched him turn and leave, not even closing the door behind him. I wanted to bawl like baby or scream while pounding the table until my knuckles bled. Not because this cruel individual had broken my heart or hurt my feelings. No… it was because the truth had gushed to the surface like a soda pop shaken in a bottle. And when that illumination struck me, I shut my eyes tightly and shoved it back into its hiding place.
But now, with this new information that I’ve received from brother, the walls around the deep, dark space where I’ve hidden my true feelings have been demolished.
“I don’t know what to do now.” I sigh briskly. “What do you think I should do?”
“Liza, what do you want to do?” Nolan asks.
For a moment, I consider leaving Italy and returning to Minneapolis. I have a job here, and I’m in the midst of preparing for a big interview with Michael Donatello in three days. He’s the executor of Castello di Donatello, one of the most exquisite and famous castles in the region. This is a make-or-break interview for me.
I’m the host of a luxury living show for TV Adesso in Bari. My ratings are flat though, because the producers at TV Ora, our competitors, run a show exactly like mine. And someone over there keeps swiping every interview I book. I’ve managed to keep Castello di Donatello off their radar, and I so very much need this interview to materialize. My job is to take viewers into the halls and grounds of the great estates of Italy. I haven’t booked an estate this luxurious in six months, and if my ratings continue to slip, then my show just might be canceled. I don’t want that.
“When is he going to be arraigned?” I ask in an unsure tone.
“Listen, you don’t have to come home. You’re not married to the guy anymore.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Plus, I’m keeping a close eye on the proceedings. I’ll let you know if you’re needed for anything.”
I lose my breath for a moment as dread rushes through me. “Are you saying that I might have to testify?”
“I don’t know. It’s a possibility.”
I detect irritation in his voice. Choosing not to push the envelope, I close my eyes and shake my head. “Okay. Well, thank you.”
“No problem. Listen, I have to go, but I love you.”
“Okay. Nolan, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For what I’ve done.”
He goes silent.
“Nolan?” I say, checking to see if he’s still there.
“Liza, don’t you ever apologize for what that fucker chooses to do, hear me?” He sounds angry.
I gulp. “Well… okay.”
I say it to appease him, but I don’t believe it. No. I brought that monster into our family. My father’s death is my fault.
Nolan and I say our good-byes, our voices sad. I pick up the glass of merlot I was drinking before he called. I have dinner plans tonight with my boyfrien
d, Salvatore Bovetti. Suddenly, I lose my taste for the wine.
A picture comes to mind. I conjure up an image of John shooting drugs into my dad’s arm while Dad lay helplessly in his hospital bed. I shake my head as anger and pain well up inside me. Before I know it, my arm pitches the glass of wine against the wall. Glass shatters, and red liquid splashes on the white walls and a painting of the Italian coastal town of Riomaggiore that I bought from a village artist in his tiny village shop while on a romantic excursion through the Cinque Terra with Salvatore.
“Cosé successo?” Floriana, my nanny, says.
I turn to face her standing in the doorway. Floriana is young and pretty, with jet-black hair and mysterious brown eyes. She’s studying to become a preschool teacher because she really likes little children.
“Have you been crying?” she asks, this time in English.
I swipe the tears off my face. “No… yes… a little.”
She takes two steps closer, then stops. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head as though the concept of being okay is incomprehensible. “I don’t know yet.”
Aiden makes a sound in the other room, and she jumps as she glances in the direction of his voice. “I have to go, but leave the mess. I will clean it later.”
She watches me, waiting for my response. For some reason, this all feels so wrong. I should be cleaning my own mess. When my child makes a noise, I should be the one hopping to it. I just learned my ex-husband murdered my father. I should be in bed with the covers pulled up over my head.
Instead, I nod stiffly. “Thank you.”
I trudge to my room and put on the silky, strappy white dress I picked out earlier. Next, I freshen my makeup. For a fleeting second, I’m incensed at myself for agreeing to drive all the way to town to meet Salvatore for dinner. He didn’t want to drive to my house to pick me up because he was already in town, near the restaurant, for business. He’s an investment banker, and quite successful at it, which makes me remember something.
I run back into my closet to retrieve the velvet jewelry box off the shelf and bring it back to the mirror. I open it, and just like the first time I laid eyes on the lovely gift, I gasp. It’s a diamond tennis bracelet with matching earrings. Salvatore said that the fact that both pieces cost more than a hundred grand should prove to me that he loves me. It sounded good when he said it, but now… I’m not so sure. I’m starting to doubt whether or not I know what true love looks like.
However, I promised Salvatore I would wear the set more often, which is why we made dinner plans tonight. He was giving me the opportunity to step out in excess. So I clamp the bracelet around my left wrist and insert the diamond-encrusted earrings into my earholes. I pick up the cell phone on my vanity dresser.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I’m already late, but I’m going to be unforgivably late if I don’t leave right now.
2
I walk past Aiden’s room. The lamp next to his unoccupied crib shines brightly. He and the nanny are playing in the middle of the room, doing a dance. Aiden is giggling with his hands in the air, holding hers, and stepping along the old floorboards. My darkness is overtaken by joy, for a moment, then my smile wavers.
I’m surprised and pleased by his comfort with Floriana. And I’m at a loss because she’s the one he’s so relaxed and playful with.
Aiden giggles again.
Floriana smiles and looks up at me. “He’ll be doing the two-step before you know it.”
I walk toward him and bend down. He gets serious and stops his stomping.
“I love you baby,” I say and give him a kiss and leave.
On the way to La Terrazza di Rossa, I feel numb. The glittering lights of the city in the valley below feel shallow. I turn sharply around the first major bend.
I remember when I got here. Aiden and I had traveled across the country, even into Germany, Switzerland, France, and Spain. I told the taxi driver to take us where we would feel the beauty of Italy in this town. He drove us up the very road I now descend.
I turn around the next corner, traversing the hillside. The elegant Italian village is quietly nestled into the sea’s cove, topped by brilliant groves of green hillsides, vineyards, and estates. It reminds me of when I was a little girl and my family would travel to Napa.
I looked at Aiden and said with a smile, “This is it. This is where we are going to stay.”
I slow for a moment, the city drawing closer with every passing curve. I knew it would be a great place for me to start a new beginning. The innocence of the valley and the large hillsides protecting the sea felt safe, like a perfect landing pad after our two-month journey and my breakup with John.
How in the hell could I let that asshole into my family? I snarl. Why didn’t I listen to my brother’s warnings?
The day John and Nolan returned from their hunting trip, Nolan told me how John’s eyes wandered constantly toward the waitress’s mid-section. I dismissed it since John did that with me all of the time.
I round the next bend. This time, my tires screech while passing through the apex of the corner.
Little did I know he was going to put his dick into everything and anything with a pulse.
The next bend comes, and I take the vehicle through it like a precision-guided missile. The tires screech. I can feel their grip stretched to the limits. My nostrils flare as I think of him schmoozing his penis into the unsuspecting lives of god knows how many women.
Oh no! I stamp my foot onto the accelerator, only to brake more aggressively into the next turn.
All the while, I was ignoring the signs. My best friend, Ashley, told me how he would stare at her too, and he was always asking so many questions about my dad’s and the family’s finances.
“Goddamn it!” I squeeze the leather on the steering wheel so tightly it compresses between my fingertips. I accelerate, darting through the twists and turns.
I let him into my family, and as a result, my father’s dead.
“Fuck!” I can’t contain myself.
My car skids into the center portion of the highway, and suddenly I’m staring into the headlights of oncoming traffic. I turn the wheel as aggressively as I can, but the tires don’t grip. My vehicle drifts farther into the other lane.
I yank the wheel as hard as I can and scream. The sound of a loud horn sends me into shock. I hit my brakes and close my eyes, hoping for the best.
The next thing I notice, my vehicle’s stopped but running, and there’s a rap at my window.
The rap at my window comes again. “Madame, are you okay?”
I blink, inhale, and look around. My headlights illuminate dust in the air. My vehicle is not on pavement, but the gravel incline on the side of the road. I roll my window down.
“I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. You were traveling a little fast.”
My heartbeat slows slightly. I extend my neck left so that I can get a look at the man. I squint; his vehicle is parked so that his lights are making it hard for me to see him.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
He steps back. The silhouette of his frame contorts to his left, and his head cocks. “Are you sure?”
Reality strikes me. I nearly made Aiden a motherless child.
I place my left hand back on the steering wheel and tighten my grip. I look forward. I take a deep breath before returning my gaze to the stranger. I smile. “Really, I’m fine. Please forgive me.”
He stands silently, head still cocked. “You are forgiven.”
I tell him thanks, and he stops traffic so that I can get back on the right side of the road. I wave to him one last time before watching his slender figure stroll back to his car.
The cars behind me honk, and I gently shift my vehicle into drive and delicately accelerate onto the dark road. The city lights are almost close enough to touch. A few corners later, I’m off the hillside.
3
It takes me a while to find a safe parking space—one where my Fiat isn’t i
n jeopardy of getting dented or bumped. Parking in Italy can be nerve-racking. I scurry up the jagged cobblestone sidewalk, make it to the front door of La Terrazza di Rossa, and catch my breath.
Two men whistle and say, “Mama mia,” as they walk past me and enter the restaurant. It happens so often that I’ve learned to ignore it. It happened more when I was blond. In the last six or seven months, I’ve let my hair stay its natural brown.
Now that I’ve found some composure, I walk into the restaurant. The scents of garlic and cooking wine stimulate the air. The space is probably about a thousand square feet with not a lot of ambiance—just good food. I search the tables for Salvatore.
The maître d asks, in Italian, if he can help me. I ask if he has a reservation for Salvatore Bovetti. When he tells me that he does but my dinner companion has not arrived, he shows me to a nice table along the window with a city view.
“Would you like a drink, madame?”
As usual for Italians, he stopped speaking to me in Italian as soon as he figured out I’m American. I long for the day when my Italian is so precise that they assume I’m from here.
“Vorrei un vino di rosso,” I say, telling him I would like a red wine.
Now that we’re back to using his native language, he asks me which kind, and I tell him.
The waiter soon arrives with my wine. I sip it and feel kind of exposed as I wait. You mean to tell me that my father would still be alive if I had never married John? That sick feeling returns to my stomach. I’m not even hungry anymore, and I’m also starting to wonder why I’m still sitting here, waiting for a man who hasn’t thought enough of me to call to say he’s running this late.
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