by Mary Campisi
They’d spoken earlier as she sat cross-legged on her bed in the Heart Sent, wrapped in a red terrycloth bathrobe compliments of the bed and breakfast. He called every three days to ask about the project, inform her about the goings on in Montpelier, and make gentle but obvious inquiries.
Are you enjoying your stay?
Any interesting people there?
How about a special someone, a man?
What he really wanted to ask was, Have you met someone you could spend time with, maybe a lifetime?
The answers dribbled out.
Yes, I’m enjoying my stay.
Yes, there are a lot of interesting people here. She expanded on that with talk of Sal Ventori, Mimi Pendergrass, Miriam Desantro, and the other residents she’d met. No mention of Roman Ventori, the one man her father might qualify as a special someone.
No man?
Of course there are men in Magdalena.
But…nobody you’re interested in?
No way was she going there. Not really.
Oh. And then, Owen Hollins has been asking about you.
No. Do not encourage him. Montpelier’s bachelor dentist had been after Angie for three years and still didn’t understand that no meant no.
You’d never pay for another dental exam in your life.
No, Dad.
A chuckle. I know. His voice turned serious. I really hoped you might find somebody in a place where nobody knew you and you could relax.
Nope. Roman Ventori’s face blasted her brain, the dark eyes, the full lips, the square jaw. Nope, she said again.
He let it go after that, changing the subject to the hot peppers he’d planted and the pot of wedding soup he’d cooked yesterday. When they hung up, Angie pictured her father sitting in his brown and gold plaid recliner, studying the travel brochures he’d picked up. West Virginia, Pennsylvania. Mountains, streams, trees. Once she finished this project, she’d get him to see about that knee surgery and while he was recovering, they’d plan a trip, and...
“Angie?”
Mimi Pendergrass’s voice reached her from the other side of the door. “Yes?” Angie slid off the bed, tightened the belt on her robe, and moved toward the door. She opened it to find Mini staring back at her, a curious look on her face.
“You have a visitor,” she said in a way that implied more than that simple statement.
“I do?” Angie crossed her arms over her middle, peeked over Mimi’s shoulder. Nobody there. “Who?”
The knowing look she gave Angie said more than her next words. “Lorraine Ventori. Roman’s mother.”
Ten minutes later, dressed in jeans and a pink T-shirt, Angie entered a sitting room papered in blue and white peonies. The antique furniture had been painted ivory, the vases on the tables stuffed with silk roses, the pictures on the wall displayed in fancy gold frames. Lorraine Ventori sat on the long couch, hands clasped in her lap. When Angie entered, she smiled, patted the spot next to her. “Hello, dear. Lovely to see you again.”
“Mrs. Ventori.” Angie made her way toward Roman’s mother, sat down. “Would you like tea or coffee?” Roman’s mother might have surprised her with a visit, but Frank Sorrento had taught her that manners prevailed.
The woman shook her dark head. “No, I don’t have much time. My husband gets antsy if I don’t go home right after work.” She sighed. “Now if he were the one at work, he’d lose track of time and who knows when I’d see him?” Her laugh spoke of tolerance and tenderness. “You get used to your husband’s eccentricities, come to expect them, and when they stop, you miss them. But,” she sighed, patted Angie’s hand, “that’s not why I’m here and I’m guessing you already know that.”
“I figured.” Roman, she’s here about him. Was Lorraine Ventori really going to push her son on Angie as the perfect match?
“I want to apologize for my husband’s behavior.” Her dark eyes met Angie’s, held them. “It wasn’t right of him to play matchmaker for you and Roman and I should have stopped him. At the very least, I should not have let Pop Benito encourage him. When Sal had his heart attack and I almost lost him—” she covered her mouth with her hand, blinked hard “—I was so afraid. My husband’s a fighter, never gives in to sickness, but he looked so frail in that hospital bed with tubes coming out of his body, beeps and buzzes. I sat in the chair and counted his breaths, over and over, afraid to close my eyes. When Roman came home, it was easier and harder.” She rubbed her temple, said in soft voice, “They’ve had their differences these past years, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“It’s not my business.” But she had heard the stories of Roman being accused of getting a girl pregnant in high school, and how his father did not support his son’s claim of innocence.
“It’s not unless you’re dragged into their history, which you have been. I wanted to give Sal something to hang onto and when he almost died, and then he saw Pop’s great-granddaughter, well, that was all he could talk about. I should have shut him down, should have pulled Pop aside and made him convince Sal they couldn’t match up two near strangers who had nothing in common.” She worked up a smile. “Do you and Roman have anything in common?” The blush creeping up Angie’s neck must have given her the answer because she said, “I’m sorry. That was rude. It seems almost losing my husband has made me insensitive and rude.”
“Mrs. Ventori, please, there’s no need to apologize. I might have done the same thing if I were in your position.” What would it be like to love a man so much you were willing to do anything for him?
“Roman wouldn’t agree with you on the apology and he’d be furious if he knew I was here.” She paused, lifted a shoulder. “But, he’s going to find out anyway, so he can just be mad at me later.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m going to talk to my husband and Pop about leaving you and Roman alone. If there was any chance of a spark between the two of you, it would have happened by now.” Her dark eyes misted. “Roman needs a woman like you. Strong, no-nonsense, not impressed with ‘things’ and not afraid to tell him when he’s out of line. But most of all, he needs someone to love him for himself, not the car or the house or the jewelry or the trips. Just him. My boy.”
Angie didn’t respond. What could she say? Tell me more, her heart begged. Let me hear about the real Roman Ventori, the one who’s been hurt, betrayed, used. Tell me about him.
“A mother always knows her children, even the parts about them that aren’t flattering, that worry her, that threaten to break her heart. But it doesn’t matter because she loves her children despite that, and she will fight for them and pray for their happiness until she draws her last breath.” A tear slipped down her right cheek, traveled to her chin. “It’s time to apologize to you and Roman for an interference you didn’t deserve, and it’s time to admit one more truth.” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t stop my husband or Pop from playing matchmaker because part of me thought they might be right.”
“Why me?” It wasn’t an attempt to hear how wonderful she was; Angie really wanted to know why they all thought she’d be so perfect for Roman Ventori. What if she told them she’d been dumped days before her own wedding? Would they think she was so wonderful then? Or that she didn’t trust men, didn’t believe in love or happily-ever-after, and that she almost wrecked her best friend’s chance to be with the only man Kate had ever loved. Would they think she was so great then?
“You’re a real person, Angela Sorrento, not a make-believe fantasy in high heels and tight dresses.”
“But I’m not always a nice person. I get angry, say things I shouldn’t, curse—”
The woman’s laughter stopped her. “Like I said, perfect for Roman. Maybe if we’d left you two alone, you would have seen that. But there’s nothing any of us can do about that except to move on and hopefully stay out of other people’s business in the future. I’ve spoken with Mimi and she’s agreed to give you free rein in the kitchen and dining room this evening. No interruptions. I’v
e got manicotti and meatballs in the car. Pop it in the oven at 350 for forty-five minutes and it’s ready. Mimi’s taking care of the salad and rolls, and I ordered double fudge brownies from the bakery. They’re Roman’s favorite; I would have made them myself but Sal might have gotten suspicious and I am not giving that man one more tidbit to nose around and question.”
Dinner with Roman Ventori? Alone? Here? “Mrs. Ventori, this isn’t necessary.” This is so not necessary. “Please, you don’t have to do this.”
She nodded, her eyes bright. “But I do. It’s my way of apologizing. All I ask is that you relax and enjoy the evening.” Her lips spread into a wide smile. “And the manicotti.”
Logic told Angie to refuse the invitation because despite his mother’s convincing words, this could be another tactic to get Angie and Roman together. Would Lorraine Ventori do that? She didn’t seem the type, but mothers had been engaging in all manner of subterfuge for ages in attempts to rescue their children from harm or ensure their happiness. Whether the plans and plots worked or not, who knew? She should refuse, but part of her didn’t want to, part of her wanted to have dinner with the man Lorraine had talked about, the one who’d given his heart and been betrayed. Was that the real Roman Ventori, buried beneath layers of cool arrogance and good looks, or was the real one the man in the entertainment magazines stashed under the bed upstairs at the Heart Sent? Did it matter? Yes, yes it did matter. She drew in a deep breath, steadied her voice, and said, “What time should I be ready?”
Roman’s mother clasped Angie’s hand, squeezed. “Thank you. He’ll be here at seven. No matchmaking, no conniving, just you and Roman.”
When the doorbell to the Heart Sent rang at 6:54 p.m., Angie ran her hands over the front of her dress once, twice, three times. Jeans would never wrinkle like this. One more swipe and she made her way to the front door, glad she hadn’t caved and worn the spike heels in her suitcase instead of the no-inch sandals. She opened the door and there he was, way too handsome in a suit jacket, dress jeans, and a starched white shirt, holding a bouquet of lilies.
“Flowers?”
Those full lips turned up at the corners, but his words fell out dead serious. “My mother taught me to never show up empty-handed. It was flowers or chocolate truffles and I didn’t know if you liked milk chocolate or dark.”
It was her turn to smile. “Totally into milk.”
“Good to know.” He cleared his throat, handed her the flowers. “Nice dress.”
“Thanks.” She accepted the lilies and motioned him inside.
“You should wear dresses more often.” He caught himself corrected the comment. “If you want to, I mean. They look good on you.”
“Guys always say that when they see a woman in a dress.” When his brows pulled together, she shook her head. “What guy doesn’t want to take a peek at bare skin? They say it’s all about the dress, but it’s all about the skin.”
He rubbed his jaw, said, “Huh. The guys I know are just as interested in a woman in jeans or sweats. It’s all about revealing enough to keep them wondering but not too much that it’s all on display. Definite turn-off. But at some point, it doesn’t matter what she’s wearing because he’s not seeing anything but what’s inside the woman’s head and her heart.”
Angie stared at him. That had just fallen out of Roman Ventori’s mouth? It was pure poetry, the words of a man who knew how a woman wanted to be treated. Definitely not expected. Definitely unsettling. “So.” She looked up at him, into those dark eyes.
“Yeah.” He nodded, shoved his hands in his pockets, and said, “Sorry about this mess. My mother can be persistent. See why I moved hundreds of miles away?”
He’d meant it as a joke, but his words struck her, their sentiment piercing. “I never knew my mother.” And then, “I’m going to look for a vase.” She didn’t expect him to follow her into the kitchen, but when she began searching cupboards for a vase, he was right behind her, opening the higher cupboards, peering inside.
“Got one.” Roman slid a glass vase from the shelf and handed it to her. “Angie.” Their hands touched, a slight brush of skin to skin. “My mother apologized to me for my father and Pop Benito’s matchmaking attempts. She felt guilty as hell for not stopping them, saying it was wrong to push something between us that wasn’t there.” He lifted a hand, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “But I don’t think she was right, at least not 100 percent.” His fingers trailed to her neck, traced her jaw until she shivered. “I think there was something between us, something we tried very hard to fight, and I think it’s still there.”
That voice, those eyes, that touch… How did a woman ever refuse him? Why would she want to? Angie shook her head, stepped away. She couldn’t risk getting hurt by a man like him. “I can’t. Please.”
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, his voice soft, husky. “Tell me you don’t feel anything when I touch you and I’ll walk out of here right now and never bother you again. But if you do feel something, will you just be honest and admit it?” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “This scares the hell out of me, and it’s the last thing I wanted, but I’m done denying it.”
Angie slid her gaze to his, blinked hard. “I can’t get hurt again.” Her voice broke, dipped with pain. “I won’t survive.”
He stroked her cheek, cupped her chin. “I don’t want to hurt you and I promise I’ll do my best not to.”
The words, the look, all said he could worship her until she drew her last breath. How could she refuse that? She leaned on tiptoe, placed a soft kiss on his mouth, whispered, “I can’t tell you I don’t feel anything. It wouldn’t be the truth.” He groaned and pulled her to him, devouring her mouth with a passion and need that excited and scared her. More, she wanted more. “Yes,” she breathed against his lips. “Oh, yes.” Angie threw her arms around his neck, buried her hands in his hair, and moaned.
“I knew it would be like this,” Roman murmured, trailing his tongue along her jaw to her neck. He cupped her butt with one hand, fitted himself between her legs, and let out a low growl of pleasure when Angie moved her hips against his. “Damn,” he murmured seconds before he lifted her onto the kitchen counter, eased her dress up her thighs, and wrapped her legs around his waist. A perfect fit. A little less fabric would make it better than perfect.
Angie rested her head against the cupboard, welcomed his hand under her dress, his fingers dipping inside her bra to bare skin. Oh, yes, pure bliss. She watched through half-closed eyes as he undid the front clasp closure of her bra, bent his dark head. Licked. Sucked. Traced her right nipple with his tongue, slid his other hand inside her panties. Touched her. There. She moaned and thrust her hips against those fingers, tried to get closer. Reach farther. It had been so long, but had it ever been like this? So good? So perfect? Roman lifted his head, burned her with his gaze as he pleasured her, made her forget everything but those eyes and those incredible fingers. When he buried a finger deep inside, she clasped his face between her hands, found his mouth, sucked his tongue, and exploded in a burst of ecstasy.
After, when her breathing evened, Roman placed a kiss on her temple, eased away, and began straightening her clothing. He adjusted her panties, clasped her bra, buttoned the front of her dress. So methodical, so businesslike…so impersonal…as if he hadn’t just touched her heart, buried a piece of himself in her soul. He didn’t smile, didn’t speak, his jaw clenching and unclenching as though he were undertaking a task he didn’t particularly want or enjoy. Where was the gentle man who’d spoken to her a short time ago with a sincerity that made her believe him? Was he gone or had it all been a ruse? Did that man not exist?
When he’d finished “putting her back together,” he cleared his throat, stepped out of reach, and met her gaze. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“As opposed to what? Leaving?” Leaving after what just happened? He nodded, took one more step back. “Is that what you want?” She stared at him, forced him to look at
her. She would not give him an easy out; she would make him say the words, and she would not cry. Damn it, she would not cry. That would come later when she was alone in her bed with nothing but the pain of trusting someone once more crushing her heart.
“No.” He shook his head, his gaze fierce, angry. “Of course it isn’t what I want.” He sighed. “This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” He gestured to the counter, shook his head again. “I’m sorry; I totally blew it.”
Totally blew it? Giving a woman mind-numbing pleasure was not what she would call totally blowing it. “You didn’t blow it until you went all impersonal on me.” His expression said he didn’t understand. It was her turn to sigh. “You don’t do what we just did and then try to detach yourself from the situation the millisecond it’s over.”
“Is that what you think I was trying to do?” He moved toward her, got right up in her personal space until there wasn’t room for her to draw a full breath. “I came here tonight to show you I’m a decent guy, and despite the matchmaking mess, maybe we could be friends.” He sighed, his words loaded with disgust, “But this? This is not something a decent guy does when he’s trying to say he’s sorry, and it sure as hell isn’t what he does when he wants to be friends.”
“We’re adults,” Angie said in a soft voice. “I could have stopped you, but I didn’t.”
“You should have,” he said, heaping more disgust on his words. “This isn’t how I wanted it to go, but damn it, I can’t seem to keep my head when you’re around.”
His words snuffed the air from the room, made her lightheaded. He couldn’t keep his head when she was around? She liked the sound of that. A lot. He’d zeroed in on a section of cabinet above her head, jaw clenching and unclenching like he was trying to get control of the situation—and failing. Angie reached out, touched his cheek. “Roman?”