by Susan Meier
But then he’d draw back. Then he wouldn’t paint her. He might even put her in Constanzo’s plane and ship her home so he didn’t have to deal with her feelings.
So she’d handle them alone.
“I think it’s just hormones.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I seem to recall hearing a bit about them from Tucker when Olivia was pregnant.”
And that was it. He totally believed her. He didn’t even like her enough to say, “Are you sure?” He didn’t dig deeper. Proof, again, that he didn’t have the same kinds of feelings for her that she had for him.
In bed that night, she cautioned herself about getting so close to him—wouldn’t let herself pretend there was any chance they’d be together—and the next morning she forced herself to be as chipper and happy as any woman posing for a portrait should be. She couldn’t have him forever, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy what she had now. In fact, a wise woman would accept what she could get and make memories.
After breakfast, Antonio took her outside. She’d asked him a million times if there was anything special he wanted her to wear and every time he’d said, “Your jeans are fine.”
But his attempts at capturing an outside pose failed. When the next day’s poses also resulted in balled-up paper and strings of curses in Italian, Laura Beth had to hide several winces. On Friday, when his temper appeared—a real, live temper that went beyond curses and balled-up paper and resulted in explosions and tablets tossed into the trash—fear trembled through her.
Not fear of Antonio. She knew he would never hurt her. His anger was never directed at her, but always at himself. His lost focus. His inability to capture what he wanted. She also saw his volatility as part of his larger-than-life personality, very much like his dad’s. What scared her was that he might quit trying and ask her to leave.
The very thought caused her chest to tighten. So Saturday after breakfast she suggested she meet him in the studio. He frowned and asked why, but she only smiled and raced off.
She styled her hair as it had been the night of the gallery opening, put on makeup and slipped into the black dress and the high heels Constanzo had bought her.
When she walked into the studio, Antonio had his back to her. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and sashayed over to the wall of windows.
When he saw her, Antonio’s face fell. He gaped at her for a good twenty seconds, then grabbed the tablet. Not knowing if the lighting was good or bad, she simply stood there. She thought deep thoughts, trying to get that faraway look he always talked about catching. She knew that the sooner the painting was done, the sooner she’d be going home, but she didn’t care that dressing in the way that had inspired him would result in her going home. She longed to help him. This wasn’t just about her doing something important with her life anymore. This was about him. About wanting him to get his life back.
And if the way he frantically scribbled was any indication, she was succeeding. Finally giving her man what he needed.
Her man.
She struggled with the urge to close her eyes. He was her man. She could feel it in her bones. And she was his muse. But he would let her go. Because he believed he’d had his woman, the love of his life, and even though Gisella was gone, he didn’t want another love.
What she felt for him was pointless.
* * *
Antonio put down his pencil forty minutes later, belatedly realizing he’d made her stand stiff and silent way beyond her limitations.
“I’m sorry, cara.”
She shook her shoulders loose, then smiled. “It’s fine. Did you get what you wanted?”
“Yes.” The desire to kiss her rose strong and sure. It wasn’t just her pretty face and her bright personality that drew him. Her unselfish gestures never ceased to amaze him. For almost an hour, she’d stood stiff and straight, barely blinking. Even more, though, she’d realized what he needed when he didn’t. The dress, the hair, even the shoes had brought back the feelings he’d had in the gallery, and his artistic instincts hadn’t merely appeared. They’d jumped to full-blown life.
Because she’d made all the connections he couldn’t seem to.
Still, he fought the urge to kiss her by turning away, puttering with his tablets, pretending interest in old sketches that had no value now that he’d found what he wanted. “Thank you for thinking of the dress.”
She displayed her spike heels. “And let’s not forget the shoes and hair.”
She said it lightly, but an undercurrent of melancholy ran through her voice. All of this was about him. Nothing they’d done in the past ten days helped her. She still had her troubles.
He walked over and caught her hands. Fear of getting too close, of longing to kiss her, had to be shoved aside. He owed her. “You look so pretty. Let me take you to lunch.”
She shook her head. “Nah. You don’t have to.”
“I insist. Give me ten minutes to clean up.”
“It’s okay. There’s no need to thank me.”
He smiled. “I’ll let you drive.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you have a Jag?”
“I have a Lamborghini.”
“Oh, dear God.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “How can I turn that down?”
He motioned for her to precede him out of the studio and up the cobblestone path, then headed to his room to change. Considering her attire, he slid into beige slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt, which he left open at the throat.
When she saw his car, she squealed with delight and raced to get behind the wheel. He tossed the keys at her. She caught them like a left fielder for the Yankees. The engine rumbled to life and she shifted into reverse to get them out of the garage, then shoved the pedal to the floor when they reached the road.
The noise from the wind swirling around the open roof prevented conversation, so he pointed to give her directions to the nearest small town. He motioned with his hand to let her know she needed to slow down as they drew closer.
They entered the village and their speed decreased. The noise of the wind diminished. He heard the appreciative sigh that told him she was pleased with his choice of village, with its cobblestone streets, old houses, street vendors and sidewalk cafés.
“Park here.”
She pulled the car into a little space. They both got out and he directed her to walk to the right.
The way she looked at his little town was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Her lips kicked upward into a smile of pure joy, but not like a person surprised by what she saw. More like a woman who’d found a place she loved.
Mesmerized by her excitement, he caught her hand and led her down the street to the outdoor seating of his favorite local restaurant.
They ordered salads and once again she refused bread. He shook his head. “You are supposed to gain weight.”
“Yeah, but I’m not supposed to turn into a tub of lard.”
He laughed. “The way you talk reminds me of my childhood.”
Her gaze rose to meet his. “Really?”
“Yes. Everybody I know either speaks Italian or they’re a bigwig in the art world or in one of Dad’s former companies. You speak like a normal person.”
“I am a normal person.”
“And most of my foster parents were normal.”
Her eyes softened. “Did you have a rough time?”
He shook his head. “Tucker had a rough time. I think that’s because he was actually in New York City. I was in a quiet city in Pennsylvania. I had a bit of trouble with being angry about not knowing my dad, but my foster parents were always simple, normal people with big hearts.”
She said, “Hmm,” then cocked her head. “Pennsylvania’s not so different from Kentucky.”
He chuckled. “You have a twang that Pennsylva
nians don’t.”
She frowned. “Hey, I worked really hard to get rid of that twang.”
“And you’ve mostly succeeded.”
* * *
Laughing, Laura Beth glanced across the table at Antonio. The blue sky smiled down on them. A light breeze kept everything cool. The hum of life, of street vendors, cars and chatting passersby, filled the place with life and energy. She totally understood why Tucker and Olivia spent several months a year in Italy. If she could, she would, too. But in a few days she’d be going home. Back to her blue-collar roots. Back where she belonged.
Emotion clogged her throat. She wouldn’t just miss Antonio. She would miss his world. Italy. Art. Interesting people. Sun that warmed everything.
Still, she swallowed back her feelings. She’d already decided her future was in her small town with her parents. Because she loved that world, too. She loved crisp autumns. Sleigh rides and skating in the winter. The love of people she knew. A quiet, humble place to raise a child.
It just seemed so unfair that she had to choose. But, really, she didn’t have a choice. She was broke. Longing to live in two worlds was the last resort of a foolish woman. And she knew it was time to get sensible. The best way to do that would be to take the focus of this conversation off herself and get it back on him.
“Tell me more about your childhood.” Changing her mind, she waved her hand to stop his response. “No. Tell me about Constanzo finding you. I’ve only ever heard bits and pieces of that story from Olivia. I’d love to hear it from your perspective.”
He grinned sheepishly and glanced down at his empty salad plate. A waitress strolled over and said something in Italian before she poured him a second glass of wine and took his empty plate.
He sucked in a breath. “Imagine being exactly where you are right now financially, taking your last pennies and getting on a plane to another continent and literally swapping a painting every month for your rent.”
She sighed dreamily. “It sounds romantic.”
“It was terrifying.”
“Yes, but at least you had something to barter. You had paintings that your landlord obviously wanted.”
He sniffed a laugh. “Don’t think he was being altruistic. I’m sure he’s made a bundle off me.”
“Maybe. But you still had something to trade.”
“Right. After I bought the canvases and paint.” He shook his head. “I was always scrambling for odd jobs, in a country I didn’t know, as I learned to speak the language.”
The breeze lifted the hair around his shoulders and she saw the tip of the webbed wing of his dragon tattoo, the sexy contrast to the quiet, calm man before her. Totally captivated by his smooth voice and his cool sophistication in the white shirt that accented his olive skin, she put her elbow on the table and her chin on her fist. “So what happened?”
He lifted his wineglass. “Constanzo bartered Tucker into paving the way for us to meet.”
“So he’d already found you?”
Antonio nodded. “Yes. But he was clumsy about it. He’d chased my mom out of his office when she told him she was pregnant and she’d disappeared, gone to America without even telling her family where she was going. Humiliated, she clearly didn’t want anyone to find her.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Her family didn’t even know I existed. But Constanzo knew that somewhere in the world was a child he’d rejected and he knew our getting to know each other wasn’t going to be easy.”
“Wow.”
“So Constanzo enlisted Tucker’s help, but it was actually Olivia who brought me into the fold.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Tucker is like a bull in a china shop. Very much like my dad. Olivia appealed to me as a person. We connected immediately.”
She smiled. She could see Olivia and Antonio connecting. She saw signs of their closeness every time they were together. Until he’d stopped painting, they’d been totally in sync about his career. They connected like friends, not romantically, the way Laura Beth was drawn to him. But that was probably why it had been so easy for Antonio and Olivia. They were friends only, while she and Antonio had an attraction flipping back and forth between them, a longing to be close that actually somehow kept them separated.
“So how did they spring it on you that you were the long-lost son of a billionaire?”
“My cousin Maria had apparently figured everything out.” He laughed. “Maria makes bulls in china shops look tame. So rather than risk that she’d bulldoze the information into a conversation, they told me at my first showing here in Italy.”
She winced. “Yikes.”
“It was weird. But Constanzo had been involved in the preparations for the showing right from the beginning as backer. So I’d gotten to know him a bit, and when they told me he was my dad, instead of that resulting in confusion, it just sort of pulled everything together.”
The warm breeze ruffled past again, drawing her gaze to the square, the tourists and street vendors. “That’s nice.”
“What about you?”
Her gaze snapped over to his. Asking about his dad was supposed to keep the conversation off her. Now, here he was, bringing it back to her again. “Me?”
“Any odd stories in your life?”
“Unless you count the story of me getting pregnant, my life has been simple. Uncomplicated.” She shrugged. “Which is why I’m simple, silly Laura Beth.”
“Have you ever thought that being simple, being honest, being kind is a good thing?”
Her breath stuttered into her lungs. This was why she was falling head over heels in love with him. He didn’t just like her as she was. He made her feel that who she was was more than enough. It was special. And she was so hungry to be special that she gobbled up his compliments like gelato.
“I used to.”
“You should start believing it again.” He took her hand and she froze. The way he touched her always sent a zing of excitement through her, but it also always felt right. Natural. As if the two of them had been created to touch and love and talk.
“To me, you are wonderful.”
If she still had a sliver of her heart left, he took it with those words. And the horrible truth hit her. She wasn’t falling in love with Antonio. She was already totally gone. So in love with him that when she had to leave, her heart would dissolve into a puddle of sadness.
CHAPTER TEN
GETTING READY FOR bed that night, she once again forced herself to face reality. She truly loved Antonio, and she believed he loved her too. Not the head-over-heels way she loved him, or the way he’d loved Gisella, but in a quieter, gentler way.
But he didn’t want to love her. She saw the hesitation in his eyes every time he pulled his hands back, stepped away from her, turned away rather than kiss her. His wife might be dead, but she was very much alive in Antonio’s heart. If he loved Laura Beth, and she believed he did, it wouldn’t be the same way Tucker adored Olivia or Ricky worshipped Eloise. It would be a quiet, simple, you-are-second-best kind of love.
She let that realization wash over her because it would dictate every decision she made from now until she boarded a plane and left him...left this beautiful place.
Knowing that he had feelings for her, she could push him to admit them. She could promise him the one thing he truly wanted—his ability to paint. She could be his muse forever.
She would win him. Win a place in his life.
But even if he asked her to marry him, she would always be second-best.
Was winning the object of her love, getting to be with the man she loved, worth never being in first place in anyone’s life?
She didn’t know. Right now, just the thought of leaving him, or only seeing him at friends’ functions, where he’d be distantly polite to her, shattered her heart. She wasn’t ev
en sure she could walk away. As much as she needed her mom’s help, she also needed Antonio. She needed to hear him say she was special. She needed the feeling of purpose he’d inspired in her.
But she also needed to be someone’s one true love.
And Antonio had had his one true love.
* * *
Antonio refused to work on Sunday, so it was Monday morning before they headed to the studio again. Knowing they would be working, she’d worn the black dress and spike heels, wound her hair into the fancy hairdo and put on makeup.
He raced down the cobblestone path. “Today is the day I get you on canvas.”
She laughed. “Really? All in one day?”
“I’ll do a slight pencil drawing today and from here on out you won’t need to pose every day, just when I want to be reminded of something.”
“Sounds good.”
It really didn’t sound good. It sounded like the beginning of the end. Still, she kept up the happy facade as he chose canvas, found pencils and went to work.
But he cursed at his first attempts to sketch her. He took digital pictures and studied the light, the angle of her head, shoulders and torso. But nothing pleased him. By noon, he was annoyed with himself, and they quit for the day.
Tuesday, he got angry. He’d drawn plenty of versions of her, had captured the look he wanted in his initial drawings, but none of the sketches on canvas caught the look he wanted to show the world.
On Wednesday, she tried talking. So what if her face was moving? He wasn’t getting anything he liked anyway. And when she talked, she usually calmed him or inspired him. But that day it didn’t help.
As he ran an eraser over the shadowy pencil lines he’d made, her purpose shivered through her. The one thing she really wanted out of life—the one memory she wanted to hold in her heart to prove her time had meant something—was to pull him out of his anger, his funk, and get him painting again, and she was failing.