“Yeah, well, they’re yours now, so enjoy.”
I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice when I say that because I’m getting what I wanted after all. I won’t have to wait until tomorrow to get on another flight, and hopefully that will translate into getting to my father’s bedside before the unthinkable happens.
“Just out of curiosity, why did you want them?”
Euro Hunk glances up at me. His mouth takes on a ruthless slant. “I’m an avid collector.”
I frown at him. “Of sketch pads?”
His hesitation is split-second, so short I probably imagine it.
“Of art.”
I’m flattered he thinks my drawings qualify as art, but I’m also crushed I’ve lost the sketch pad, and I’m also filled with gratitude that he’s giving up his seat for me, and I’m also confused about how much I’d simultaneously like to kiss him and punch him in the face. So I’m not able to offer more of a response than a defeated, “Huh.”
“Okay, we’re all set!”
The gate agent’s smile stretches from ear to ear. She hands me my ID and a new boarding pass. “I need both of you to sign these release forms, please. And I’ve just checked you in, madam, so you can go ahead and board. Right through those doors.”
“Thanks.” I sign on the paper where she indicates, then take the boarding pass and turn to Euro Hunk. “And thank you. Sincerely. This is really amazing.” I add sheepishly, “And sorry again about my behavior in the AmEx lounge.”
“If you really want to make it up to me, give me your phone number.”
That stops me cold. He waits through my hesitation with eagle-sharp eyes, his impatience palpable. Not only is he a man who doesn’t often hear no, he obviously doesn’t have to wait for things, either.
Because he’s aristocracy. An Italian marchese, a.k.a. the Big Cheese.
Who probably has twelve mistresses, is cheap with his servants, and beats his dog.
I go back to hating him with the speed of two fingers snapping.
“Sure,” I say graciously, smiling. “Do you have a pen?”
He whisks out a silver Mont Blanc from his suit-jacket pocket while I hunt for a scrap of paper in my purse. Then I scribble my digits on the paper with my name underneath.
Well, not my name and number. I don’t know who the number belongs to, but the name belongs to a woman who knows how to put a philandering asshole in his place.
FOUR
MATTEO
I watch her walk through the glass doors of the boarding gate and down the gangway until she disappears around a bend. I’m not surprised when she doesn’t look back.
I don’t know why her foul mouth and dismissive attitude please me so much, but they do.
Go fuck yourself, she told me.
No one has ever spoken to me with such disrespect in my life.
It matters little that she thought I was a paparazzo at the time. I could be the king of Spain in coronation robes for all she’d care.
Che palle. The balls on that woman. I know mafiosi more meek.
I didn’t know about the bad attitude when I first saw her, though. It wasn’t her smart mouth that had me sucking in a breath.
It was that hair. Black, thick, pin straight, cascading like a brushstroke over one shoulder. That mouth. Red as a fucking strawberry. That milk-pale skin. Her colors were so vivid. So much contrast. It took me a moment to take her all in.
Then she looked up, caught me staring, and pinned me in place with the force of her gaze.
I’ve never seen eyes like hers. Green as the finest jade and canted up at the corners, like a cat’s.
Yes, that’s it exactly. She reminds me of a Siamese cat. Sleek and haughty. A sinuous walk and needle-sharp nails and teeth made to crunch bones.
Which made the pain she was so obviously in that much more interesting.
I’m not a man drawn to damsels in distress. I find weak women supremely boring. But the combination of tough talk and soft underbelly gave me an erection the likes of which I haven’t had in years. Walking away from her at the bar after she told me to leave her alone was painful.
Literally. My cock throbbed so hard it felt like a medical emergency.
I imagined my hand was that strawberry mouth as I jerked myself to an unsatisfactory climax in the men’s room.
Assuming our brief encounter would be our last, I was thrilled to see her at the gate of my outbound flight. Then not so thrilled when I heard the desperation in her voice as she begged the scowling woman behind the counter for help.
“My father is dying. I have to be there for him. If he dies and I’m not there, I’ll never forgive myself.”
It was the last part that gripped my heart and made me offer my seat. Because if anyone knows the lingering shame of that particular situation, it’s me.
So I stepped in.
And she gave me those cat eyes again.
But this time she gave me something even more powerful.
Inspiration.
As the plane I was supposed to be on backs slowly away from the gate, I press a button on my cell phone. After a few rings, my right-hand man, Antonio, answers the phone at the atelier in Florence.
“Si.”
In Italian, I say, “I have good news.”
A relieved curse, followed by an exhalation. “You hired a new designer?”
I tap my finger against the cover of the sketch pad. A satisfied smile curves the corners of my mouth. The plane switches directions and pulls down the runway, picking up speed. “Something like that.”
Antonio’s silence echoes with questions, but he knows better than to ask if I don’t offer answers.
“Tell everyone to be ready to get to work as soon as I’m back. Ciao.”
I disconnect, then dial the number I’ve already memorized. Intending to leave a voice mail for my raven-haired siren to hear when she lands, I’m startled when the line is picked up by a man with a rough Brooklyn accent and a hacking cough.
“Yeah? Who’s this?”
I don’t like his voice. Or the strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. I snap, “This is Matteo, Signor Marchese Moretti. Who is this?”
A boozy cackle comes over the line. “Who, me? I’m the Baron von fuckin’ Trapp, bro.”
“Are you related to Miss Bobbitt?”
“Who?”
I grit my teeth. “Lorena Bobbitt. Does she live there?”
The man on the other end of the phone becomes belligerent. “Is this some kinda fuckin’ joke, bro? You makin’ a prank call? ’Cause I’ll put my fist right through this phone and rip off ya fuckin’—”
“Sir!” I snap, livid. “Do you know the lady or not?”
He barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I know her. Everybody knows the broad who cut off her husband’s dick while he was sleepin’, bro. Hey—is this bein’ recorded? Am I on the radio?” He shouts into the background, “Angie, I’m on the radio!”
I hang up, so angry my ears are hot. I type the name Lorena Bobbitt into the web browser on my phone, then read the Wikipedia article in astonishment.
Apparently my Siamese cat has a very dark sense of humor to go along with her smart mouth.
After a moment of shock, I throw back my head and laugh out loud.
Then I book the next flight to Florence, excitement building, and try to put the alluring stranger I’ll never see again out of my mind. I’ve got the House of Moretti’s spring collection to start working on.
Stroking the cover of the sketch pad, I smile. And what a collection it will be.
FIVE
KIMBER
As soon as the flight lands in Florence and I’ve collected my luggage, I take a taxi straight to the hospital, urging the driver to go faster so many times he curses at me. I check my voice mail on the way, hoping there won’t be a message from Dominic. It was my father’s oldest and closest friend who sent me the letter via courier to tell me the terrible news, and I know if he called again while I was on the plane, it wo
uld be more bad news.
Luckily, he didn’t. I pick up messages from Danielle and Jenner, both telling me to call them when I get settled, then freeze when I hear Brad’s voice on the next.
“Hey, Kimber. Uh, it’s me. Can you, uh, call me when you get a chance? We need to talk.”
Mother. Plucker.
Hearing his voice makes me so furious I almost throw my cell phone out the taxi window. I stick my head out and suck in a few deep breaths of warm Italian air instead.
It’s the first time he’s tried to reach me since our Hindenburg wedding. He’s probably calling to find out when I’ll have my things cleared out of the apartment. He can damn well wait. If I’m not back in San Fran by the first, I’ll charge another month’s rent on his blasted platinum card.
At the information desk inside the hospital, I ask a sleepy-looking staffer to direct me toward my father’s room. He points down a hallway and yawns, and that’s the end of our conversation. Weighed down by my luggage and a dark sense of doom, I hurry down the hall toward the room.
When I burst through the door, the first thing I see is Dominic slumped in a chair beside my father’s bed. His head is bent. His lips move silently in prayer as he fingers the rosary in his hands. He looks up, catches sight of me, and leaps to his feet with open arms.
“Tesoro!”
I haven’t seen him in five years, but his craggy face is as familiar to me as my own. His hair is completely white now, and his shoulders are rounded, but even in his mideighties, he retains his joyous energy.
I drop all my luggage inside the door, then run to Dominic and hug him as he kisses my hair. “God, it’s good to see you,” I whisper, squeezing him tight. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
In heavily accented English, Dominic says, “Eh, you’re lying to an old man. But I forgive you. It’s so good to see you, too. If only it were under happier circumstances.”
When we break apart, we smile at each other for a moment. Then I turn my gaze to my father, lying motionless in the bed. He’s thin, almost as white as the bedsheets that cover him, and hooked up to too many machines to count.
Tears springing to my eyes, I cover my mouth with my hand and grip Dominic’s arm for support. “My God, he looks dead already!”
Dominic says quietly, “I think he’s only been holding on for you to arrive.”
I start to shake. The acid sting of bile rises in the back of my throat, and I have to swallow before I can speak. “There’s nothing the doctors can do?”
Dominic’s bright eyes are filled with sadness. “I’m so sorry, tesoro. His heart was irreparably damaged. The doctors are surprised he’s made it this long. He could go at any moment.”
A small cry of horror passes my lips. My legs shaking, I move to the side of the bed and take my father’s cold, limp hand in mine. I whisper hoarsely, “Dad? Papa, can you hear me?”
My only answer is the heart monitor’s faint, erratic beep.
Dominic drags a chair to me and motions for me to sit. I’m thankful because I’m not sure how much longer I can stand. I sink into the chair and fight the tears that threaten to crest my lower lids. I dash them away, determined to be brave.
Now isn’t the time to cry. Not while his heart is still beating. There will be plenty of time for tears later.
Dominic rests his hand on my shoulder. He says softly, “Have you eaten?”
I shake my head, my gaze never leaving my father’s face.
“I’ll get you something.” He tiptoes out of the room. In a while, he returns with a cold sandwich and coffee from a vending machine.
I unwrap the plastic around the sandwich, but the smell of meat turns my stomach. I place it on the little table beside me and tell Dominic I’ll eat it later. I try the coffee, but can only get a sip past my lips.
Then we sit in silence, listening to the machines whirr and chirp, until he clears his throat. “Kimber, there’s something you should know.”
I glance at him sharply, worried by this new tone in his voice that portends more bad news. “What is it?”
“Your father . . .” He looks guilty, as if he’s about to disclose a terrible secret.
My worry zooms closer to panic. I sit up straighter in my chair. “My father what?”
Dominic takes a breath, then meets my eyes. “He recently remarried.”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I stare at him in cold shock, all my limbs frozen. Finally, I find my tongue and say accusingly, “He would’ve told me.”
Dominic shakes his head. “He didn’t want to take any attention away from your wedding. He knew how excited you were, how long you’d waited, how busy you were with all the plans. He thought it would be better until after you returned from your honeymoon to tell you.”
I’m horrified by that. “My God, am I that self-centered? My own father feels like he can’t share his good news with me because I’ll throw a tantrum?”
“No, tesoro,” says Dominic gently. “It’s not like that at all. You know better.”
He’s right. I do. My father thinks the sun shines out of my ass. I’m his pride and joy. He brags to anyone who’ll listen about his daughter in America: what a success I am, what a genius with a needle, what a head for business.
All vast exaggerations, but he’s always been my biggest champion. Even though the love of his life died giving birth to me, he’s always made me feel like the world’s most precious jewel.
“So I have a . . . stepmother.” I try the word out hesitantly. It’s got a lot of baggage, that word. I lift my head and stare at Dominic. “Where is she? Why isn’t she here?”
Dominic’s expression turns pained. “She’s at the house with the girls.”
I’m startled. “Girls? What girls?”
Dominic clears his throat again, like he does when he’s nervous. He fidgets in his seat. “Cornelia and Beans.”
Boom! goes that second bomb he just dropped in my lap. It’s even more shocking than the stepmother one. I’ve always wanted a sister—and now I have two? And one of them is named Beans?
I try to think of anything to say, but can’t. In the space of seconds, I’ve gained three new family members. I close my eyes, rub my temples, and draw a long breath, gathering my thoughts.
“Okay. This is good. This is weird, but it’s good.” I look at Dominic. “You know what? I’m really happy about this. He’s been alone too long. It’s great that he finally found someone. I just wish I would’ve known sooner. I would’ve come out for the wedding—”
“It was sudden,” interrupts Dominic, slanting a look toward my father. “He didn’t tell anyone it was happening.” His gaze flashes back to mine, quiet anger kindling in his eyes.
“Not even you?”
Dominic shakes his head. “They were married at the town hall with no family or friends.”
“What? That’s crazy! How did he meet this woman?”
“She came into the shop and introduced herself.”
There’s a cynical undertone beneath the words she introduced herself that suggests cold calculation on her part, as if she were out husband hunting. The dislike in his voice is so obvious I’m taken aback by it. I can’t imagine my father would marry anyone Dominic didn’t like. The two men are so close in personality they’re almost brothers. “So what’s her deal?”
Dominic looks again at my father. He hesitates a moment, then stands and goes to a small desk near the restroom. He finds a piece of paper and scribbles something on it, then silently hands it to me.
The note reads She is a barracuda.
When I look up at him, he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head.
He doesn’t want to say anything negative about my new stepmother in front of my father, even when he’s unconscious.
“I see.” I fold the note, my stomach turning. “We’ll discuss it more later.”
He nods, then smoothly changes the subject. “Have you checked into your hotel?”
“Hotel? I planned to stay a
t the house.” When Dominic grimaces, the sick feeling in my stomach gets worse. “But that was before I knew it would be so crowded.” With barracuda.
Shit.
My sickness quickly turns to anger. If my father made the mistake of marrying a terrible woman who doesn’t even have enough feeling for him to be at his bedside as he’s about to die, I’m sure as hell not going to let her keep me away from the house I was born in. There’s plenty of room for all us fish to swim in that bowl.
What eats barracuda? Killer whales? Yeah, I’m gonna be a killer whale. Here, fishie-fishie.
Watching me go through my mental gymnastics, Dominic smiles. “You’re so much like her,” he murmurs.
“Who?”
“Your mother.” He makes the sign of the cross of his chest. “God rest her precious soul.”
Tears leap back into my eyes as if they’re spring-loaded. I swipe them angrily away, sniffing. “I wish I would’ve known her.”
“She was a very loving, patient woman, but she had the heart of a lion.” Dominic’s eyes glimmer with moisture. “Your grandmother was the same way. Lionhearted. And the stories I’ve heard about your great-grandmother . . .” He chuckles and kisses his fingertips. “Fantastico.”
I leap to my feet and start to pace at the foot of the bed, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off my sudden chill. “I need to talk to the doctor.”
“I’ll let the nurse know.” He stands, giving me a wink. “I’ve asked her for a date half a dozen times, but she always tells me she has a boyfriend. Ladies in their sixties are such teases.”
He leaves, patting me on the shoulder as he goes. As soon as the door closes behind him, a soft, scratchy voice says, “Kimberly.”
I whirl around. My father’s eyes are open. He’s looking at me with a faint smile and a faraway look, like he’s viewing me through a crystal ball from some distant, magical place.
“Papa!” I run to his bedside and collapse onto his chest, bursting into tears as soon as his hand rests on my head.
Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3) Page 4