by Caro LaFever
Therefore, it must be something else.
The realization had come on the second day, when he, again, did his disappearing act. The first day, she’d bought it. Perhaps some crisis had erupted in one of his businesses. Hurt that he wouldn’t confide in her as he had before was dismissed. And it completely disappeared when he’d followed her to her room that night after dinner and made love to her with a desperate passion that had swept any thoughts or fears away.
She’d almost whispered the words. Almost.
Before the confession came, however, he’d been gone. Back to his own room.
Restless, he’d said.
Go to sleep, he’d said.
Lise had spent the rest of the night staring at the beautiful antique chandelier above her head. Remembering the previous night. The night his bedroom door was locked.
Locked to her.
She’d thought it a mistake at first. They always slept together now; even when she was too tired to make love. She’d even knocked. Getting no response, she’d finally crept back to her old bedroom. This must be because of her mother’s presence, she’d reassured herself that night. Everything was going to be all right.
Instead, something was very wrong.
“Don’t you think so, Lise?” Chi’s voice cut through her turgid thoughts.
“Si, si.” She smiled and sipped, not having a clue what she’d agreed with.
Si, it was something else.
Could it be…another woman? Had he tired of her bulging body and returned to his usual ways?
No. No. There were no late-night jaunts. No tabloid pictures. She’d been ashamed today when she’d eyed the newspapers on the Milan newsstands with fear. Ashamed at her shaky trust. Her husband wasn’t gallivanting around. He was still at her side. If not literally, figuratively. He was still at the villa and if he left for the office, he came back within hours.
Was it something she’d said?
Her brain clicked. Clicked.
Or something someone else said?
She’d been so sleepy. So happy. But her mother’s words, scattered and half-listened-to, started seeping back into her memory. Name calling. She remembered that. Grouching about various sins. She remembered that, too. Could these simple, stupid labels have turned her husband into a walking zombie?
Maybe. Possibly. Probably?
She grabbed the glass and took a deep swallow.
Really? If this was the reason for his withdrawal, she was going to smack him when she got home. Then kiss him.
Her mobile phone jingled from her purse.
Vico.
“Si?” Irritation edged her word, yet there was also a certain amount of relief. This had to be it. There was nothing else it could be.
“Lise.” His tone was cool and contained. As it had been for the last three interminable days. “Your PA has sent some documents to your email I need to finish a report on HSF.”
“So?”
His voice turned dry. “I’m calling to get your permission to access your email.”
His strict code of honor always amused her. After all the things he’d done to her—the reckless trick of putting her in his bed, the cunning way he’d gone around her to win the company to his side, the ruthlessness of his demands of marriage—he still held to his own code of what was right and what was wrong.
“Lise?”
The pictures. All the photos of him she’d taken during the past months. A flush rose in her cheeks at the embarrassment she’d feel if he saw them. Would he only go to her email? Or would he notice the icon with his name on it and click?
“Lise?”
Perhaps it would be for the best. She wouldn’t have to smooth his ruffled feathers if he saw the loving photos she’d taken. He’d be back to his loving self by the time she got home.
“Lise.” His tone was hard now. Cold.
“Of course,” she rushed out her approval. Let happen what would happen and embrace the embarrassment. Because with it would come healing.
Her joy surged inside.
She’d say the words no matter what man she found when she got home.
“Grazie.” The click off was sharp and crisp.
“I’m going to say those words as soon as I get home,” she muttered to herself as she switched off her own phone.
“Was that Vico?” his mother inquired.
“Si.” She rose, gathering her packages and purse. “I need to get home.”
With loving hugs and effusive goodbyes, it was several minutes before she was able to get to her scarlet Maserati. Her husband had grumbled about how she should be driven everywhere, but she’d convinced him she’d be fine on her own and only needed some old thing to run errands. Two days later, the Maserati greeted her on the front drive with a big red bow around the entire car. What had thrilled her was the car hadn’t been a sedate silver sedan, but a wild, red sport coupe.
Did Vico understand and appreciate the new Lise?
Slamming the door, she gunned the engines and grinned in the rear-view mirror. The new Lise was about to take on her husband’s mistrust and do away with it, along with any trace of the old Lise.
Then she was damn well going to say those words.
The villa was quiet when she let herself in. There were faint noises from the downstairs kitchen. The chef and housekeeper exchanging notes about the night’s dinner, probably. She stood in the foyer, listening. Listening for her husband.
He was here. The limo he usually took into town had sat on the far side of the villa, the driver chattering on his mobile, his hand waving in the air as he made his point.
The villa was quiet, hushed.
Her tummy suddenly went queasy. With determination, she ignored it. She knew what the problem was now. It was merely a matter of making things clear.
His office door was closed. Firmly. He never closed the door to her in all the months they’d lived here at the villa.
She ignored the signal and pushed it open.
“Ah,” he said. “You are home, mia dolce.”
Not once had he called her this nickname in the last three days.
Joy rose inside her.
Maybe he’d seen the pictures. Maybe he knew what she felt.
She plowed into the room, but then something, something stopped her. Some sense of unease, of borderline panic.
Shadows cloaked him as he sat behind his desk. The shutters were closed to the afternoon sun, where usually he had them open, often the windows as well. To let in Italy, he chided her one day with a smile. To let in the smells of Italy.
“How can you work like this?” Lise glanced around, thinking perhaps he had company and they needed some cover to have a private conversation. “You’re alone?”
“Si. Very alone.” He didn’t move and for some reason, his voice sounded ominous.
“I know what’s wrong with you.” Shaking off the foreboding stirring in her blood, she stepped forward, trying to remember where the light was on his desk. She wanted to see his face when she made her confession of love.
“You have often pointed out what is wrong with me.”
A huff of exasperation escaped her. “Turn on the light.”
“Your wish is my command, Princesse.” His accent no longer sounded sexy and toe-curling. Now it sliced through the words, giving them a hard, tough edge. Her nickname dripped with the old, biting sarcasm.
The light on his desk flashed on.
With a gasp, she took a step back.
His eyes burned with the old hate. The hate she’d thought forever gone. His face was pale, stony, taut with cruel anger. His mouth was a grim slash of fury across his face. But his body was all lazy grace. Dressed in a black T-shirt and midnight-dark jeans, he lounged back in his chair, his hands draped over the arms as if he had not a care in the world.
This wasn’t something wrong. Wrong meant a mistake, a misunderstanding. Something that could be fixed with her words and explanations.
This was worse. This was a death.
>
Rushing past the thought, the paralyzing thought, she croaked, “What is it? Tell me.”
“Interesting reading.’ Languidly, he flipped a sheaf of papers her way. “I applaud you.”
She didn’t move. Moving would mean she’d find out why something was dying inside her.
His mouth grimaced in a savage smile. “Why am I surprised you do not wish to read the report? You already know the contents, undoubtedly. You were the one who initiated this, after all.”
Lise stared him in the eye, trying to find the person who’d lovingly kissed her and loved her in his bed. The man who tenderly cared for her and her baby as they made their way to Italy. The man who she adored with every atom in her being.
He was no longer there. There was nothing in his eyes of golden love and soft, green tenderness. There was only brutal, black death looking at her.
“What do they say?” she whispered.
For the first time, his indolent body tensed. “Do not play with me.”
Apparently, she’d have to look for herself if she were to know and understand this death happening in her and around her. The connection between them, the connection that had zipped and zapped from the moment they’d met—the one she’d come to cherish and relish—the connection was severed. She felt the cord of it now, defeated and destroyed. It coiled inward, wrapping around her heart. And he did nothing to reach into her and make the connection come to life again between them.
Weeping at his feet would do no good.
She stepped forward and grabbed the papers.
The silence was deafening as she scanned the details. Drank in exactly what was going on. Figured out what had made her husband turn to stone.
Sue for divorce. Equitable distribution of property. Primary custody.
“Where did you find these?”
He stared at her. With intimate hatred.
“My email.”
“I realize now why you paused before giving me your permission. You should not have been so trusting,” he sneered. “It is not a good idea to alert your enemy to your plans.”
“You are not my enemy.” You are my love.
“I have always been your enemy.” His eyes blazed. “I was just stupid and forgot that fact for a while.”
Her brain clicked and clicked as she watched her husband retreat farther and farther.
You were absolutely right not to sign a prenuptial agreement with that brute.
Don’t worry. I will make sure you’re okay.
Check your emails.
Her mother had been extremely busy. This was the only possible explanation.
“I didn’t do this.” Slapping the papers down on the desk, she struggled to find more words, desperate for him to believe.
“Really?” A sardonic dark brow lifted. “The email was addressed to you. From your solicitors.”
“I did not—”
“The cover letter clearly says at your direction.”
“That’s not what—”
“I commend you.” He stood, all liquid fluidity, all masculine prime. Leaning down, he grabbed a small suitcase off the floor. “You took me by complete surprise. But after reading through your proposal, I find myself accepting.”
“You said there’d be no divorce, remember?” She frantically scrambled in her head to find some sense, some words to reach him. Some way back to what they’d found these past months. “Where are you going?”
Slipping the suitcase strap over his muscled shoulder, he answered only one of her questions. “I find I no longer want to be married to you.”
A gasp of pain swept into her throat and down into her burning lungs. “But you said—”
“A man can change his mind.” He prowled around the desk and without thinking, she moved away. Menace encircled him, an aura of deep rage. “I remind myself that there are other women in the world. Other women who are not quite as conniving or vicious. I find I no longer wish to be attached to a woman who is nothing more than a money-hungry bitch.”
“I am not interested in your money.” Her temper flared, flushing her cheeks. “I never have been.”
“That was cunning, mia dolce. To pretend to be unimpressed with my wealth. To even be dismissive of it.” He leaned on the desk, crossing his arms in front of him. His forearms bunched, bulged, highlighting the dark trace of hair. “I bought the entire act. Amazing, as I have dodged many women with the same intent. I must admit, you are the only one to ever fool me.”
Instant need to reach out and touch him, soothe him and calm him, crashed into her budding anger, her flooding fear, making it hard to focus. The only words that came to her mind were simple truths, not the complicated explanations she obviously needed to convince him of how wrong he was. “I’m not trying to fool—”
“This says something entirely different.” He tapped a long finger on the papers. “I must say our conversation about the prenuptial agreement was a masterstroke. Manipulating me into believing it was my idea not to have one—why, your skills are impressive.”
“I don’t want your money.” I want you. Can’t you see I want only you?
“Yet you will have it, won’t you? Fool that I am.” His chuckle was rough, raw with rage.
She stared at him, trying to think, trying to stop her heart from shrinking into a ball of agony and dazed fear. What could she say? How could she fix this? The words stumbled, fought for coherence, struggled for voice. For a frantic moment, she thought about blurting out her ultimate truth.
I love you.
But the hard, cold core of his eyes told her it would be useless right now.
Abruptly, he stood, his body now stiff. As if he’d aged in one moment.
“Vico—”
“Arrivederci, Princesse.”
“Where are you going?” Her voice sounded reedy, thin and sick.
“I find that I need some space.” He strode to the office door. “Some distance.”
“But then we won’t be able to talk.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I won’t be able to explain.”
“There is nothing more to say.” He opened the door and stepped out.
“Wait!”
“I no longer want to wait, Lise.” He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes now dull and dead.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Chapter 18
Her head ached. Her back hurt.
Her heart bled.
Lise stood in the shower, letting the balmy water wash down her skin. The warmth did little to dispel the chilled knot twisting inside.
Why did she expect it would?
Last night’s dinner of hot stracciatella soup served with oven-fresh polenta had done nothing to melt the deep ice inside her. Eating it might have helped. But she’d sat in the empty dining room alone. No laughing family surrounding her and no husband looking at her with a warm and wicked gaze.
The worried chef fluttering behind her had been the only reason she’d even taken one sip.
The Italian sun this afternoon had been of no use either in breaking her free from the permafrost glazing her soul. The gleam of the rays had glistened on the lilting waves of Lake Como. The heat had shimmied down her spine and arms. The warmth had slid on her hair and face. Yet the sun had been unable to touch even one of the icicles slashing inside of her.
Not one.
She lifted her head and stuck her face under the rain of water. The warm flow mixed with the cool tears on her cheeks. The water filtered through her closed lashes, soothing the redness around her eyes. Still, soothing the clang in her head and the panic in her heart were beyond its capabilities.
What was she going to do?
Twenty-four hours ago, she’d gone numb with shock. The whole thing had happened so fast. The confrontation had been more brutal and destructive than she’d imagined in her deepest nightmares. He’d been more furious and dead to her than she’d ever thought she’d see. Only one week ago, she’d been joyful and happy and in love. Only one week ago she’
d thought, dreamed, hoped. A simple seven days ago, she’d thought they’d found a way to come together for a lifetime, building a bridge over the hateful words and painful demands.
Now though? Now the fairytale dream lay in shambles at her feet.
Why hadn’t she seen this coming?
Guilt had settled on her as she’d sat on the terrace staring blindly at the empty pool. For some reason, the fact it was drained and covered, prepared for winter made her even more depressed.
This was her fault. Her mother should have been told the truth. The truth about her love and her wish to stay with Vico forever. She’d planned on doing it. She’d planned on making it clear to her mother how much had changed. But she’d left it too late. She’d stuck her head in the sand and wallowed in her happiness for too long.
Now great damage had been done.
Lise lifted her hands and wiped away more tears. The memory of his eyes, those golden, tawny eyes which were always alive—alive with passion and tenderness, love and warmth. The memory of how dead they were they last time he looked at her…
A clutch of raw agony caught her throat.
She’d done that. With her willful avoidance of a confrontation with her mother. It was no excuse that she’d been doing it since childhood, that she often merely let her mother grumble and groan without challenging her. It was no excuse she’d thought it could be easily handled at a later time. She hadn’t seen that her mother had become a runaway locomotive, intent on her mission to get Vico Mattare. It was no excuse.
She’d damaged him. She’d seen it in his eyes.
The guilt gutted her. Swirling and sucking at her heart and love.
How was she going to fix this?
Because she must. She couldn’t let this go, couldn’t stick her head in the sand again. Because she wasn’t the same child who’d withdrawn into reserved respect as her parents continued to isolate her. She wasn’t the kid who’d only rebelled once when she’d demanded a university degree instead of finishing school. She wasn’t the distant, aloof creature she’d been when her love had walked into her life with his passionate intensity and impatient impetuousness.
She couldn’t let go of this deep, powerful love she never realized she was capable of.