Breathing
Room
Susan Elizabeth Phillips
To Michael Spradlin and Brian Grogan
Every author should be lucky enough to have the two of you
in her corner. This is just in case you don’t know
how much I appreciate you.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Dr. Isabel Favor prized neatness. During the week she wore exquisitely tailored black suits with tasteful leather . . .
Chapter 2
Lorenzo Gage was viciously handsome. Hair as dark and thick as devil’s velvet set off silver-blue eyes so cold . . .
Chapter 3
Ren had been watching her ever since she arrived. She’d rejected two tables before she found one that pleased . . .
Chapter 4
Eighteen hours later her blinding headache still hadn’t eased. She was somewhere southwest of Florence . . .
Chapter 5
Isabel turned over in bed. Her travel clock said nine-thirty, so it should be morning, but the room was dark . . .
Chapter 6
But it was. The man who’d called himself Dante stood slouched in the doorway. Dante of the hot, glazed . . .
Chapter 7
Isabel resisted the urge to shove the postcard back into the rack. “I was just comparing this with something . . .
Chapter 8
I refuse to be seen in public with you!”
His knees bumped the dash as he folded himself . . .
Chapter 9
Even Ren’s tough morning workout didn’t burn off his restless energy.
Chapter 10
Ren took a step backward as the girls hurled themselves at his legs, their giggles shrill enough to cut glass.
Chapter 11
Isabel flew across the marble floor, but the man had only caught a shoulder, and Ren was already back on his . . .
Chapter 12
Ren went upstairs to get rid of his eye patch and change out of his laborer’s garb.
Chapter 13
Tracy reveled in the luxury of waking up without being poked by a five-year-old or lying in a damp spot from . . .
Chapter 14
Vittorio and Giulia glanced uncomfortably at each other, then moved reluctantly back into the garden.
Chapter 15
The bells of San Gimignano rang softly through the morning rain.
Chapter 16
Steffie wasn’t in the pool or hiding in the gardens. They fanned out to search every room of the house . . .
Chapter 17
Porcini!”
A wet branch slapped Isabel in the face as Giulia shot . . .
Chapter 18
Isabel and Ren lay naked together outside on the thick comforter, where they kept each other warm in the . . .
Chapter 19
Would you like chocolate cake or cherry pie?”
Isabel stopped at the edge of the villa’s garden . . .
Chapter 20
The villa’s two-hundred-year-old dining room table groaned with food.
Chapter 21
Only Massimo beat Ren to the vineyard the next morning, and not because Ren had gotten up so much earlier . . .
Chapter 22
Tracy’s eyes filled with hormone-driven tears. “Have I said thank you for giving Harry back to me?”
Chapter 23
Isabel watched Ren watching her. He was dressed entirely in black.
Chapter 24
Isabel’s orderly world had split open, and she rushed into the heart of it.
Epilogue
The wicked principessa had been lusting after her poor but honest groom for months,but she waited until . . .
About the Author
Also By Susan Elizabeth Philips
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Acknowledgments
I am so grateful to Alessandro Pini and Elena Sardelli for showing me the beauties of Tuscany. Bill, I couldn’t have had a better companion on those unforgettable walks than you, even if you had to squeeze those (fabulous) shoulders into the tiny Italian showers. I am especially grateful that Maria Brummel came into my life at just the right time to help with the Italian translations. (Thanks, Andy, for having the good sense to marry such a wonderful young woman.) Thank you, too, Michèle Johnson and Cristina Negri for your invaluable help when I needed it most.
Once again, my fellow writers came to my aid with their knowledge and insight, especially Jennifer Crusie, Jennifer Greene, Cathie Linz, Lindsay Longford, and Suzette Vann. Jill Barnett, Kristin Hannah, Jayne Ann Krentz, and Meryl Sawyer, I can’t imagine doing this job without the friendship and phone calls. Barbara Jepson, you were the best present I’ve ever given myself. Without the many things you do for me so efficiently and cheerfully, I’d have no time to write.
Thanks, Zach Phillips, for sharing your wisdom about metaphysics and human behavior patterns. Lydia, you’re not only the best sister in the world but the best listener, too. We’ll always have Paris! Steven Axelrod, I’m eternally grateful for the way your steady hand keeps us on course. Ty and Dana, sharing your happiness has brought me such joy this past year. To the “Seppies” on my website bulletin board—you’re the world’s best cheerleaders. Cissy Hartley and Sara Reyes have done an incredible job creating and maintaining my website. And to all the readers who write me such wonderful letters and send that encouraging e-mail, thank you so much. It’s a great way to start the day.
It is long past time for me to recognize the talented and enthusiastic people at William Morrow and Avon Books who so frequently go above and beyond the call of duty for me. Carrie Feron, my gifted editor and guardian, has also been a wonderful friend. I am deeply indebted to all of the people who market and sell my books, design my beautiful covers, and cheer me on. These include Richard Aquan, Nancy Anderson, Leesa Belt, George Bick, Shannon Ceci, Geoff Colquitt, Ralph D’Arienzo, Karen Davy, Darlene Delillo, Gail Dubov, Tom Egner, Seth Fleischman, Josh Frank, Jane Friedman, Lisa Gallagher, Cathy Hemming, Angela Leigh, Kim Lewis, Brian McSharry, Judy Madonia, Michael Morrison, Gena Pearson, Jan Parrish, Chadd Reese, Rhonda Rose, Pete Soper, Debbie Stier, Andrea Sventora, Bruce Unck, and Donna Waitkus. You’re the best!
1
Dr. Isabel Favor prized neatness. During the week she wore exquisitely tailored black suits with tasteful leather pumps and a strand of pearls at her throat. On weekends she favored tidy sweater sets or silk shells, always in a neutral palette. A well-cut bob and an assortment of expensive beauty products generally tamed her blond hair’s inclination to rearrange itself into disobedient curls. If that failed, she resorted to narrow velvet headbands.
She wasn’t beautiful, but her evenly spaced light brown eyes sat exactly where they should, and her forehead rose in proportion to the rest of her face. Her lips were a shade too lavish, so she camouflaged them with nude-toned lipstick and dotted foundation on her nose to mute an unruly splash of freckles. Good eating habits kept her complexion creamy and her figure slender and healthy, although she would have preferred slimmer hips. In nearly every respect she was an orderly woman, the exception being a slightly uneven right thumbnail. While she no longer bit it to the quick, it was markedly shorter than her other nails, and nibbling at its edges remained the only habit from her very untidy childhood that she’d never entirely been able to conquer.
As the lights in the Empire State Building went on outside her office windows, Isabel tucked her thumb inside her fist to resist temptation. Lying on her art deco desk was that morning’s issue of Manhattan’s favorite tabloid. The feature article had festered inside her all day, but she’d been too busy to brood. Now it was brooding ti
me.
AMERICA’S DIVA OF SELF-HELP IS DRIVEN, DEMANDING, AND DIFFICULT
The former administrative assistant to well-known self-help author and lecturer Dr. Isabel Favor says her employer is the boss from hell. “She’s a total control freak,” declares Teri Mitchell, who resigned from her position last week. . . .
“She didn’t resign,” Isabel pointed out. “I fired her after I found two months’ worth of fan mail she didn’t bother to open.” Her thumbnail crept to her teeth. “And I’m not a control freak.”
“Coulda fooled me.” Carlota Mendoza emptied a brass wastebasket into the receptacle on her cleaning cart. “You’re also—what was those other things she said—driven and demanding? Sí, those, too.”
“I am not. Get the top of those light fixtures, will you?”
“Do I look like I got a ladder with me? And stop biting your nails.”
Isabel tucked away her thumb. “I have standards, that’s all. Unkindness is a flaw. Stinginess, envy, greed—all flaws. But am I any of those things?”
“There’s a bag of candy bars hidden in the backa your bottom drawer, but my English isn’t too good, so maybe I don’ understand this greed stuff.”
“Very funny.” Isabel didn’t believe in eating her feelings, but it had been a horrible day, so she slid open her emergency drawer, pulled out two Snickers bars, and tossed one to Carlota. She’d simply put in extra time with her yoga tapes tomorrow morning.
Carlota caught the candy bar and leaned against her cart to tear it open. “Just outta curiosity . . . you ever wear jeans?”
“Jeans?” Isabel smooshed the chocolate against the roof of her mouth, taking a moment to savor it before she replied. “Well, I used to.” She set down the candy bar and rose from the desk. “Here, give me that.” She grabbed Carlota’s dust cloth, kicked off her pumps, and tugged up the skirt of her Armani suit so she could climb onto the couch to reach a wall sconce.
Carlota sighed. “You’re gonna tell me again, aren’t you, about how you put yourself through college cleaning houses?”
“And offices and restaurants and factories.” Isabel used her index finger to get between the scrollwork. “I waited tables all through graduate school, washed dishes—oh, I hated that job. While I wrote my dissertation, I ran errands for lazy rich people.”
“What you are now, except without the lazy part.”
Isabel smiled and moved on to the top of a picture frame. “I’m trying to make a point. With hard work, discipline, and prayer, people can make their dreams come true.”
“If I wanted to hear all this, I’da bought a ticket to one of your lectures.”
“Yet here I am giving you my wisdom for free.”
“Lucky me. You done yet? ’Cause I got other offices to clean tonight.”
Isabel stepped down from the couch, handed over the dust cloth, then rearranged the cleaning bottles on the top of the cart so Carlota wouldn’t have to reach so far for the ones she needed. “Why did you ask about jeans?”
“Just trying to picture it in my mind.” Carlota popped the rest of the Snickers into her mouth. “All the time you look ritzy, like you don’t know what a toilet is, let alone how to clean one.”
“I have to maintain an image. I wrote Four Cornerstones of a Favorable Life when I was only twenty-eight. If I hadn’t dressed conservatively, no one would have taken me seriously.”
“You’re what, sixty-two now? You need jeans.”
“I just turned thirty-four, and you know it.”
“Jeans and a pretty red blouse, one of them tight ones to show off your boobs. And some really high heels.”
“Speaking of hookers, did I tell you those two ladies who hang out by the alley showed up at the new job program yesterday?”
“Those whores’ll be back on the street by next week. I don’ know why you waste your time with them.”
“Because I like them. They’re hard workers.” Isabel kicked back in her chair, forcing herself to concentrate on the positive instead of that humiliating newspaper article. “The Four Cornerstones work for everybody, from streetwalkers to saints, and I have thousands of testimonials to prove it.”
Carlota snorted and turned on the vacuum, effectively ending their conversation. Isabel shoved the newspaper in the trash, then gazed toward the lighted niche in the wall to her right. It held a magnificent Lalique crystal vase etched with four interlocking squares, the distinctive logo of Isabel Favor Enterprises. Each square represented one of the Four Cornerstones of a Favorable Life:
Healthy Relationships
Professional Pride Financial Responsibility
Spiritual Dedication
Her critics attacked the Four Cornerstones as too simplistic, and she’d been accused more than once of being both smug and sanctimonious, but she didn’t take anything she’d earned for granted, so she’d never felt smug. As for being sanctimonious, she was no charlatan. She’d built her company and her life by applying those principles, and it gratified her to know that her work was making a difference in people’s lives. She had four books to her credit, with a fifth coming out in a few weeks; a dozen audiotapes; lecture tours scheduled through next year; and a hefty bank account. Not bad for a mousy little girl who’d grown up in emotional chaos.
She gazed at the tidy piles on her desk. She also had a fiancé, a wedding that she’d been promising to plan for a year, and paperwork she needed to attack before she could go home for the night.
She waved good-bye as Carlota wheeled away her cart, then picked up a thick envelope from the Internal Revenue Service. It should have gone to Tom Reynolds, her accountant and business manager, but he’d called in sick yesterday, and she didn’t like letting things pile up.
Which didn’t mean that she was driven, demanding, or difficult.
She slit the envelope with a monogrammed letter opener. The press had been calling all day for her comments on the newspaper article, but she’d taken the high road and refused to respond. Still, the negative publicity made her uneasy. Her business was built on both the respect and affection of her fans, which was why she tried her hardest to live an exemplary life. An image was a fragile thing, and this article would damage hers. The question was, how badly?
She pulled out the letter and began to read. Halfway through, her eyebrows shot up, and she reached for her telephone. Just when she’d thought her day couldn’t get worse, now she had a screw-up with the IRS. And it looked like a doozy—a bill for $1.2 million in back taxes.
She was scrupulously honest with her taxes, so she knew that it was one of their maddening computer errors, which didn’t mean it would be simple to straighten out. She hated to pester Tom when he was sick, but he’d need to attend to this first thing in the morning.
“Marilyn, it’s Isabel. I need to speak with Tom.”
“Tom?” Her business manager’s wife’s speech was slurred, as if she’d been drinking. Isabel’s parents used to sound like that. “Tom’s not here.”
“I’m glad he’s feeling better. When do you expect him back? I’m afraid we have an emergency.”
Marilyn sniffed. “I—I should have called you earlier, but . . .” She burst into tears. “But I—I couldn’t . . .”
“What’s wrong? Tell me.”
“It’s T-Tom. He’s—he’s—” Her sobs caught in her throat like a jackhammer stuck in blacktop. “He’s r-r-run off to South America with m-m-my s-sister!”
And, as Isabel discovered less than twenty-four hours later, all of Isabel’s money.
Michael Sheridan stayed with Isabel while she dealt with the police and endured a long series of painful meetings with the IRS. He wasn’t just Isabel’s attorney but the man she loved, and she’d never been more grateful to have him in her life. Yet even his presence wasn’t enough to avert disaster, and by the end of May, two months after she’d received that damning letter, her worst fears had been confirmed.
“I’m going to lose everything.” She rubbed her eyes, then dropped her purse on
to the Queen Anne chair in the living room of her Upper East Side brownstone. The room’s warm cherry paneling and oriental rugs glowed in the soft light of her Frederick Cooper lamps. She knew that earthly possessions were fleeting, but she hadn’t expected them to be this fleeting.
“I’ll have to sell this place—my furniture, my jewelry, all my antiques.” Then there was the disbanding of her charitable foundation, which had been doing so much good at a grassroots level. Everything gone.
She wasn’t telling Michael anything he didn’t know, just trying to make it real so she could cope, and when he didn’t respond, she regarded him apologetically. “You’ve been quiet all night. I’ve exhausted you with my complaining, haven’t I?”
He turned away from the window where he’d been gazing down on the park. “You’re not a complainer, Isabel. You’re just trying to reorient yourself.”
“Tactful, as always.” She gave him a rueful smile and straightened a tapestry pillow on the sofa.
She and Michael weren’t living together—Isabel didn’t believe in that—but sometimes she wished they were. Living apart meant they saw too little of each other. Lately they’d been lucky to manage their weekly Saturday-night dinner date. As for sex . . . She couldn’t remember how long it had been since either of them had felt the urge.
The moment Isabel had met Michael Sheridan, she’d known he was her soul mate. They’d both grown up in dysfunctional families and worked hard to put themselves through school. He was intelligent and ambitious, as orderly as she was, and just as dedicated to his career. He’d been her sounding board as she’d refined her lectures on the Four Cornerstones, and two years ago, when she’d written a book about the Healthy Relationship Cornerstone, he’d contributed a chapter offering the male point of view. Her fans knew all about their relationship and were always asking when they were getting married.
She also found comfort in his pleasant, unassuming looks. He had a thin, narrow face and neatly trimmed brown hair. He was only a little over five feet nine, so he didn’t tower above her, something that made her uneasy. He was even-tempered and logical. Most of all, he was contained. With Michael there were no dark mood swings or unexpected outbursts. He was familiar and dear, a little stuffy in the best possible way, and perfect for her. They should have been married a year ago, but they’d both been too busy, and they got along so well that she’d seen no need to rush. Marriage couldn’t help but be chaotic, even those that had been well thought out.
Breathing Room Page 1