by Tricia Jones
“You have a child.” His face was thunderous. “You should have let Matteo provide for you. There was no need for you to work.”
She laughed then. Couldn’t help it. Both because she had most often been the one doing the providing, and because Enrico was so hopelessly old-fashioned in his appreciation of a woman’s wants and needs.
“You shouldn’t concern yourself.” She gave him a sweet smile, resisting the urge to pat his cheek. “I enjoy my work and Melita attends an excellent school with good after-school facilities.”
He swore, something harsh and not for delicate ears. Her Italian wasn’t bad, but she was certain she’d never heard that particular word from him before. Perhaps just as well if the heat shooting from him was anything to go by.
“We need to talk about this.” His fingers tightened around her wrist. “After the doctor’s visit we will discuss it. But there is no way you will return to England, neither will you work. As for my niece attending after-school facilities…”
He glared at her as if she were proposing child slavery, then with an abrupt turn went back down the stairs. Faye stared after him. He was the most exasperating, egotistical, supercilious…
“No you don’t,” she warned, gripping the banister as she hurried down after him. “Don’t you walk away from me. I’ve had enough of this. I’m sick of your demands, of your arrogance. Who the hell died and made you—” Her hand shot over her mouth as he wheeled to face her. “God! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
Faye moved back against the railing. How could she have said something that crass? “That was a stupid thing to say. I didn’t think…didn’t mean…”
All color drained from his face as he stared at her. Then he looked away, half turned, then faced her again. “I am trying to act in your best interests, Faye. Why do you keep fighting me?”
Because she wanted him to act for other reasons. Reasons that weren’t primarily duty and responsibility. Reasons that didn’t remind her of the words he’d flung at her that night. The night he’d shattered all her hopes and dreams.
“Because you don’t listen to me,” she said, hating the somber look that had crept into his eyes. “You refuse to even consider what I think.”
It was hard to give the words weight, especially when he looked so shattered. She hadn’t noticed the pale, sunken skin beneath his eyes before, or the hollow beneath his cheekbones—the marks of his grief. How could she have made such a tactless comment?
After several moments, he gave a weary smile that twisted her heart and tugged on it for good measure. “Very well, we will talk.” He drew in a breath as if preparing to say something momentous. “I promise I will listen.”
Well, it was momentous all right and Faye’s mouth twitched in response. “I never thought I’d hear those words from you.”
He shrugged. “Stay and you may well hear others that surprise you, an incentive if ever there was one. How can you pass up such a rare opportunity?”
His uncharacteristic humor had her insides melting. Strangely, Enrico in this sort of mood was as dangerous and exciting as Enrico in one of his tough, uncompromising moods. Perhaps even more so.
What on earth was happening to her? Why was she feeling this way? Technically, she was a new widow and feelings like this were inappropriate to say the least, even if her marriage had been a sham.
Yet it was hard to feel anything but a sick yearning as Enrico watched her. He moved closer, not a deliberate movement, more a simple lean. The ground shifted again as his scent—that musky male scent—shimmered over her. She wanted to close her eyes, draw it in, but instead offered a shaky smile. “When you put it like that, how can I refuse?”
The Lavini family doctor checked her out, satisfied she was recovering as well as expected. Faye remembered the gruff old physician from her summers at the villa, from when he’d attended scraped knees or sprained limbs. His grumpy exterior hid a marshmallow centre and Faye promised she would take things easy and call immediately if she needed anything.
Contrary to Enrico’s demands Faye insisted she be allowed to see the doctor alone. She also insisted on joining Enrico and Melita for lunch in town a couple of days later, arguing the change of scenery would do her good. As he drove them past rolling Tuscan hills, with their patchwork green landscapes and the sun hazily caressing the peaks and valleys, Faye knew he brooded over having his authority challenged and guiltily, she had to wonder if that was why she’d dug her heels in deeper.
As they drove, she made polite conversation. He made polite conversation. Somehow the formality between them felt worse than complete silence or heated disagreements.
Faye was grateful for her daughter chatting happily in the back seat. She had to admit Enrico was good with Melita, tirelessly answering her zillion questions and pointing out interesting landmarks along the way. Some of the tension between them melted a little as they exchanged a wry glance at Melita’s tendency to pepper every conversation with horses. She had really enjoyed her very first riding lesson ever and hoped—really hoped—she could have another one.
Giving in to her infectious enthusiasm Enrico finally assured her that, yes, she could have another riding lesson whenever she wanted and, yes, if she wanted one every day that would be fine.
With a roll of her eyes, Faye turned to look out at the passing scenery. So much for them talking. So much for him listening.
When Melita plugged herself into her private stereo and began singing along, Faye faced Enrico. “You’re back to making unilateral decisions, I see.”
He glanced over, eyebrows raised. “We agreed she would have riding lessons.”
“We didn’t agree she would have them every day. Or did we and I just missed it?”
“Now, now, cara. Sarcasm does not sit well with you.”
Although she fought it, her mouth twitched. “No. You’re right. It sits much better with you.”
Theatrically, he clutched his chest, making her smile.
“Why are you such a control freak, anyway? Don’t you get tired of always running the show, always being right?”
He pursed his lips, as if to consider. “No.”
It made her smile again. “A psychologist could have a field day with you.”
“Or with you.”
She turned and looked out of the passenger window. “I’m not into control.”
“Yet constantly you remind me you need it.”
“A healthy dose of it, not bordering on obsession like yours. I’m a mother. I want what’s best for my child. It doesn’t feel right, having someone else make decisions about her.”
And that was it, Faye realized. It had been just the two of them for so long it was hard to allow anyone else to take over. Let alone Enrico. What if he found out? What if he had the slightest inclination Melita was his? If he was controlling now, believing Melita his niece, the heavens would rock if he found out she was his daughter.
Not that he’d wanted children of his own. He’d made that clear enough.
The truth of it had plunged her into a fraudulent marriage.
“Fair enough.” Enrico looked away from the road just long enough to nod his head toward the back seat. “Perhaps you would like to tell her arrangements have been changed and she is no longer able to take riding lessons.”
Faye’s laugh was mocking. “And be bad, cruel mummy? I bet you’d just love that. Well, as it happens I think it would be good for her to have riding lessons, and had I been given the courtesy of making that decision for myself, I would have been in complete agreement with what you said.”
“So, we are having this conversation because…?”
“Because you’re a control freak and I’m a doting mother,” she said sweetly. “And we’re not having a conversation, we’re having an argument.”
His mouth curved. “But we are in agreement. You have sanctioned my decision, therefore there is no argument.”
She wanted to scream. Was there no winning with this man?
Faye was still gritting her teeth as they entered the small town. She welcomed the imminent escape from his restricting presence. She wanted to get out of the car and drag in some restorative, calming oxygen from the tranquil Tuscan countryside.
Melita danced alongside Enrico as they made their way to the restaurant, the two of them chatting with ease and affability. It suited Faye just fine, as it took his attention from her for valuable seconds, giving her the opportunity to massage her still-painful back and ribcage. Rubbing, she watched father and daughter getting to know each other and if her eyes and ears didn’t deceive her, getting along amazingly well. As guilt tugged at her conscience, Faye focused on the pretty little terrace of the popular restaurant where the manager greeted them and led them to their table.
Tired and aching, Faye struggled to find an appetite. Even lifting her coffee cup was an effort. When Enrico suggested heading back to the villa she didn’t protest. During the journey home, with the sun playing through the windows onto her face and the lull of Melita’s happy chatter in the back, Faye dropped her head back onto the cool leather headrest and let her lids drift down.
It felt good to relax, to enjoy the warmth, the gentle rocking of the car. To let go for a while…just for a while…
“I am nothing like my father.” Enrico glared at her, his eyes slits of pure venom. “Nothing.”
She was only seventeen but Faye held her ground, wanting to salvage something from the awful confrontation between Enrico and his father. Ruggerio had said the most dreadful things.
“I just meant that the two of you are both as stubborn,” Faye used her most placating manner. “Why can’t you just sit down and discuss things? I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“He meant it well enough. He has always taken any opportunity to hurt Matteo, but this time he has gone too far.”
He looked at Faye, then turned and strode back toward his father’s study. Faye raced after him, fearing yet another altercation. Enrico pushed open the door, stalked to the desk and slapped his hands on its polished mahogany top. With ominous intent, he leaned across it and faced his father. “You apologize to Matteo,” Enrico demanded, his face sharp angles and planes as anger stretched his skin. “You take back what you said and you rewrite your will, or I swear I shall make you regret it.”
Faye came to a stop beside Enrico, placing a tentative hand on his arm. She snapped back when he shook it away and continued to glare at his father. Fear trembled through her, not because she was frightened for herself, Enrico would never hurt her. No. She was frightened at the tension crackling between the two headstrong and volatile Lavini men. Neither of whom would be prepared to back down.
Ruggerio sat back in his leather chair, puffing on his fat cigar. “I’m doing only what your grandfather intended. Leaving the company to my first-born son.”
“He never intended Matteo be denied his share, that is your doing.”
Ruggerio shifted his powerful frame. He was a big man, his muscular body firm and athletic. He took another long puff on his cigar. “Matteo will have what is rightfully his. Nothing.”
Enrico showed his teeth. Faye saw the muscles of his forearms rope as he leaned forward, his hands pressing into the desk. “He is your son!” Barely leashed anger thrummed in Enrico’s harsh tone. “Your own flesh and blood.”
Ruggerio shot from the chair, mirroring his eldest son’s stance as the two faced each other across the desk, nose-to-nose. “He’s the product of a scheming woman with one eye on a fortune and the other on any man who promised her a good time,” Ruggerio said in a voice thick with scorn. “If it wasn’t for a DNA test I still wouldn’t believe that weakling is my son.”
“Believe it,” Enrico shot back. “He does not have the streak of mean that runs through your veins, but he has inherited all the good attributes from our grandfather which obviously skipped a generation and completely bypassed you.”
“He’s a weakling,” Ruggerio taunted. “A lightweight who can’t fight his battles without his big brother to help him.”
“Most of those battles have been at your instigation. You have hated him since the day he was born.”
“Si, and I’ll hate him until the day I die. He’ll not see one lira of my money and I’ve placed a clause in my will to ensure it.”
As Enrico grabbed his father’s shirt, Faye lunged forward. “Rico,” she screamed, pulling at his arm. “Don’t.”
The two men glared at each other, Enrico’s fingers showing no sign of releasing their death grip on his father’s shirt. Faye gave his arm another tug.
After endless moments, and still glaring at his father, Enrico released his grip and shoved back from the desk. “What kind of man blames his son for his own shortcomings, for his inability to see a woman was playing him along right from the start?”
Ruggerio laughed. “Any kind of man, my son,” he said, straightening his shirtfront. “Women will suck you in and then bleed you dry. You won’t even see it coming. Do you think for one moment I would have married that scheming witch if she hadn’t gotten herself pregnant? Do you believe I would have allowed her to milk me of millions of lire in paternity payments? No. At least by marrying the harlot I ensured she got only what I intended she have. Which wasn’t much after I tricked her into signing a prenuptial with very small print.”
He laughed again, and Faye hated the cruelty in the sound. She stepped forward and wrapped her fingers around Enrico’s wrist. This time he didn’t push her hand away.
“Rico,” she said in the gentlest tone. “Let’s go.”
She was more than a little surprised when he let her lead him from the study, through the marbled hallway and into the gardens.
He sank down onto a stone bench and laid his forearms across his thighs. “Bastard,” he fumed. “I will not let him get away with this.”
Faye sat next to him, letting her jean-clad leg brush his. The contact sent a thrill through her body. His profile was strong—the straight Roman nose, the thick black eyebrows, firm jaw—she wanted to trace her fingers over every wonderful feature. Instead, she laced her fingers together in her lap as the breeze whipped her long, blonde hair across her mouth. She brushed the strands away, continuing to watch Enrico.
He turned to face her. “I will not let him get away with this, Faye.”
“I know, but arguing with him won’t help.” She gave a tentative smile, hoping to ease some of the tension emanating from him. “Why don’t you wait until after the wedding next week, he’s probably a bit tense with the build up.”
Enrico scoffed. “More probable he is wondering how he can ensure Alana is in fact what she professes to be. Barren.”
“Rico!”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why so shocked, Faye? That is the only reason he is marrying for a third time. Because his bride-to-be cannot have children.”
Faye shook her head. “Your mother was the love of his life,” she said. “He never wanted children with anyone but her.”
Enrico’s own laugh held all the bitterness he felt for his father. “Dio, Faye, you are so naïve.” When the breeze sent hair across her face again, his gaze softened as he followed the movement. “So sweet.”
He lifted his hand and she held her breath. Her pulse raced as his fingers brushed her mouth and caught the renegade locks of hair.
“I’m not sweet,” she said, trembling as he tucked her hair back. “And I’m not naïve. I know what it feels like to be in love and not want anyone else.”
“Indeed?” He dropped his hand and leaned back, considering her. “And who is this lucky man?”
Her cheeks burned under his intense scrutiny, but she wasn’t about to let this chance pass her by. If she didn’t tell him now, she might never get another opportunity. “Someone I’ve loved forever,” she whispered, willing him to see into her heart. To take her in his arms and say the words she’d dreamed of hearing him say.
When his face transformed into that shuttered mask that signaled the emotional barrier w
as coming down, the realization tore at her heart. He’d seen the signs, recognized that the words she’d spoken were for him, but he wanted none of it.
He didn’t want her.
He would never want her.
He would…never…want…her…
“Mummy!” Faye woke to a gentle nudging against her shoulder. “Mummy, are you awake?” Melita stood at the open car door beaming down at Faye. “We’re home now.”
Her child’s smile was warmer than the sun and sleepily, Faye smiled back. “Mmm. Yes, darling, I’m awake.” Pushing away the remnants of memory sleep had invited, Faye prepared to haul herself out of the car. She winced as her ribs squeezed and her back tightened.
“Uncle Rico said you’ve got to go to bed because you’re very tired and he’s taking me shopping to buy me some new riding clothes.”
That got Faye’s eyes open. “I don’t think—”
“A few clothes, Faye.” Enrico appeared at the car door, his hand reaching for hers. “Call it an uncle’s indulgence.”
Dio! He’d been afforded precious little opportunity up to now. But seeing Faye’s pale complexion and the way she tried to hide her physical discomfort, had the accusation sticking in his throat. He’d noticed her rubbing her ribcage and how she’d tried to hide how exhausted she was during lunch. Maybe he shouldn’t have forced the issue of riding lessons.
He couldn’t imagine how unsettling memory loss could be, especially for someone with her independent spirit. Plus she was dealing with grief, with fear, with a loss of control. He’d whisked her from her home, from her life, without a thought for anything other than he wanted her with him. Truth was he didn’t trust anyone else to watch out for her.
But the woman didn’t make it easy.
She agreed to rest, but was steadfast in her refusal to go to bed.
“I can rest just as well on the veranda,” she argued. “The fresh air will do me good and the sun loungers are as comfortable as a bed.”