Читать книгу A Debt Paid In The Marriage Bed - Jennifer Hayward - Страница 10
ОглавлениеNew York Daily Buzz
Society Shocker!
Word has it the engagement of up-and-coming designer Angelina Carmichael and district attorney candidate Byron Davidson is off after a flashy soiree to celebrate the couple’s betrothal just two weeks ago.
The buzz about town is the prominent lawyer is clearly devastated at the split, perhaps suggesting it was Angelina who called it off?
One can’t help but wonder if the reason for the break comes in the form of none other than Angelina’s ex: sexy corporate raider Lorenzo Ricci. The two were seen dining at Tempesta Di Fuoco last week, conjuring up images of the couple’s tempestuous marriage that offered this column a regular supply of juicy news over its fiery but short duration.
Given the much lusted-after Lorenzo has been curiously devoid of a woman on his arm since the split, suspicion is running rampant that Angelina could be the cause.
The question on everyone’s lips is...are the Riccis back on?
OH, FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE. Angie tossed the salacious tabloid on the coffee table in her studio, blood heating. Did those people not have better things to do with their time? Her heart sank as she imagined what Byron must be thinking. Feeling. How he was coping with the barrage of gossip that had spread through town faster than a forest fire eating up dry timber.
She hadn’t talked to him since the night after her confrontation with Lorenzo, when she’d given him back his ring. Since that kiss with her husband had made it clear she couldn’t marry her fiancé. Even if Lorenzo had miraculously changed his mind and offered to expedite their divorce, she still couldn’t have married her fiancé. Not after everything she’d done to prove she was over her husband, that she didn’t care about him anymore, had been exposed for the lie it was.
Her mouth turned down. That was why she’d felt so off the night of the engagement party. Because she’d been trying to convince herself she was in love with her ultraintelligent, grounded fiancé, that she wanted the opposite of her roller-coaster ride of a marriage, when in fact she had never truly gotten over Lorenzo—the man who had made her feel as if her emotions were out of control.
The movers, currently emptying her apartment above the studio of her possessions, stomped back in to take the final load of boxes out to the truck parked on the street. The ball of tension in her stomach grew as she witnessed what was left of her carefully constructed existence disappear before her eyes.
A conversation with her father had provided no alternatives to her husband’s proposition, only a suggestion by her father to repair the marriage she never should have left in the first place.
Potential investors were too spooked by Carmichael Company’s recent performance to touch the once lauded company, nor would her father’s pride allow him to hunt other offers of assistance. Which meant, as she’d feared, she was the only solution to this problem if her brother, James, who would someday soon run Carmichael Company and her sister, Abigail, were to have anything left of the company to inherit.
She picked up her coffee, taking a sip of the steaming brew and cradling the cup in her hands. Allowing Abigail to bear all the responsibility for her mother was also something she needed to fix. She had her life together now. She was strong. It was time to start assuming some of the responsibilities she’d been shirking so her sister could have a life, too.
Which didn’t negate the fear gripping her insides. The anger keeping her awake at night, tossing in her bed, leaving her hollow-eyed in the morning. That Lorenzo was forcing her into this reconciliation, using her family as leverage, made his intentions very clear. This was a power play for him like every other he executed on a daily basis. He wanted her back, needed his heir, so he’d made it happen.
It was not about his feelings for her. Or lack of them... About a sentimental, real desire to give what they’d had a second chance. It was about him repossessing what he felt was his. Staking his claim.
She set down her cup in its saucer. If she was going to do this, she needed to do it with her eyes wide-open, naïveté firmly banished. On her terms. She wasn’t going to allow him to take control, to overwhelm and intimidate her as he had the first time around. She wasn’t sacrificing the independence and freedom she’d carved out for herself and she wasn’t letting her husband break her heart again. Those were her rules.
Defiance drove her back to her worktable when the movers left, where her anger fueled a furious burst of productivity. By the time she finished up a couple of pieces for Alexander Faggini’s Fashion Week show, her watch read 7:00 p.m. Oops. She was supposed to be home having dinner with Lorenzo right now—their first night together again in the penthouse. Unfortunately, she was going to be at least a half hour late.
* * *
“How’s the deal going? Still mired in legalese?”
“Sì.” Lorenzo cradled his mobile between ear and shoulder while he poured himself a drink in deference to the end of the week. “There’s a few small points Bavaro and I have to work through. He’s been a bit of a wild card.”
“Bene.” Amusement danced in Franco’s voice. “I love watching Father on this one. To make Ricci the largest luxury hotel chain in the world is an accomplishment even he can’t match. It kills him to think of you surpassing his achievements.”
Lorenzo smiled. His father, retired now and serving on the boards of other companies, had an endless thirst for competition. That included the one he had with his sons. It had made the bonds between him and Franco even tighter as they had united to combat their father’s powerful personality, with Franco running the shipping operations out of Milan, while Lorenzo oversaw the rest of the company from New York.
“He needn’t worry he’ll be forgotten. He has more than his fair share of achievements.” Lorenzo lifted the whiskey to his mouth and took a sip. “So,” he said, as the fiery spirit burned a soothing path through his insides, “when were you going to tell me about the IVF? I have to hear it from the old man?”
A low oath. “I should have known he’d jump the gun. We didn’t get the results on the latest procedure until today. I was waiting until we knew for sure before laying that on you.”
“I figured it was something like that.” He paused a beat, searching for the right words. “So what was the verdict?”
“It didn’t work. Likely never will.”
A knot formed in his throat. “Mi dispiace. I know how much you and Elena wanted this.”
“It is what it is.”
The raspy edge to his brother’s voice gutted him. It always hurt to be so far away but right now it felt like the sharp blade of a knife. “How is Elena taking the news?”
“Not well. She’s claiming it’s her fault even though I’ve told her it could just as easily be me.”
He closed his eyes. He didn’t know the pain of being denied what he’d always assumed to be his, but he did know what it was like to lose a baby. How deeply it had cut when just a week after being given a clean bill of health, Angelina had inexplicably lost their child. How you didn’t know how much you wanted something until it was taken away from you.
“Be there for her,” he said quietly. Do what he hadn’t done.
Franco exhaled. “We might adopt. I don’t know...it’s a big step.”
“It is. Take your time with it.”
A pause. Franco’s tone was wary when he spoke. “Your reconciliation with Angelina... The timing is...”
“It’s not because of this. Yes, there is that, but it’s become clear to me Angelina and I have unfinished business between us.”
“She walked out on you, fratello. How much more finished do you want it to be?”
Lorenzo winced, pressed a hand to his temple. “I bear responsibility for the demise of my marriage, too. You know I have my ghosts.”
“Sì. But she changed you, Lorenzo. You shut down after she left. You don’t trust like you used to—you aren’t the same man.”
No, he wasn’t. His wife had taken a piece of him with her when she’d walked out that door on the heels of the loss of his child, his fledgling trust in life and love, his half-built bond with Angelina vaporizing on a tide of bitterness so thick he’d wondered if he would ever move past it. But with time, as his grief over Lucia had subsided, his own faults had been revealed. It would be delusional of him to lay the blame solely at his wife’s feet.
“Angie was young. She needed time to grow. I intend for our marriage to work this time.”
“Or you will take the house down around you as you try.” A wry note stained his brother’s voice.
Lorenzo asked about his mother’s upcoming birthday celebrations. They chatted about that for a few minutes before his brother signed off. Lorenzo leaned against the bar and nursed his drink while he waited for his wife to deign to appear.
The thought that he would have to produce the Ricci heir no longer evoked the violent reaction it had when his father had lobbed that grenade at him. Instead of feeling roped and tied, he felt strangely satisfied. As if his father’s directive had been the incentive he had needed to rewrite a piece of history that hadn’t gone down as it should have.
Two years after the death of Lucia, he had still been without a taste for women the night he’d met Angelina in Nassau. Plagued by demons, if the truth be known, over the wife he hadn’t protected. Until Angie had walked out on the terrace while he’d been talking to one of her father’s associates and he’d felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.
All it had taken was one dance, his hands taking purchase of her lush curves, before he’d found himself in an isolated part of the gardens taking over the seduction, driven by a need he couldn’t name. His libido had woken up like a five-alarm blaze by the time they’d made it to his luxurious room on the Carmichael estate. Somehow, in the haze of his still ever-present grief, Angie had brought him back to life.
His mouth twisted as he brought the whiskey to his lips. Little had he known that the passion they shared would devolve into the plot from The War of the Roses. That the only place he and his young wife would be in sync was in the bedroom, where they’d solved every argument with hot, burn-your-clothes-off sex.
The clock chimed seven thirty. His good mood began to evaporate. The elevator doors swished open a couple of minutes later, his wife breezing in dressed in black capris and a sparkly, peasant-style blouse. Her hair pulled back in a ponytail, face devoid of makeup, she was still the most exquisite woman he’d ever known.
“Long day?” he drawled, leashing his anger.
Pink color stained her cheeks. “It was. I had to finish up some pieces for a show. I’m sorry I’m late.”
No, she wasn’t. But for the sake of their fresh start and given everything he’d thrown at her, he cut her some slack. “Go change.” He cocked his head toward the bedroom. “Constanza unpacked your things. She left dinner in the oven. It’ll keep while we have a drink.”
Her eyes darkened at the order. Firming her mouth, she dropped her purse on a chair and swept by him.
“Angie?”
She swung around.
“Put your wedding rings on.”
She lifted her chin. “Is this how it’s going to be, Lorenzo? Just like old times? You firing orders at me? Expecting me to run and do your bidding?”
“Married people wear wedding rings.” He held up his left hand, the elegant, simple gold band she had given him glittering in the light.
Her face tightened. Turning on her heel, she disappeared down the hallway. When she returned, she was dressed in the comfortable black leggings she favored and a cream-colored tunic that fell just below her curvaceous derriere. Unfortunate, he decided. He’d have to fill in that part from memory.
“Drink?” he asked, walking to the bar.
“Mineral water, please.”
“It’s Friday night.”
“I’d still like mineral water.”
And the battle lines were drawn... He poured it for her, added a slice of lime and carried it out onto the terrace, where Angie had drifted. Strategically placed lanterns lit up a thirty-five-million-dollar view of the park.
He handed her the drink. Noted she wore her sapphire engagement ring and wedding band. “Which show?”
She blinked. “Sorry?”
“Which show are you designing for?”
“Oh.” She wrapped her fingers around the glass. “Alexander Faggini’s Fashion Week show.”
“That’s impressive.”
She lifted a shoulder. “A friend of mine introduced us. He thought my designs worked well with his. It’s an honor for me.”
“I’d like to see the collection.”
“Would you?” She turned those beautiful blue eyes on him. “Or are you just making an effort to appear interested?”
“Angelina,” he growled.
“It’s a fair question.” Her chin set at a belligerent angle. “I am, after all, playing at a start-up business that has somehow, magically, found success.”
He rested his gaze on hers. “Three-quarters of new businesses fail in this city. They don’t even last until their second year. You have done something extraordinary with yours. I’m proud of you. But at the time, it seemed like a long shot.”
“You didn’t think I had the talent? Not even with you nurturing me?”
There was a distinctly wounded edge to her eyes now. He blew out a breath. “I could see you were talented. But you knew I wanted my wife at home. We were having a baby.”
“You were like that after we lost the baby. When I desperately needed something to occupy my brain.”
His mouth flattened. “I could have supported you better, there’s no question about it. I should have. But someone had to run our life. I needed the sanity of you at home.”
“And I needed the sanity my work provided me.” She turned her gaze to the lush canvas of green spread out before them, Central Park in full, glorious bloom.
He studied the delicate line of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth, silhouetted in the lamplight. Defensive. Protective. It made him wonder about all the pieces of his wife he hadn’t known. Didn’t know. Had never attempted to know.
“Sanity from what?”
She shrugged. “My life. All of it.”
He frowned. He understood what being the offspring of a dynasty meant, because his family was as much Italian aristocracy as the Carmichaels were American royalty. Understood how the pressure of the relentless press coverage, the high expectations, the rules in their world could weigh a person down. What he had never understood was what about it his wife reacted so violently to.
“Why do you hate it so much,” he asked, sweeping a hand through the air. “This world? Why has being a Carmichael been so difficult for you? I could never figure it out. I know you have a combative relationship with your father and that having his affairs plastered across the media couldn’t be easy for you...but it always seemed like it was more.”
A cynical light shone in her gaze as she turned toward him. “Did it need to be more? Those affairs devastated my mother, cut her so deeply she never recovered.”
“No,” he agreed, “it doesn’t. My father worships the ground my mother walks on and rightly so. I can’t imagine how painful it must have been to watch your father disrespect your mother like that when she has stood by his side the entire time.”
