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Nine

“Let’s go out,” Evangeline announced late one afternoon as they watched a movie, snuggled together on the couch.

Convinced he’d misheard, Matthew hit the volume, almost dropping the remote. “Out? As in out in public?”

Other than an occasional rooftop visit, they hadn’t crossed the threshold of Palazzo D’Inverno since the dinner party a couple of weeks ago. He was on a first name basis with the grocery store delivery guy, who delighted in correcting Matthew’s poor Italian.

“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Take me on a date tonight.”

“You hate dating.”

“But I like you.” She fluttered her lashes, coquettishly. “So I’m willing to make sacrifices. I might even let you talk my clothes off after.”

“What’s going on? Cabin fever?”

It was certainly starting to get to him. As much fun as Evangeline was—and really, was there such a thing as too much sex?—a slight sense of restlessness wouldn’t go away, no matter what he did.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t worn makeup in forever. I’d like you to see me in something other than one of your T-shirts.”

“I like you in my T-shirts. I like you best in nothing at all,” he threw in. “But I could go for some dinner with a beautiful woman.”

“Dinner and maybe a show.” She leaped off the couch, suddenly animated. “Ooh, I have the perfect dress. I haven’t worn it yet. I’m going to hog the bathroom. Do you need anything out of it?”

“Nah.” He grinned at her enthusiasm and flipped the channel to a cable news station since the movie clearly wasn’t of interest any longer. “I’ll be here. Waiting. For a long time, I suspect.”

An hour later, he’d donned a button-up shirt and ironed some pants, the most effort he’d expended to get dressed in ages. Evangeline still hadn’t emerged from the bathroom so he flopped on the couch to amuse himself by flipping through the channels.

She called his name from the stairs.

He glanced at her and his heart locked up.

Evangeline La Fleur had put on yet another mask. She’d transformed into a fantastical vision in a clingy blue dress, honey-brown curls loose around her shoulders, sultry eyes full of mystery and promise, legs shaped by spiked heels that made his mouth water. And he’d kissed every inch of that gorgeous body.

How could she still punch him so hard without a word when they had few secrets between them any longer?

A button-up and kakis were far too casual to have that on his arm. Actually, the man in the clothes left a lot to be desired, as well. The glittery superstar walking down his stairs had nothing in common with Matthew Wheeler.

“Ready?” she asked, her gravelly voice raw and thrilling. Like always. It jump-started his lungs again as he stood to meet her. She was still the same person underneath the mask.

“I’m not sure. I think you’ve stolen my ability to walk. You’re...I don’t know what to call you. Beautiful is too simple a word. You’re exquisite.” Flustered, he straightened his belt and smoothed his hair. “Sure you want to be seen with me?”

She laughed, throatily, with her head thrown back. It was genuine and elemental, and he hardened in an instant.

“I’ll ask you that same question in a little while, when we’ve drawn a lot of unwanted attention. I thought about playing it down, trying to blend. But it would be pointless. Anyway, I wanted to look nice. For you.”

“For me?” That pleased him, enormously, and he yanked her into his arms, careful not to muss this gorgeous creature. “Thanks. It is a pretty good hit for my ego. And I will thoroughly enjoy looking at you all evening as I imagine what I’ll say to talk your clothes off.”

Her fingers walked down his chest and dipped into his pants to lightly graze his swollen flesh. “It’ll have to be good. Maybe with some begging.”

He groaned. “We’re not going to make it out the door if you keep that up.”

Withdrawing her hand, she smiled with a mischievous curve to her lips. “I’ll save it for later then.”

Eyes still crossed, he helped her into a coat and slipped on his own. Lacing their fingers, he led her outside into the night. Carnevale was long over and the cool March air held a hint of the Italian spring to come.

“Walk or water taxi?” he asked. “I thought we’d go to this little out-of-the-way place I found, instead of somewhere trendy. I hope that’s okay. It’s only a few blocks.”

“Walk. I haven’t seen nearly enough of Venice. There’s a different feel when you’re on the street, in the middle of it all. The view from your living room, or the roof even, is amazing. But removed. You know?”

Yes, he did. He’d been removed from everything for so long. Tonight, he was fully in the land of the living, with Evangeline, and it did feel different. As if he’d emerged from a dark tunnel and the world had burst open around him.

As they strolled, other couples nodded or called “Ciao” upon passing. Streetside shops blazed with light behind glass, wares on display in the window. The pace of life in Venice ebbed and flowed with the canal waters, tranquil and slowed. Peaceful. History—the heartbreak, the triumphs—radiated from the very cobblestones and dripped from the stucco veneer of the ancient buildings.

People had lived and died in this city for centuries before Matthew’s Northern European ancestors had jumped the pond to America. Life would continue on after Matthew was long gone. It was the here and now that counted.

He squeezed Evangeline’s hand, and she glanced over at him through those soft brown eyes that he liked waking up to every morning. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was a way to stop dragging this thing out and do something crazy, like put a stake in the ground and hash out a plan to make it work long term.

Except he’d been searching for a way to move on after Amber’s death, never realizing a step in that process might include falling in love with someone new.

It felt disloyal to Amber to think something like that.

This thing couldn’t last. Not because he and Evangeline wouldn’t work in real life. That was true, but surface level. Deep down, he wasn’t sure he could do it again, give his whole being to someone else. Love someone else. Have a household, a baby, a life with someone else.

He’d created the temporary nature of his relationship with Evangeline to make her more comfortable with staying, but it was really an excuse. He’d latched onto it to avoid the truth—he wasn’t ready to move on.

They found the restaurant easily. The maître d’ showed them to their table, and Matthew ordered a bottle of Chianti, which the efficient staff brought immediately.

“Well. Here we are.” Evangeline raised her glass and they clinked rims. “Our first date.”

In a manner of speaking. Seemed strange to be on a first date with a woman he’d made squirm under his tongue as he knelt before her in the shower that morning. “Guess we did things out of order.”

“That’s okay. I’m not big on tradition.”

“Like marriage?” Why in the world had he picked that rock to kick? He already knew her stance on commitment.

She wrinkled her nose. “Well, doesn’t seem like it works out for many people, does it?”

It had for his parents and grandparents. Seemed to work tremendously well for Lucas and Cia, what little of their relationship he’d been around to witness.

His own marriage had been perfect. With Amber, he’d done things in the exact right order. They’d gone to the opera for their first date. Amber had worn gloves and left them in his car. On purpose, he knew, so she’d have an excuse to call him. Which she had done, two days later.

After three dates, he kissed her and three months to the day, he surprised her with a suite at the Fairmont, where they’d made love for the first time, in a nice evening full of potential. That’s when he’d known he would propose, but he held off until they’d been together over a year, then, for Christmas, he’d given Amber a white-gold Tiffany engagement ring that had belonged to his grandmother. Everything safely unfolded according to plan.

For all the good it had done him.

Voices from the front of the restaurant interrupted his musing. Evangeline’s face froze as a couple of sharply dressed teenage boys argued with the maître d’, pointing at her.

“Sorry, they followed us in here,” she said. “They noticed me on the street, but I figured they’d move on.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“Because it’s invasive. Or it will be.” She pasted on a smile as the waiter came up behind her to whisper in her ear. She nodded, and the teenagers rushed over to babble incoherently in a mixture of Italian and English, shoving pieces of paper at Evangeline for her to sign. One of the boys handed her a Sharpie and brazenly lifted his shirt. She scrawled “EVA” in flowery script across his pectoral muscle.

Really? Matthew looked away as something black and sharp flared deep inside. These kids had no sense of decorum whatsoever.

And he absolutely did not want to admit the pain in his stomach had to do with Evangeline’s palm on the guy’s chest. Jealousy. As if she belonged to Matthew and he had a right to expect he’d be the only man she touched.

Evangeline was a good sport through it all. She posed with the boys for at least a dozen pictures, hastily snapped on their phones by the beleaguered waiter. When she was “on,” her otherworldliness intensified, sharpening her beauty but making her seem almost untouchable.

She hadn’t put on a mask—but taken one off. Eva was an extension of her essence.

Finally, the teenagers drifted out the door, leaving a tense silence draped over them both.

“My fans mean a lot to me.” She flicked her nail across the tines of her fork without looking at him. “The ones I still have anyway. But it can be a bit much for someone not used to it. I knew better. I shouldn’t have asked you to take me out.”

“It’s okay.” Her biggest concern had been inconveniencing him or upsetting him, but he got that her celebrity went part and parcel with the rest. He reached out to cover her hand. “It’s a small price to pay. You’re worth it.”

Her eyes grew shiny. “Thanks. We’re lucky they weren’t reporters.”

They ate dinner without any more interruptions. When they left the restaurant, bright flashes halted them in their tracks, and he got a glimpse of the reason for her earlier concerns.

Two media-hounds lounged a few feet away, easily identifiable by their professional cameras and lack of interest in capturing the Venetian splendor all around them. Their sharp gazes were on Evangeline as she stepped into Matthew’s side, snugging up against his ribs closely. Too closely. Seeking what? Protection?

A prickle of warning went down his spine.

The men blocked their path, crowding them with their solid builds and flat eyes. Not guys who looked eager to be reasonable.

“Eva,” the shorter one on the left—American—called out. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

Matthew was about to calmly suggest it would be in their best interests to let them pass. But Evangeline’s sharp intake of breath tripped something in his blood.

“I mind,” Matthew said, and stepped in front of Evangeline, shielding her from the men.

“Who are you?” The one on the right zeroed in on Matthew. “You got time for a few questions? I’ll be sure to spell your name right.”

“No comment,” Evangeline said and earned both men’s pointed attention.

“Is that what your voice sounds like now?” The short one whistled. Nastily. “Like a cement mixer with boulders inside. Can I tape it?”

She was trembling against Matthew’s back as she pulled on his arm. “We’ll go the long way home.”

Home. Not to a show, which she’d chattered about endlessly during dinner. If the reporter had latched onto anything else except her voice, Matthew would have let it slide.

These two idiots weren’t ruining their night out. “Back off. We’re of no interest to you.”

“You’re with Eva, you’re news, buddy.” The taller one snapped off a few photographs, blinding Matthew with the flash.

“You want to get that camera out of our faces before I do it for you?” Matthew blinked hard in an attempt to clear the white starburst from his retinas.

“Are you threatening me, pretty boy?”

“Obviously not well enough if you have to ask. So I’ll be clearer.” Matthew nodded to both men curtly, tamping down his fury. “Stop harassing us or you’ll be examining the ceiling of an Italian jail cell shortly. Or the ceiling of a hospital room. Your choice.”

The men glanced at each other, smiling cruelly. “You gonna take on both of us? Over her?”

Her. As if she was worthless because she’d lost her voice. The fury welled up again, traveling through his veins, curling his hands into fists.

Walk away. Now. Before you do something you’ll regret.

He pivoted and grabbed Evangeline’s hand to escape in the opposite direction. They’d only taken a couple of steps when the men skirted them, blocking their path again.

“Hey, what’s your hurry?” the short one asked and leered at Evangeline, his gaze on her legs. “We’re just doing our job.”

If the smarmy little rat didn’t get his dirty mind out of the gutter, Matthew would remove it from his skull. Through his nose. “Insulting people who are trying to walk down the street is not your job.”

“No, satisfying the public’s curiosity is. And we’re all curious. What’s Eva up to now? Who’s the mysterious man escorting her around Venice?” The taller one shoved a small recorder at Matthew, nearly chipping a tooth. “You tell us. We leave. Easy.”

“We already said—” Matthew backhanded the recorder away “—no comment.”

He shrugged. “Then we’ll write our own story. Eva does Venice with an American schoolteacher on holiday. Eva’s new beau—disinherited playboy after her money? Eva sleeps her way into a modeling contra—”

Matthew’s fist connected with the reporter’s smug mouth. He reeled backward, smashing into the other reporter.

God, that had felt good. He shook out his throbbing knuckles.

The man regained his balance, touched his bleeding lip and glanced at his fingers. “I’m pressing charges.”

“See you in court. Until then, stay away from us.”

He spun and herded Evangeline through the throng of wide-eyed onlookers and down a side street free of people. They didn’t talk, but she grasped his tingling hand tightly.

His heart rate still in the upper stratosphere, he paused in a dark alcove. “You okay?”

“Are you?” She touched his face, tentatively. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

“Never been like that.” He’d never punched anyone in his life. Not even Lucas, though his brother had surely asked for it on many an occasion. Matthew handled conflict with his brain. Usually. Nothing with Evangeline worked like usual. “The things they were saying were hurtful. No one has the right to treat you that way.”

She melted into his arms. “Thank you,” she murmured against his shoulder. “I can’t tell you what that meant to me.”

It had been pure reaction. No thought to consequences. No reason involved. Just a ferocious drive to protect Evangeline from being hurt.

He held her close and his pulse shuddered anew. Amber would have been horrified. Not grateful. Amber didn’t let much affect her and would have blown off reporters with some practiced sound bite. He’d never had a reason to protect her. A reason to be jealous. A reason to feel like he was dancing across a high wire with no net and not only craved the danger but kept asking for more.

Amber was gone.

And if he didn’t disentangle himself from Evangeline soon, the man Amber had married would be gone, too. Then who would he be?

* * *

The next afternoon, Evangeline stretched out on the couch with Matt’s iPad and downloaded a fluffy beach-read novel to entertain her while he took a shower. She needed a distraction from the slimy swirl those reporters had put in her stomach. The media had been a part of her life for a long time, and they’d never bothered her until after the surgery.

Now they just made her sick—physically, deep inside.

When Matt came downstairs, hair still a little damp and darkly golden, she forgot about the story on the page and watched him cross the room. Delicious. He still made her shiver despite the fact that she knew exactly what was underneath that waffle-print shirt and jeans. Maybe because she knew.

But it wasn’t the body that got her going.

Matt had jarred something loose the moment he smashed that reporter in the face. It was far more than what he’d done with Milano Sera’s people. That had been simply an extraction. The incident with the reporters—something else entirely. She’d never felt anything like it, the rush of release, the empowerment of knowing he valued her enough to stand up to the evils of the world.

He had her back. No one ever had before.

“Busy?” he asked.

“Nope.” She laid the tablet on the coffee table.

What could possibly compete with his attention? She loved being his focal point, morning, noon and night. Sure these were extraordinary circumstances, but no doubt he operated the same in real life, with his full commitment on whatever was in front of him. Matt did everything wholeheartedly.

“Do you know if Vincenzo is home today?”

She shrugged. “I think so. I saw him come home early this morning when I was washing the breakfast dishes. I doubt he’s even awake yet. Why?”

“I’m having something delivered. A surprise. Call him and ask if you can hang out over there for an hour. No peeking, either.” With a mischievous smile, he snagged her hand and crossed her heart for her.

The area under her fingertip lurched sweetly. “A surprise? For me? What is it?”

He shook his head and mimed zipping his lips. “You’ll see soon enough. Call.”

Mystified and with no small amount of curiosity, she woke Vincenzo from his postdebauchery sleep and announced she was coming over.

Vincenzo answered the door with a bad case of bedhead and a worse attitude. She flounced past him into the living room and perched on the sofa. “You don’t have to entertain me. Go back to bed.”

Their friendship went back a couple of years, hinging on a mutual love of parties and a glittering social scene, but it had never been deep and meaningful. Like most of her relationships. Except one.

He eyed her. “Trouble in paradise, cara?”

“What, you mean between me and Matt?” She flicked off his concern with a wave. “He’s surprising me with something.”

She’d told Vincenzo very little about her relationship with Matt. On purpose. It didn’t have the same transcendence when explained to an outsider.

Vincenzo jiggled his dark brows. “An engagement ring?”

Automatically, she started to deny it. But what if it was? No. Surely not. Venice was a temporary arrangement.

“He’d stick that in his pocket. Wouldn’t he?”

She glanced at her hand, bare of jewelry since she’d ripped off Rory’s ring and flushed it. Matt wasn’t proposing. No way. He was looking for a way home, not a new wife. There were too many ghosts flitting through his heart for that.

“I am not an expert in matters of marriage.” Vincenzo lifted one shoulder and shuffled in the direction of the marble staircase to the second floor, calling out, “Lock the door when you leave.”

Alone, she contemplated what she’d say if Matt did get down on one knee and claimed he’d gotten over Amber....

He couldn’t. If he did, she’d have to say no, and their affair would be over. Marriage—she couldn’t imagine anything she’d be more ill-suited for.

She fretted about it until he texted her to come home.

When she burst in the door of Palazzo D’Inverno, the surprise nearly knocked her off her feet.

“Oh, my God.”

A shiny, ebony grand piano stood in the corner of the living room, overlooking the Grand Canal. Matt sat on the bench, quietly watching her, and the two together put a glitch in her lungs she couldn’t breathe through.

“Presumptuous of me, I realize,” he said. “But I thought you might enjoy having it to play since going out isn’t so fun.”

Her fingers curled spontaneously. She hadn’t touched piano keys since the surgery. Hadn’t wanted to. Didn’t want to now.

“Thanks. It’s...nice.”

His eyebrows rose. “You’re welcome, and you seem a little underwhelmed. Did I screw up?”

Vehemently, she shook her head. “It’s the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me.”

“Okay. I’ll take that.” He slid off the bench and engulfed her in his warm, safe arms. “But there’s more. Do you want to tell me, or is the piano now the armadillo in the room?”

The laugh slipped out. “How did you know I was going to call armadillo?”

“You get this closed-in face whenever you’re about to say it.”

“I don’t want to play.” It fell out of her mouth. Maybe on accident, or maybe because she couldn’t bear for him to be so understanding and not get anything for it.

“You don’t have to. I can send it back.” He hugged her tighter and then released her. “I’ll call the delivery company right now.”

“No.” That had definitely been said on purpose. She was safe with Matt. She knew that. “Want is the wrong word. I can’t play.”

“Like you’ve forgotten how?”

“Like the music is a razor blade.” Cut, Madam Wong had said. The music had been cut from her throat and it cut when she heard it and it cut when she played.

“Screw up would be too kind a phrase, then,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was hard for you to play. I envisioned you gaining something...I don’t know, peaceful from it.”

Her eyelids shut in sudden memory. The piano had been her refuge in a lonely house growing up, the one thing her mother had given her. Because it was the path to fame and fortune, foremost, but Evangeline turned it into something else. A means of expression she’d channeled in conjunction with her voice. Always together.

The piano still had the music inside. She didn’t. But in Palazzo D’Inverno, there were no rules, and the two didn’t have to coexist. They could have value individually.

“I’d like to find some peace,” she admitted. “I don’t know why it’s so hard.”

“Peace is elusive.”

She’d meant playing the piano was hard. He’d cut through the outer layer and exposed the raw truth. But not the whole truth. “Not when I’m with you.”

With a smile, he captured her hand and pulled her toward the piano. “Then let’s do it together.”

“What? You don’t play.”

But he situated himself on the bench and drew her between his spread legs, placing her fingers on the keys under his own. “Teach me. I’ve been listening to music my whole life. How hard can it be?”

She snorted out a giggle and leaned back against the solid chest supporting her, his breath teasing her ear and his heart thumping her spine.

Safe. Matt was her anchor in a sea of anxiety.

“Move your hands. That’s not how you learn. Here, listen.”

Slowly, she picked out the notes to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” The keys sank under her fingers with measured float, producing rich tones from under the raised lid. This was easily a hundred-thousand-dollar piano. And Matt had given it to her because he wanted her to experience peace by gently prodding her toward something she could still do.

She didn’t mind that kind of push so much.

“A little elementary of a song choice, don’t you think?” he said into her ear, and she elbowed him.

“Try it, smart guy. Go ahead.” She nodded to the keys.

He plunked out a few scraggly notes that sounded more like he was dragging a screaming flamingo down the street than playing a song. But he got about half of them right—a hundred percent more than she was expecting.

“Not bad. Practice makes perfect.”

“Show me another one.” He nudged her with his chin, peering over her shoulder intently at the spread of white and black keys. “Something that takes both hands.”

Without prompting, her fingers spread, arranging themselves around middle C and the melody trickled out. Then gained strength as her muscles remembered how to stretch and fly.

Matt’s hand crept across her stomach and he held her tight as she played, never once flinching if her elbow caught him. He’d held her through a lot of difficult stuff. Had since the very first moments in the alcove at Vincenzo’s party.

When the last notes faded, she slumped, drained.

“One of yours?” he asked softly.

“The first one I ever recorded.” But on a synthesizer and with a faster tempo, when she’d had the energy of a burgeoning career to fuel her performance. “My fingers are tired.”

His lips rested against her temple. “You don’t have to play anymore. Though I enjoyed every second of it.”

“It’s a good kind of tired. Thanks for playing with me. It helped.” The armadillos were having a throw-down in her stomach, but after last night, the exposure of being Eva again and sitting here at the piano, it was too much to keep from bubbling over. “It more than helped. I’m reminded again of what music means to me.”

Reminded again of the peace of simple expression, which had been impossible, until lately.

“What does it mean?”

Escape, she thought. Music had been an escape. It could be again, in a far different way. She could separate music from Eva, peel back that layer and see what was underneath. Eva was gone. Evangeline could be herself.

“It means I have choices.”

“You did a brave thing by playing the piano again.” It was a gentle echo of what she’d said to him during the middle-of-the-night, nothing-is-sacred conversation. “It was hard, but you did it. Choose to do something else difficult. Write a song for Sara Lear.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” It was all he’d say. Somehow, that encouraged her to fill the silence.

“The music industry...” She cleared her raspy throat—a wasted effort. “It’ll rob you of everything you’d hoped to gain. The fame, the money...I readily admit I loved that part. But there’s a price. You lose a sense of yourself and who you are without all the costume changes. People don’t see you anymore. Not the fans. Not the execs. Both put you on a pedestal but watch to see if you teeter just a tiny bit. Then the new song doesn’t climb the charts as fast as the last one. The fans are fickle, and the producers mutter about profits.”

It was a no-win catch-22. Everyone wanted a piece of her until they were done with her. Rory. The industry. And everyone eventually rejected her, even people who should love her no matter what.

“I see you,” he murmured.

She nodded. “That’s why I’m still here.”

Matt made it safe to ditch the mask and be herself. He was the one man on earth she could trust with the deepest part of herself and not be braced for a rejection because she wasn’t good enough.

He was the only one who could get her to stay because for the first time in her life, staying was better than leaving.