Читать книгу Modern Romance March 2017 Books 5 -8 - Дженнифер Хейворд, Natalie Anderson - Страница 21
ОглавлениеIT WAS GOING to be a late night.
Angie set the almost completed, black-and-white diamond bracelet on her workbench, sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. Almost there wasn’t good enough when the bracelet was due to one of Manhattan’s most noted philanthropists tomorrow, a woman who could make or break her reputation. And since she had already pushed the delivery date back because of her trip to Europe, then had to wait for some stones to be delivered, it needed to get done tonight.
She headed for the coffee machine, thinking maybe java might perk her up. But she suspected what was really bothering her was the fact that although her husband had made an effort to reinstate their dinners at home whenever his schedule permitted, although he was making an effort to be physically present, he had become even more emotionally distant over the last couple of weeks.
Keeping the faith, believing in them, was growing increasingly difficult when not knowing if he’d ever love her was burning a hole in her soul. She wanted him to say those three words so badly, it was almost painful. But she knew if he ever did, and it wasn’t a given he would, it would take time.
“Do you want me to stay and work with you tonight?” Serina threw her a glance as she put on her coat.
Angie poured herself a cup of coffee. “You have a date.” She gave the diminutive blonde an amused look. “That exciting is he?”
Serina made a face. “Friends set us up.”
“Then you should definitely go. That’s how all the good matches are made.”
She wasn’t so sure how love at first sight was going to work out for her.
Picking up her coffee, she nursed the steaming cup between her hands. “I have to finish Juliette Baudelaire’s bracelet. The clasp I’d envisioned isn’t working.”
She and Serina conferred on the issue, the other designer agreeing her current design wouldn’t work. They tossed around a couple of alternatives, then Serina headed out for her date.
No sooner had Angie settled into her work than her cell phone rang—it was her husband’s name on the caller ID.
“Yes,” she purred, craving a taste of his raspy, delicious voice to ease her jagged emotions. “I thought you had to work late.”
“Marc Bavaro’s invited us to the opera tonight. I need you to come.”
No hello. No preamble. No sexy rasp. Cool, rapid-fire words thrown at her with that hint of edge he’d been wearing all week.
She bit her lip. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I have a bracelet due to an important client in the morning.”
“It’s a bracelet. Not life or death. Finish it tomorrow.”
She stiffened. “It’s due tomorrow. I’ve already put her off once because of Marc Bavaro.”
“A few hours isn’t going to make a difference. Stop being so contrary and get ready. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes to pick you up.”
The line went dead. She stared at the phone. Had he just called her contrary? Dismissed her like that?
She put down the phone. Took a couple of deep breaths. Seriously considered calling him back and telling him what he could do with his opera invitation. Except Marc Bavaro was driving him crazy. She could see it on his face when he walked in the door at night...in the dark circles under his eyes he was wearing like a badge. He was under immense pressure to close this deal and the strain was showing.
She exhaled a long breath. Even though her own work would suffer, she would not be the one to sabotage their relationship this time.
Juliette’s nearly done bracelet glittered on her desk. She supposed she could send her an email and let her know it would be done in the morning, afternoon at the latest. Surely that would be fine?
Decision made, she sent the email and gathered up her things, her animosity growing by the minute. By the time Lorenzo pulled up at the sidewalk in front of her studio, her blood was boiling.
“Ciao.” He leaned toward her to give her a kiss when she got into the car. She gave him her cheek instead. His ebony gaze narrowed. “What?”
“If you don’t know what, you don’t deserve an answer.”
He eyed her. “Is it because I called you contrary?”
She didn’t deign to respond to that.
A muttered oath. “It’s one night, Angelina.”
She turned a furious gaze on him. “I have a commission due tomorrow. How would you feel if I insisted you attend a party with me when you had a security filing the next day? I can just see you now—‘Pff, it’s just a security filing...the lawyers have this. Be right with you, honey.’”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
She turned to look out the window.
He gave up after that, getting them home in record time. She changed into a cap-sleeved, navy classic sheath dress, adding elegant gold sandals and jewelry to spice it up. Lorenzo looked devastatingly handsome in a dark suit, white shirt and an ice-blue tie he had clearly put on to match her dress, but she was in no mood to acknowledge it.
They met up with Marc and Penny outside the stunningly beautiful Metropolitan Opera House, with its white travertine stone facade and five massive, graceful arches that, lit up at night, made it a sight to see. It had always been one of Angie’s favorite places to go for its sheer magnificence. Her first trip there, to see a ballet as a little girl, had been full of wide-eyed wonder. But tonight she was too annoyed to register much other than the fact that she was itching to shrug off the hand her husband held at her back, but couldn’t.
They shared a cocktail with the other couple in one of the bars. Sparkling water, sadly, for Angie, when a glass of wine might have mellowed her out. She focused all her attention on the Belmont CEO and his girlfriend, ignoring her husband completely, to the point where Penny jokingly asked her if Lorenzo was in the doghouse as they settled into their seats in the Belmont box to watch Puccini’s La Bohème.
She denied it, of course. Made a joking comment that Penny would see what it was like when the honeymoon phase was over. Lorenzo must have heard it with that laser-sharp hearing of his because his face turned dark. A mistake, she recognized, as the whisper of a chill rose up her spine. She had insulted his male pride.
She focused on the performance. He had earned that one.
La Bohème was one of her favorites, but tonight it couldn’t have been a worse choice. The story of Mimi and Rodolfo, the fiery, star-crossed lovers, sung to perfection by the visiting Italian soprano and her American tenor—had always moved her. But tonight, given her rocky emotions, her insecurities about her and Lorenzo, it affected her in a way she couldn’t hide. By the time the two lovers decided to stay together in the face of Mimi’s heartbreaking illness at the end of the third act, her imminent death on the horizon, tears were running down her face.
Lorenzo put a hand on her thigh. She ignored him, kept her eyes focused on the stage. When the act came to a close, she rooted around desperately in her bag for a tissue, a necessity at the opera, and dammit, how could she have forgotten them?
Lorenzo shoved the handkerchief from his front pocket into her hand. “Excuse us, will you?”
“What are you doing?” she whispered as he grabbed her arm and propelled her out of the box.
A tight, intense look back. “We are going somewhere to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Well, that’s too bad, amore mio, you don’t get to choose.”
Into the multistoried lobby they went, past the two glorious murals Marc Chagall had painted. Somewhere along the way, Lorenzo dropped the general manager’s name. The next thing she knew, he was directing her down a hallway and into an empty dressing room marked Visiting Performers.
* * *
Lorenzo twisted the lock on the door and turned to face his wife. What the hell was wrong with her? Watching her cry like that had made him want to crawl out of his skin, because he didn’t think all of it had to do with the admittedly heartbreaking opera.
Angie swept her hand around the room, dominated by the sofa that sat along one wall and a dressing table and mirror on the other. “We can’t be in here.”
“I was just told we could.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain to me why you are so angry, cara. I asked you to do me a favor. You know how important this deal is to me. What’s the problem?”
She jammed her hands on her hips, eyes flashing. “You ordered me to come. You know how important my career is to me and yet you completely discounted my work. The bracelet I’m creating is for Juliette Baudelaire—a huge commission, particularly if she spreads the word to her friends. It’s not just a bracelet, it’s a stepping stone in my career. And yet here I am, not delivering on time—twice—because of you and your needs.”
His irritation came to a sudden, sliding halt. “I had no idea it was for her.”
“How could you? You hung up on me before I had a chance to tell you.”
He muttered an oath. Pushed a palm over his brow. “Mi dispiace. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I called you. I was behind, annoyed because I had prior commitments I, too, had to cancel.”
She hugged her arms around herself. Glared at him. He scowled back. “You,” he said, waving a hand at her, “are so emotional tonight. What’s going on? Is it the pregnancy effect?”
The daggers in her eyes would have sliced him to shreds if they’d been real. “You, Lorenzo Ricci, are so oblivious, so emotionally unaware sometimes it blows my mind.”
He didn’t think that was fair. He thought he was very emotionally aware at times and had been with her a lot lately. They were talking. Communicating. Being honest with each other. The last couple of weeks had just been particularly brutal.
The thought vaporized from his head as his wife headed for the door. Moving with a swiftness born of his superior height and muscle, he made it there at the same time she did. Jamming his palm against the wood, he looked down at his very beautiful, very angry wife.
“We aren’t done talking.”
“Oh, yes, we are.”
“No,” he said deliberately, “we aren’t.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What else would you like to say?”
“I’d like to say I’m sorry again. I sincerely feel badly that I did not check to see what it was you were working on. If I’d known, I would have come by myself.”
Her stormy blue gaze softened.
“I would also like to know how I am being emotionally unaware.”
She pursed her lips. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” He frowned. “I thought we had the pregnancy thing out in the open. We’re dealing with it.”
“It’s not that.” She shook her head. “Women cannot stand when a man plays the hormone card, Lorenzo. It’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull.”
“Oh. Certo,” he said, nodding. “I will remember that for the future. I had no idea. I thought pregnancy hormones were a documented thing.”
“Lorenzo.” She glared at him. “I’d stop while you’re ahead.”
“Bene.” He snagged an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Is there anything else you would like to tell me? Why you are so upset?”
Her gaze dropped away from his. “You haven’t been emotionally present the last few weeks. I don’t know where your head is. I don’t know where we are. I miss you.”
Guilt tied a knot in his chest. In trying to pull back, to not lead them down a path he couldn’t go, he’d hurt her.
“I’m sorry.” He bent his head and buried his mouth in the curve of her neck. Drank in her irresistible scent. “Things have been crazy. I will do better.”
“It’s... I—” She sighed. “We should go. Find Marc and Penny.”
“Not until you say you’re not angry with me anymore.” He slid his hands down over her bottom and pulled her closer. “I hate it when you’re angry with me.”
Tracing the line of her neck with his lips, he sank his teeth into the cord of her throat where it throbbed against her skin. Her breath hitched. “Fine. I’m not angry at you anymore.”
“I’m not convinced.” He dragged his mouth up to hers. Pushed his fingers into her hair and kissed her. Dominant, persuasive, he sought to fix whatever was going on with her. To fix them in the only way he knew how.
She melted beneath his hands. “Okay,” she whispered against his lips. “You’re forgiven.”
But he was too far gone now, his body pulsing with the need to restore the natural balance of things. Denying himself Angelina was carving a hole inside of him he didn’t know how to fill.
He backed her into the wall, pushed his thigh between hers, imprinting her with the throbbing evidence of his need. She gasped. “Lorenzo.”
“What?”
“We can’t do this here.”
“Why not?” He slicked his tongue over her lush bottom lip, tasting her. “You liked it in Portofino. The element of risk...”
“Yes, but—”
He delved inside the sweetness of her mouth. Made love to her with his tongue like he wanted to do to her body. Her bag clattered to the floor, a low moan leaving her throat. Lust coursing through him, he nudged her legs farther apart and swept her dress up her thighs. She was damp when he cupped her between her legs, as turned on as he was.
He ran his palm over the hot, wet silk that covered her. Moved it aside to find her slick and ready for him.
“I need to have you,” he rasped.
Her stormy blue gaze locked with his. “Yes.”
He stroked her. Readied her. She made more of those sexy sounds at the back of her throat, arching into his hand. Shallow strokes of his fingers inside her tight channel to tease, insistent circles against the tight bundle of nerves at the heart of her with his thumb. Throwing her head back, she said his name in a broken voice that ripped right through him.
Urging one of her legs around his waist, he released himself from his pants, pushed aside the wet silk and entered her with a hard, urgent thrust. She gasped, the sensation of her tight, velvet warmth gripping his swollen flesh indescribable. It had never been so good.
“Okay?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
Bending his knees, he drove up inside of her with an urgent desire that annihilated anything but the need to have her. His erection pounded in time with his heartbeat, his control shredding. He captured her hand in his and brought her fingers to the hard nub that gave her pleasure.
“Touch yourself,” he whispered. “Come with me, Angelina.”
She closed her eyes. Rotated her fingers against her flesh. He kept his hand over hers, absorbing the tiny quakes that went through her. Held on to the very threads of his control while she pleasured herself. When she was close, when the deeper shudders came, moving from her through him, he gripped her hip tighter and stroked deeper, setting a hard, wild rhythm that blew his brain apart.
His body tightened, swelled, his breathing hoarse in the silence of the room. In perfect sync, they came together in a soul-shaking release like none he’d ever experienced before.
Mouth buried in her neck, he held her as her legs gave out. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, wrapped around each other, before he recovered enough to straighten and push back.
Bracing a palm against the wall, he leaned in to kiss her, to acknowledge what that had just been. His heart stopped in his chest at the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Angelina?” He cupped her face with his hands. “What is it?”
She shook her head. Pushed away as she straightened her clothes. “It’s nothing. I’m emotional from the performance.”
The bell sounded to end the intermission. He ignored it, focusing on his wife’s tear-streaked face as he zipped himself up. “It’s a hell of a lot more than that.”
She swiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands.
“Angelina,” he roared. “Out with it.”
She bent and scooped her purse off the floor. Straightening, she rested her blue gaze on his. “I’m in love with you, Lorenzo. Silly me, I forgot the rules.”
