Читать книгу The Complete Christmas Collection - Джанис Мейнард, Rebecca Winters - Страница 59

Five hours later Damien sat across from her at a small round corner table in his favorite café, a narrow window-fronted shop on a side street in the mostly residential ward of La Cacheron.

“I love it here,” Lucy declared. She was looking amazing, as usual, in a short ruffled skirt, a white schoolgirl blouse, black suede boots and a bright yellow sweater. Amazing and wonderfully young, he thought, so fresh faced and glowing after staying up most of the night battling first with her brother and then with him.

“What, exactly, do you love?” he asked, so that she would continue talking and waving her hands about.

She put out both arms to the side, palms up. “I love the black-and-white linoleum floor, the dark wood counters, the waitresses in their little white aprons, those plain shirtwaist dresses and sensible shoes. They look like they’ve been working here all their lives.”

“Most of them have.” He sipped his café au lait and nodded at their server, Justine, who was tall and deep breasted with steel-gray hair. “Justine has been serving me since before I could walk. Gerta, our nanny, used to bring us here at least twice a week.”

“Us?”

“My brothers, my sisters and me. Sometimes my mother or my father would bring us. They’ve always loved it here, too. The croissants are excellent and Justine and the others always knew to wait on us without a lot of fanfare so we would be comfortable and able to enjoy just being a family out for a treat.”

She ate the last bite of her croissant. “Um. So good.” A flaky bit of pastry clung to her plump lower lip.

He imagined leaning across and licking it off. “Finish your coffee,” he said a little more gruffly than he meant to.

She dabbed at her lip with her napkin and then sipped her coffee slowly. “Are we in a rush?”

“We don’t want to miss the Procession of Abundance.”

“Ah, yes,” she answered airily. “I read the guidebook. It’s an age-old Montedoran tradition that always occurs on a Friday at the end of November. A parade of farmers and vintners marching the length of the principality to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Sorrows in order to have their seeds and vines blessed, thus ensuring bountiful crops in the year to come.”

He nodded approval. “Very good. But don’t forget the donkeys.”

She pressed a hand, fingers spread, across her upper chest. “I can’t believe I forgot the donkeys. The farmers and vintners all ride on donkeys.”

He gave another nod. “As did our Lord on Palm Sunday and Mary on the way to Bethlehem, the donkey symbolizing loyalty and humility and the great gift of peace, which brings the possibility of abundance. Ready to go?”

She set down her white stoneware cup. “I just want to look at the pictures first.” And she swept out her left arm to indicate the sketches and paintings that jostled for space on the dark wood-paneled walls. A moment later she was up and strolling the length of the shop, her gaze scanning the framed oils, watercolors and pencil drawings created by local artists over the years.

He left the money on the table and got up and went with her. She stopped opposite three drawings grouped together on the back wall. One was a street view of the café’s front window, one of a slightly younger Justine, in profile, bending to set a cup on a table. The third was the front window again but seen from inside. A fat cat sat on the window ledge looking out.

Lucy said, “I do like these three. The cat reminds me of Boris.” Boris was her fat orange tabby.

“Is Boris still in California?” When he’d taken her to New York, they’d had to leave Boris behind in the care of Hannah Russo, Lucy’s former foster mother, who was now Noah’s housekeeper.

Lucy shook her head, her gaze on the cat in the drawing. “Hannah brought him to me a few weeks ago. He likes it in Manhattan. He sits in the front window and watches all the action down on the street—very much like this cat right here.” He knew she’d already checked for and found the scrawled initials, DBC, in the lower left-hand corners of each of the sketches. Lucy was always after him to dedicate more of his time to painting and drawing. She added, “These are so good, Dami. When did you do them?”

He slid his arm around her waist, allowing himself the small, sharp pleasure of touching her, of feeling the warmth of her beneath the softness of her cashmere cardigan with its prim row of white buttons down the front. “Years ago. I was studying briefly at Beaux-Arts in Paris and drawing everything in sight. I came in for coffee, had my sketchbook with me. Justine gave me a box of pastries in exchange for these.”

She leaned into him a little. He caught the scents of coffee and vanilla—and peaches. Today she smelled of peaches. And she scolded, as he’d known she would, “You should spend more time drawing and painting.”

It was delicious, the feel of her against his side. “Life is full of diversions and there aren’t enough hours in a day.”

“Still...”

He turned her toward the door. “Let’s go. The Procession of Abundance won’t wait.”

* * *

After the parade, they strolled the Promenade in the harbor area, not far from where he’d told stories to the children the day before.

She chattered gleefully about her upcoming first semester at the Fashion Institute of New York. She’d been to the school and pestered some of her future instructors for ways she might better prepare for the classes to come. As a result, she was designing accessories and working with fabrics she hadn’t used before.

And then, again, she brought up his painting. “I know you have a studio here in Montedoro. I want you to take me there.”

He teased, “Never trust a man who wants to show you his etchings.”

“But that’s just it. You don’t want to show me. You keep putting me off.”

He took her soft, clever hand and tucked it over his arm. “I’ll consider it.”

She bumped her shoulder against him and flashed him a grin. “And I’ll keep bugging you until you give in and let me see what you’ve been working on.”

“But I haven’t been working on any of that. I’m a businessman first. And you know that I am.”

“You’re an artist, Dami,” she insisted. “You truly are.”

“No, my darling. You are. Now please stop nagging me or I won’t take you to the holiday gala at the National Museum tonight.”

Her big eyes got wider. “Oh, that’s right. I’d almost forgotten about the show at the museum. There will be an exhibit of that new car you’ve been working on, the Montedoro, won’t there?”

“You make it sound as though I built the car personally.”

She put on an expression of great superiority. “I know how to use the internet, believe it or not. I read all about the new sports car and how you helped design it.”

“So, then, we’re agreed.”

She sent him a look. “Agreed about what?”

“You’ll go with me to the gala tonight. We’ll drink champagne. I will dazzle you with my knowledge of Montedoran art. And you’ll stop giving me grief about how I should spend more time in my studio.”

* * *

Lucy wore red to the gala that night. Her own design, the dress was strapless, of red satin, with a mermaid hem and a giant jeweled vintage pin in the shape of a butterfly at the side of her waist. She felt good in that dress—comfortable and about as close to glamorous as someone everyone considered “cute” was ever going to get.

Dami said, “Wow,” when he saw it. And she had to admit, the way he looked at her, all smoldering and sexy, had her convinced that the dress was just right.

The National Museum of Montedoro filled a very old, very large rococo-style villa perched on a hillside overlooking the harbor. Dami’s sister Rhiannon, who was a year older than Alice, worked there. Rhia oversaw acquisitions and restorations. She greeted the guests as they entered the museum.

Seven months pregnant, wearing royal-blue satin, Rhia had that glow that so many pregnant women get. She kissed Lucy on the cheek and said that Alice and Noah were expected any minute now. Lucy shared a glance with Dami over that. He frowned a little, probably doubting that Noah would behave himself. Lucy flashed him a confident smile. Noah would behave himself, all right. If he didn’t, he’d get another middle-of-the-night visit from his little sister.

Rhia said, “Follow the Hall of Tapestries. The Montedoro Exhibit is in the South Gallery. You can’t miss it.”

They proceeded down a long hallway hung with beautiful tapestries, some of them very old, to a large two-story room with tall windows overlooking the harbor. The second floor was a balcony rimming the space. Guests could stand at the railing up there and gaze down on the action below.

The gallery was already milling with people in full evening dress sipping champagne. A jazz quartet played on a stage near the windows. A sleek red sports car gleamed under spotlights in the center of the room.

“It’s so beautiful,” she told Dami at the sight of the new car.

“It has to be,” he said. “After all, it’s called the Montedoro.”

They made their way around the exhibit. Lucy took her time, studying the photographs and scale drawings and reading the descriptions that detailed the creation of the new car. The Montedoro would be available to exclusive individual buyers that coming May and offered for sale in upscale auto dealerships all over the world in the fall. Many of the drawings were signed DBC.

Evidently, Dami saw her checking out his initials. “See? There’s more to life than painting and sketching fat cats in windows.”

“Noah told me that you took a degree in mechanical engineering and design.”

“I like to keep busy.”

“You’re way too modest.”

“Oh, no, I’m not.” He leaned closer and his warm breath brushed her temple. “I have a lot of interests. And I become bored very easily.”

“You hide your abilities behind your jet-setter facade.”

“Does anyone actually say jet-setter anymore?”

She drew her shoulders back. “I do. It’s a perfect way of saying shallow-rich-people-who-fly-all-over-the-place-in-their-private-jets. Just IMO, of course.”

He pretended to hide a yawn. “I hope this isn’t the beginning of one of your lectures concerning my wasted artistic talent. I thought we had an understanding about that.”

“You’re right.” She did her best to look contrite. “We do. And I didn’t mean to insult rich people with too much time on their hands.”

“As opposed to hardworking rich people, you mean?”

“Well, you have to admit, a hardworking rich person is much more admirable.”

“Spoken like an American.”

She scolded, “And would you please stop telling me how easily you get bored?”

He leaned even closer and whispered, “Done.”

She breathed him in. He did smell wonderful. “Terrific.”

He touched her hair, tracing the line of it along her temple and cheek then following the shell of her ear. A little shiver of pleasure went through her and he whispered, “Not bored now. Not with you....”

They were sharing a lovely, intimate smile when she heard the disturbance by the wide arch that opened back onto the Hall of Tapestries. Dami was facing the entrance. He could see what was happening. His tender look turned to a scowl. Lucy followed his gaze to the stunning woman surrounded by admirers and eager photographers just entering the exhibit.

It was Vesuvia.

And she looked even more magnificent than she did on the covers of all those glamorous fashion magazines, with magnetic almond-shaped eyes, cheekbones to die for and lips so full they should be X-rated. She was very tall, with shapely shoulders and long, graceful arms. Her lion’s mane of tawny hair fell to the middle of her back and her perfect round breasts seemed to defy gravity. She wore a low-cut white gown that clung lovingly to every curve and was slit high on the right side to reveal a whole lot of toned golden-skinned leg and a pair of Grecian-inspired metallic sandals with the straps wrapping halfway up her otherworldly calves. She laughed and tossed her acres of hair and the photographers went into a frenzy of picture taking, calling encouragements to her and begging, “Vesuvia, this way!” and “Vesuvia, over here!”

Dami leaned close again, “Don’t stare, Luce. It only encourages her.”

Lucy turned back to him, feeling slightly dazed, the way you do when you stare directly into the sun. “Sorry, Dami. How can I help it? She’s pretty amazing to look at, you know?” She glanced again at his ex-girlfriend just as the woman raised her golden arm to send Dami a little wave, a come-and-get-me smile on those impossibly large lips. And that had Lucy whipping her head back to catch Dami’s reaction.

But his gaze was waiting for her. “You look as though you’re watching a tennis match.”

She didn’t deny it. “Am I?”

“Not on my part. I’ve conceded that game.”

Are you sure? she longed to ask. But no. Maybe later when they were alone, if it felt right, they might talk about his ex. Because they were friends and they trusted each other.

But to get into all that now, well, uh-uh. Time and place, it wasn’t. Plus, Lucy found she felt... Well, not jealous, exactly. How could she be jealous? She and Dami didn’t have that kind of thing going on.

But at a disadvantage. Yes, that was it. Like suddenly she was walking around blindfolded in an unfamiliar room, groping at the furniture, trying to find her way.

Vesuvia and her posse were headed for the scale model of the Montedoro in the center of the exhibit. A man and a woman broke from the group. The woman wore a black sheath cocktail dress and the man a dark suit. Both had on ear-to-ear smiles. They came right for Lucy and Damien.

“Watch out,” Dami warned. “Ad executives.” He named a major international advertising company.

“Your Highness,” fawned the woman. “How are you?”

Dami nodded. “Wonderful to see you.” He introduced Lucy. She murmured a hello.

The woman gave her a quick nod and got right to the point. “I wonder, a few pictures? You and Vesuvia and the Montedoro? Is it possible, do you think?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll be right over.”

The man said, “Excellent.”

The woman said, “Perfect.”

And then they both turned and went back to where Vesuvia was laughing and tossing her head in front of the red car.

Dami wrapped an arm around Lucy’s shoulder, drew her close to his side and spoke softly in her ear. “We want to keep the Montedoro in the news. Unfortunately, that means I have to try to say yes to any and all shameless photo ops whenever the car happens to be involved.”

Lucy didn’t like it. And it annoyed her that she didn’t like it. She kind of did feel jealous after all. Ugh. Jealousy was not in her plan.

Dami did the loveliest thing then. He pressed his lips against her hair, just above her right ear. “Luce? Are you all right?”

Really, she had to stop crushing on him. It just wasn’t fair, wasn’t part of their arrangement. She put on a bright voice. “Of course. I get it.” And she did. He and Vesuvia might or might not be through, but pictures of them together would fuel rumors about them and their stormy relationship. The pictures would make all the tabloids—and the Montedoro would be in all the pictures. “Go ahead with your photo op. I’m just going to look around the other exhibits a little.”

He pulled her close again and pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips were warm and soft and a thrill went through her. She felt the affection in that brushing caress. At the same time, she couldn’t help thinking, Oh, Dami. On the forehead? Way to make me feel like a child.

Still, she met his eyes one more time and smiled like she didn’t have a care in the world. And then she left him so he could go and pose with his ex.

She headed for the Hall of Tapestries, trotting as fast as her mermaid hem would allow, determined to make a quick escape from the South Gallery. But she wasn’t quite quick enough. As she passed under the wide arch that got her out of there, she spotted Noah and Alice coming straight for her.

They saw her. What else could she do but deal with them? If she took off running, Noah would assume there must be something bothering her. And then when he got into the gallery and saw Dami and Vesuvia together, he would guess what that something was.

He might get mad about it in his protective big-brother way. Or he might just feel sorry for her because she’d been crushing on Dami and look where that had gotten her. Neither of those possibilities was acceptable. Okay, maybe she wasn’t gorgeous and sophisticated with perfect breasts and legs for days. She had other things going for her. Among them her pride.

No way Noah was going to see her suffering over Dami—not that she was suffering over Dami. She wasn’t.

Not much, anyway.

She waited, smiling sweetly, as they approached her. And then she stood there for five full minutes chatting with them, telling them how impressed she was with the car Dami had helped to design and how she couldn’t wait to check out more of the museum.

Then Noah said, “Where is Damien, anyway?”

She gestured back toward the gallery behind her. “Major photo op with Vesuvia.”

Alice said, “That’s right, Vesuvia’s the spokesmodel for the Montedoro.” She lowered her voice to a just-between-us level. “They signed her for the job before she and Dami got completely on the outs.”

Completely on the outs. That sounded kind of good—not that it was anything Dami hadn’t already told her.

About then, Rule, who was second-born of Damien’s brothers, came toward them with his wife, Sydney. Alice waved them over. Lucy was able to say a quick hello to the prince and his wife and then move on. She tried to go with dignity and slow steps, her head high.

The Hall of Tapestries took her back to the grand entry in the center of the villa. Rooms and other hallways branched off the entry like the spokes of a wheel. A curving staircase soared up behind the information desk. The main directory told her there were three stories of galleries to explore.

She began with the north wing on the ground floor, in the three galleries dedicated to textiles and clothing. First off, she found a gallery full of beautiful examples of Montedoran clothing through the years. There was an excess of what she thought of as the Little Dutch Girl look—blousy homespun shirts with snug lace-up bodices worn over them and full embroidered skirts, layers of lacy petticoats beneath and frilly aprons on top.

The next room had the finery that the princely family had worn. The exhibit spanned hundreds of years, with examples of clothing worn by many generations of the Calabretti family. The gowns were spectacular, some of them sewn with pearls and semiprecious stones. The lacework, even yellowed with age, stole her breath.

The wedding gown was there, the one Princess Adrienne had worn when she’d married Dami’s dad. Lucy had been drooling over pictures of that famous dress long before she was old enough to hold a needle and thread. The gown held pride of place in the center of the exhibit, in a tall glass case. Lucy stood and stared at it for a long time.

It really lifted her spirits to see it close up, the impossibly perfect embroidery, the exquisite lace, the thousands of sewn-on seed pearls. Looking at Princess Adrienne’s wedding dress reminded her of the great adventure that lay before her as a designer. It made her remember that her life was rich and full and good. That she was not going to be jealous of Dami and his ex—or if she was, a little, it was okay. Even the unpleasant emotions were part of being alive and she would take life over the alternative any day of the week.

Warm hands clasped her waist. Dami. “How did I know I would find you here?”

She’d been so transported by the legendary wedding dress that she hadn’t seen his faint reflection in the glass of the protective case. But she saw him now. She turned to him and brought her palms up to rest on the satin lapels of his jacket. “I can now say I’ve seen the dress in person. Not to mention generations’ worth of serious Calabretti style. I’ve also already checked out the various examples of traditional Montedoran dress.”

He still held her waist and his eyes gleamed down at her. “Are you saying you’re ready to move on?”

She hooked her arm in his. “Where to next?”

He took her back to the main entrance and up the stairs to the Adele Canterone Exhibit. For an easy, companionable hour they admired the art of Montedoro’s great Impressionist painter.

They ran into Noah and Alice again on the way out.

Alice said, “Come back to the villa with us, you two. We’ll share a late supper.”

Lucy instantly suspected that Noah might be up to something. She gave him a long narrow-eyed look.

Noah was all innocence. “What? Good company, something to eat. Is that going to kill you?”

Lucy couldn’t help grinning. “Fine.” She glanced at Dami, who nodded in agreement. “We would love to come.” Then she teased her brother. “Because I can see you’re on your best behavior.”

Noah made a growly sound. “Do I have a choice?”

And Alice answered sweetly, “No, you do not.”

So they went to the villa and shared a light supper, the four of them. Overall, it went pretty well, Lucy thought. Noah and Dami seemed fine with each other. If there was tension between them, it didn’t show. They talked about Montedoro and also about some business deal they were working on together.

And the coolest thing happened just as they were leaving.

Alice took her aside. “I know you’re going to be busy with school and everything. But is it possible you might be able to design my wedding dress? It’s just the design I would need, by mid-February if you can manage it. Then I’ll have it made.”

Lucy grabbed her and spun her around and they laughed together. “Are you kidding? I can do that. And absolutely, yes. I would be totally honored—and do you have ideas about what you want?”

“A thousand of them. I’m counting on you to focus me down.”

Then Noah butted in, wrapping an arm around Lucy. “When you come home for Christmas, you two can get to work on it.”

Noah knew very well that she planned to stay in New York for the holiday. Still, he’d been a sweetheart all night, so she made an effort to answer patiently. “Noah, we’ve been over that. I’m having my first Christmas in my own place, remember?”

He opened his mouth to start telling her all the reasons she really needed to come to California.

But Alice grabbed his arm, pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “I love you. Shut up.”

And miracle of miracles, Noah actually did shut up. And he did it without looking the least pissed off.

* * *

Damien had a car waiting at the curb outside the villa. They rode back to the palace in comfortable silence.

He was having a great time. Being with Lucy really worked for him. She saw beauty in everything and she wasn’t afraid to let her enjoyment show.

He couldn’t help comparing her to V, who’d been just next door to manic during the photo op. All flashing eyes and flying hair, hanging on him for the cameras, she’d hissed in Italian that she was furious at him for not taking her calls. She’d sworn she’d never forgive him. He’d reminded her softly that it was over. She’d given him a melting look for the photographers’ sake while calling him any number of unflattering names under her breath. All he could think of was getting the hell away from her.

As it turned out, Lady Luck had his back on that score. The ad people had said they wanted a few more shots just with V and the car. He’d slipped away. And things had improved dramatically when he found Luce in the north wing of the museum, gazing with stars in her eyes at his mother’s wedding gown.

A few minutes after they left Alice’s villa, they arrived at the palace. A guard let them in.

Dami said, “I’ll walk you up to your room.”

And she took his arm and begged so prettily, “Please. Can’t we just go to your apartment and talk for a little while?”

It wasn’t a good idea. He knew that. True, in the darkest hours of the morning before, he’d been weak, he’d indulged himself and imagined that becoming her lover was inevitable.

But he’d had time to see the light since then. She mattered too much to him. He couldn’t bear to lose her. If he took her to bed, there would be bad feelings when it was time to move on. Someone would be bound to get hurt. Someone always did.

Therefore, he’d circled back around to his original plan. He would show her a memorable weekend, minus the part where they ended up in bed together. She understood that their making love wasn’t a given. She’d said it herself: they would see how it went. He planned to see to it that it went nowhere.

“Dami.” She tugged on his arm. “What are you thinking about?”

He studied her fabulous elfin face. “That you remind me of a princess from a Montedoran fairy tale.”

She colored prettily. “Thank you.” And then she commanded, “Take me to your apartment.”

He opened his mouth to remind her that it had been a long day, but somehow what came out was, “Yes, Your Highness. This way....”

In his rooms, they went straight to the kitchen. She asked for hot chocolate. He made it the way they did in Paris, chopping bars of fine-quality bittersweet chocolate and whisking the bits into the heated milk, stirring in brown sugar and a few grains of sea salt.

She admired the Limoges demitasse and sipped slowly. “Dami. Your hot chocolate is even better than your coffee.”

He poured himself a cup and sat down opposite her.

And she said, “I probably shouldn’t admit this. It will only prove all over again how gauche and immature I am....”

He set down his cup. “You’re not. Admit what?”

She sucked her upper lip between her neat white teeth, then caught herself doing it and let it go. “When you went to pose for those pictures with Vesuvia?”

“Yes?”

“I actually got jealous.”

As a rule, when any woman mentioned jealousy, he tended to get nervous, to feel hemmed in, under pressure. But with Lucy he only felt flattered at her frankness. And a little bit guilty for deserting her. “I shouldn’t have left you....”

“Oh, don’t you dare apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong— Well, except when you kissed me on the forehead. That made me feel about five.”

“It was a kiss of affection.”

“I know. Still. Five.”

“Fair enough, then. No more kisses on the forehead.”

“Cheek, temples, ears, lips... Well, just about anywhere is great. But not smack-dab in the middle of my forehead.”

Kissing her just about anywhere sounded way too appealing, and he probably shouldn’t be thinking about that. “All right. Not on the forehead.” He found he needed to be sure she had it clear about V. “And about V?”

She was midsip. She swallowed fast and set down the cup, big eyes getting bigger. “Yeah?”

“Nothing to be jealous of. I meant it when I told you that Vesuvia and I are over.”

She turned the painted gold-rimmed cup on the delicate saucer. And then she sipped again. “You were, um, exclusive with her for quite a while.”

“Yes.”

“But you have such a rep as a player, as someone who never makes it exclusive with any woman....”

“I was exclusive with V.”

“Why?”

He looked into his cup of chocolate and then back up at her. “You are very nosy.”

She nodded, a sweet bobbing motion of her pretty head. “Yes. I am. I know. But only because I’m your friend and I want to understand you better.”

He believed her. And so he explained, “When I met V, I was looking for the right wife. I wanted someone suited to me. At first V behaved reasonably for the most part. She’s bright and beautiful. I thought we could make it work together. I was attracted to her.”

“You loved her.”

“Love wasn’t really the issue.”

“But when you get married, love is always the issue.”

He gave her his most patient look. “No, Luce. Not always.”

“So then why did you choose her?”

“I found her attractive and intelligent. I thought we had a lot in common. She’s descended from a very old Italian family. We know many of the same people. I never proposed marriage to her, but V understood that I needed to marry and she told me more than once that she wanted to be my wife, to be a princess of Montedoro.”

“You needed to marry? Why?”

He’d assumed she knew. Apparently not. “You haven’t heard of the Prince’s Marriage Law?” She shook her head, so he explained, “The Prince’s Marriage Law decrees that all princes of Montedoro are required to marry by the age of thirty-three or be stripped of all titles and relieved of the large fortune they each inherit by virtue of their birth.”

She made a low sound in her throat. “Well, that’s just wrong.”

“It’s a controversial law and has been abolished in the past. But then the Calabretti line almost died out. My grandfather had it reinstated.”

“You’ll be thirty-two in January....”

He put his hand to his heart and teased, “You remembered.”

“Of course I remember. Aren’t you worried you won’t find the right woman?”

“But don’t you see? I did worry. And I was practical. At the age of twenty-nine, with plenty of time to spare, I went looking for a bride. And you can see how well that went.”

“Not well at all.”

“So I’m becoming more philosophical about it. What will happen will happen.”

“Dami,” she scolded, “it’s your inheritance....”

Now he looked at her sternly. “I’m fully aware of that. You are not to worry about it. It’s not your concern.”

She was quiet. But only for a moment. “So, then, you’re telling me that Vesuvia didn’t love you, either. She just wanted to be a princess.”

“And that was all right with me. I needed a suitable bride. She liked the idea of marrying a prince.”

“Oh, Dami. You sound so cynical.”

“Because I am cynical.”

“No, you’re not. Not in your heart.”

He chuckled. “Go ahead. Believe wonderful things about me if you must.”

“Thank you. I will.” She leaned toward him, all eyes. “What changed your mind about proposing to her?”

“At first, as I said, she behaved reasonably. But she didn’t stay reasonable, because at heart she’s not reasonable. In the end, it’s always a big drama with V. She can’t just...sit at a table and talk, over cocoa.” He watched her smile, only a hint of one, a slight lifting at the corner of her tender mouth. “With V there must be grand gestures, and often. She craves expensive gifts and constant attention. She loves to stage a big dramatic scene. I can’t count the number of times she walked out on me in restaurants after telling me off in very colorful Italian.”

“Whew. Yeah. I can see how that would get pretty old after a while.”

“It’s been over for months now, really. At least, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Not for her, though?”

“Let me put it this way. I’m through. I’ve told her I’m through. She says she understands and then she starts calling again.”

“So maybe she loves you after all. Maybe she still loves you....”

“Luce, it’s not love. Believe me.”

She reached across the table and put her soft hand over his. “You look so sad, Dami.”

Sad? Was he? “My parents married for love.”

“Oh, yeah.” She squeezed his hand. Her touch felt so good. “They’re, like, legendary, your parents. The American actor and the Montedoran princess, finding true love, living happily ever after....”

With his thumb, he idly stroked the back of her hand—until he realized he was doing it and released her. She gave the tiniest shrug, pulled her arm back to her side of the table and slowly ran a finger around the rim of her demitasse. He thought about kissing her—and not on the forehead.

And what were they talking about?

His parents. Right. “Growing up, we all—my brothers and sisters and I—loved what they had. We all knew we wanted to grow up and have that kind of love for ourselves. Well, except for my twin, Alex. Alex was always...separate. Alone. But in the end, he found his way to Lili. He found true love after all. That’s what we do, we Bravo-Calabrettis. We marry for love. We mate for life. Of the nine of us, only my youngest sisters, Genny and Rory, haven’t found the one for them yet. They have plenty of time. They’re both in their early twenties—like you.”

“And what about you, Dami? You haven’t found the one.” She regarded him solemnly. “I hope you do.”

He thought how perceptive she was, really, for someone so young. Once, Alice had told him that Lucy was more grown-up than he realized. He hadn’t believed her at the time. But he was beginning to see he’d been wrong.

“Dami?”

He gave a low laugh. It was a sound without much humor. “No, I haven’t found ‘the one.’ I honestly believe now that I’m the exception who proves the family rule. I enjoy the thrill of a new romance. I can’t get enough of the chase. But I don’t have what it takes for a lifetime of happiness with one woman.”

“Oh, come on.” She cast a glance at the ceiling and gestured grandly with both hands, the way she liked to do. “So it didn’t work out with Vesuvia. You know what Hannah would say?”

He put on a pained expression. “Don’t tell me. Please.”

Lucy only grinned. She was very fond of her former foster mother. “Hannah would say, get over yourself. Try again. Forget finding someone suitable—look for someone to love. And choose a nicer woman this time.”

“Nice women bore me—present company excluded, of course.”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “Good save.”

“I am the Player Prince after all. It’s my job to be smooth.”

She drank the last of her cocoa. “That was so good it had to be sinful.” Then she pushed her chair back and stood.

He gazed up the length of her, taking in the pretty curves of her bare shoulders and the brave beauty of that inch of scar tissue her gown didn’t hide. “Did I tell you that you are incomparable in red?”

She dimpled at him. “It never hurts to say something like that more than once.”

“You’re very fine, Luce. Absolutely splendid.” His pulse had accelerated and his breath came faster. Warning signs, he knew. Temptation was calling again and the urge to surrender becoming more insistent.

He knew what to do: move, get up, break the sweet spell of this breath-held moment. Stop thinking that he wanted her more today than yesterday, more now than an hour ago, more in this minute than the minute before.

And what was he doing, anyway, keeping on with this, with her? If he wasn’t going to take her to bed, he needed to stay away from her.

But he wasn’t willing to do that. He wanted this time with her as much as she seemed to want it with him.

The truth skittered through him, striking off sparks: he didn’t want to stop. And he wasn’t going to stop.

Impossible. Sweet Lucy Cordell, of all people. He never would have imagined. Not in a hundred years.

But he imagined it now, in detail. With growing excitement. In spite of her brother’s probable fury. Even if it ended up costing him her friendship.

Really, he ought to be a better man. Unfortunately, he wasn’t.

She stepped away from her chair, pushed it in and came around the table toward him in a rustle of red satin, her eyes never letting go of his, all woman in that moment, the girl he had known before eclipsed, changed. When she stood above him, she reached down and put her hand on his shoulder.

Her touch burned him, made his throat clutch, tangled his breath inside his suddenly aching chest. He couldn’t bear it. He caught her fingers, brought them to his mouth, pressed the tips of them against his lips. Heat seared his belly and tightened his groin. She sucked in a sharp breath. He kissed her fingers one more time and then let go.

That was when she said so sweetly, “Stand up, Dami. Please.”