Читать книгу Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires - Rebecca Winters - Страница 74

ANGIE RETURNED TO the party, shaken to her core. Palms damp, heart thrumming in her chest, a frozen numbness paralyzing her brain, she made a beeline for Abigail. Mouthing an apology to the well-known philanthropist her sister was speaking to, she extracted Abigail from the conversation and pulled her toward a quiet corner of the room.

Her sister eyed her. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Lorenzo is here.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. “At your engagement party?”

“Someone screwed up our divorce papers, Abby. We’re still married.”

“Married?” Her sister’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean ‘screwed them up’? Who?”

“Lorenzo’s legal firm. They forgot to file the papers with the state.”

“Is he fixing it?”

She closed her eyes. “He won’t.”

“What do you mean ‘won’t’?”

“Franco can’t have a baby. Lorenzo needs to produce an heir. He wants me to do my duty and put our marriage back together. Give him a baby.”

A gasp escaped her sister. “That’s outrageous. You’re engaged.”

“Am I?” Panic skittered up her spine. “If I’m legally married to Lorenzo, what does that make Byron? My illegitimate fiancé?”

Her sister looked dumbfounded. “I don’t know… Regardless, we’ll sic our lawyers on him. This has to be negligence.”

“He’s angry,” she said quietly. “So angry at me for leaving.”

“You did what you had to do. Lorenzo wasn’t an innocent victim in all this. You both had a role to play in what happened.”

Angie pushed a hand through her hair. Fixed her gaze on her sister. “Is the Carmichael Company in trouble? Is there something you haven’t been telling me?”

A guarded look wrote itself across her sister’s face. “What does that have to do with this?”

“Lorenzo says he’s given Father two loans. That he will bail Carmichael out of its financial problems if I try and make our marriage work. Incentive, he called it.”

Abby’s eyes turned into hard, bright sapphires. “That bastard.”

“Is it true? Did he give father those loans?”

“Yes.” Her sister’s admission made her stomach plunge. “At first it was the need to switch over equipment to compete with other high-tech manufacturers. But Carmichael never really recovered from the new technologies taking over the market.”

Angie’s breath left her in a sharp exhale. She’d been hoping against hope it wasn’t true.

Abigail’s lips firmed. “You aren’t doing this. Father’s been burying his head in the sand for years. He didn’t want to see the writing on the wall. It’s his problem to fix, not yours.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She swallowed past the lump swelling her throat. “You promised you wouldn’t carry the load alone.”

“You needed time. You were shattered when you walked away from Lorenzo. The last thing you needed to know was that your ex-husband was bankrolling the Carmichael Company.”

Blood pulsed against her temple. “And Mother? How is she handling this?”

Abby frowned. “Ange—”

“Tell me.”

“She’s become more unstable since the financial difficulties began. It—” She waved a hand. “It may be time to check her into a program. She doesn’t want it. She swears she won’t go, but I got a call from Sandra last week while they were on a girls’ night out. I had to pour her into bed.”

Emotions she’d long held at bay welled up inside of her, causing her throat to constrict and the knots in her stomach to twist tighter. “What was it this time?”

“Gin.”

She closed her eyes. She’d distanced herself from her family for her own self-preservation—because picking up her mother again and again had left her in a million pieces. Because she just couldn’t do it anymore while she’d been trying to pull herself back together after the demise of her marriage. But the guilt surrounding the difficult decisions she’d made was always there in the background, impossible to escape.

It wrapped itself around her now—tight, suffocating. For when Della Carmichael started sliding down her slippery, alcoholic slope, the bottom came fast and furious.

“Angie.” Her sister’s firm voice brought her head up. “I won’t allow him to do this to you. This is not on you.”

But Angie knew her sister was wrong. The only solution to this was her. Her convincing Lorenzo this was insane, that it would never work. Because she knew tonight hadn’t been the end of it.

Her dilemma was still raging in her head as she put down the phone the following evening having assured Byron she was fine—that the headache she’d pleaded to extract herself from the party just before midnight was gone. The same headache that had made her slide out of her fiancé’s kiss and leave him on her doorstep, a frown on his face.

Dammit. She gave up on the idea of work, pushed to her feet and walked across her bright studio space to stand looking out at the street. SoHo at night was still busy with foot traffic, the city thick with tourists at the height of the summer. A good thing for the boutique she ran below the studio that featured her work. The bell announcing visitors had been ringing all day.

The purple awning bearing her name whipped in the breeze below. Carmichael Creations. It rankled, more than she could say, to know this studio she loved, that she was so proud of, had been contaminated by Lorenzo’s powerful reach. She’d wanted—needed—to prove so badly she could do this by herself. To follow her heart and forge a successful career as a designer after Lorenzo had dismissed it as a hobby, when in fact, self-expression was as necessary to her as breathing.

She watched a group of young girls walk by, laughing and jabbing each other in the ribs as they pointed at a slick-suited handsome male in front of them. Her heart gave a painful squeeze. She’d been like that when she’d met Lorenzo—desperately innocent, utterly swept away by his powerful aura.

The memories flooded back, tumbling one over another in painful succession until she was standing by the pool at her parents’ legendary winter party in Nassau clad in the sexiest silver lamé gown she owned, butterflies in her stomach knowing the gorgeous, ruthless corporate raider Lorenzo Ricci would be in attendance. Her father had been doing friendly business with Lorenzo rather than serving as one of her husband’s hostile takeover targets, but Alistair Carmichael’s directive had been clear to his daughter—leave Lorenzo alone, you’re way out of your depth.

And she had been. But smarting from an argument with her father, needing to escape her miserable, lonely existence for just one night, she couldn’t resist. Every woman had wanted to catch Lorenzo, the most desirable widower in Manhattan, perhaps because none ever had. She’d taken her best friend Becka’s dare to ask him to dance and shockingly he’d said yes. That dance had led to a kiss in the garden and a hot, heated assignation that had shaken her innocent foundations to the core. She’d gotten her one night with Lorenzo Ricci plus way more than she’d ever bargained for.

She closed her eyes, an ache pulsing low in her chest. She’d thought she could be the one, the one who could make her husband love again because what they’d had had seemed earthshaking to her twenty-two-year-old self. That by offering him her unrequited love, she could help him get over his late wife, Lucia, who popular consensus had said he was still hung up on. Until Angelina had learned love was an emotion her husband reserved exclusively for his late wife, an emotion that would never be on offer to her.

Blood throbbed at her temples. She couldn’t change the past as much as she wished she could, but she could—would—fight Lorenzo on this.

She could postpone the wedding until her divorce came through. Move to a cheaper studio space. But that still didn’t address the financial difficulties the Carmichael Company was in. The responsibility that lay on her shoulders.

A chill crawled through her at the thought of the cold, hard stranger she’d faced on the terrace last night. Lorenzo had always been tough, carved by his experiences, shaped by the cutthroat scion of the Ricci family, Salvatore Ricci, but last night she’d seen a whole new lethal side of him.

Had her walking out on Lorenzo made him this heartless? Or was that just the man he’d become?

Guilt fought a battle with anger. Anger won. She’d been right last night—too much had passed between her and Lorenzo to ever resurrect their marriage. He needed to see reason.

She stalked to her desk, pulled her purse out of the bottom drawer and headed for the door. She was not letting Lorenzo bully her, steal her happiness. Force her back into a life that had nearly destroyed her because he needed an heir for the illustrious Ricci dynasty. She had grown too strong over the past couple of years to let him ride roughshod over her.

Her husband was about to find out just how much she’d changed.

Lorenzo was easy to find. Another hot, steamy Manhattan night bathed the city in a smoky heat as Angie stepped through the doors of her husband’s Park Avenue building. The doorman’s face lit up when he saw her. Federico’s gray brows rose just a fraction before he lowered them back into place and ushered her into the private elevator.

Lorenzo didn’t bat an eyelash when the doors opened on the top-floor penthouse. He waved her in as he talked on his headset. As if he’d been expecting her.

Dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, he looked less corporate shark tonight and more deadly male, the jeans riding low, hugging his lean hips and muscular thighs, his black T-shirt skimming rock-hard abs he kept in premium condition at the gym where he pushed himself as hard as he did everywhere else.

Hell. She banished the frisson of sexual awareness that pulsed through her and walked past him into the luxurious dark brown and chrome space. Lorenzo in casual clothes, which made him look like a mere mortal rather than the deity Wall Street painted him as, had always been her weakness. Perpetuated her belief he had a heart when in fact he did not.

Eyeing the bottle of wine and two glasses that sat on the marble bar, she wondered if he’d been that confident she would show up or whether he’d been expecting someone else. Her stomach contracted into a tight ball. Bringing her back teeth together, she walked to the bar and looked for a bottle of sparkling water in the fridge. Lorenzo covered the microphone and told her to open the wine.

She did. If only to give herself something to do other than absorb the pure physicality of the man pacing the room. She poured two glasses of wine, picked up one and took a sip. Lorenzo rattled off a series of instructions for whoever was on the call and ended it.

“Scusami,” he murmured, as he pulled off the headset, tossed it on a chair and walked toward her. “I’m in the middle of negotiations for a company we’re looking to acquire.”

When wasn’t he? “You didn’t know I was coming,” she said, holding out a glass of the expensive French red he’d provided to put a physical barrier between them. He noted it with an amused twist of his lips.

“I apologize if you were expecting company.”

“I was expecting you.” Instead of taking the glass, he wrapped his elegant, long-fingered hand around hers and drew her to him.

Her heart slammed against her chest. “Lorenzo…”

He dipped his head toward hers, a dark glimmer of intent in his beautiful eyes. “We forgot our manners last night. Perhaps we should start again.”

Her breath caught in her throat. He was going to kiss her. She opened her mouth to protest, to say absolutely not, but his firm, sensual lips landed on her cheek instead. Lingered just a little too long for civility’s sake…

An electric current charged through her as he repeated the gesture on her other cheek, little pinpricks of heat exploding across her skin. Thoroughly flustered, she stepped back. “I’m not here to accept your proposition.”

He lifted a brow. “So you are here to…”

“Talk reason with you.”

“All right,” he said calmly in the placating tone he’d always used to soothe her like some high-spirited racehorse he’d paid millions for. “Over the wine, then. I’ve had a hellish day.”

Was she allowed to find that secretly enjoyable? She handed him the glass and followed him to the sitting area, where she sank down into one of the chocolate-brown leather chairs she’d always loved to read in.

“What company are you acquiring?”

“The Belmont Hotel Group.” He lowered himself into the sofa across from her, splaying his long legs in front of him.

The Belmont? One of the world’s most historic luxury hotel chains, it boasted boutique properties in some of the world’s most glamorous, exotic locations.

“I’m shocked it’s for sale.”

“It’s not.”

“Ah.” She took a sip of her wine. “A hostile takeover, then.”

“More like a reluctant bride that needs to be brought to heel. She wants to be there but she can’t bring herself to admit it.”

She eyed him coolly. “Isn’t it all the same? It’s your specialty, after all. Find a vulnerable company, strip it of its assets, then relegate the rest to the scrap heap. Symbolism, tradition, be damned.”

He cocked a brow. “Is this you setting the tone, cara mia? I thought you wanted to keep things civil.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t care for what you do.”

“You didn’t always feel that way. You used to think it was hot, the power I wield. It was an aphrodisiac for you.”

Heat stained her cheeks. “And then I grew up. I saw the hundreds of people you put out of jobs. How you relegated iconic companies to the history books if you could profit from it. It was always about the almighty dollar.”

“Most of the companies I acquire would eventually fail. It’s only a matter of time. In Belmont’s case, they have lost sight of what the luxury traveler is looking for—their profits have nose-dived. Call it being cruel to be kind.”

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing is still a wolf…” She pointed her glass at him. “The question is, when is it all going to be enough, this obsession you have with owning the world?”

He rested his glass on his thigh. “What would you have me do? Rest on my laurels? Tell my shareholders I’ve proven myself—‘so sorry, but that’s all the profit you can expect this year…’”

She set her gaze on his. “You could try addressing the demons that drive you.”

His dark, spiky lashes swept down. “We aren’t here to talk about the past. We’re here to discuss our current situation.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she murmured, “that subject is off-limits. I forgot the rules of the game.”

His jaw tightened. “Stop baiting me, Angelina, and tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“Your proposition is outrageous. To expect me to dissolve my engagement and come back to you, simply to ensure the continuation of the Ricci line…”

He shook his head. “I told you, it’s about more than that. It’s about both of us putting the effort into this marriage we should have in the first place. About living up to the vows we made.”

“You divorced me.”

“It was a mistake.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean ‘a mistake’?”

“I mean you like to run from your problems, cara. And maybe I was running, too. But given the current circumstances, given we are still married, technicality or not, we need to rectify that mistake. I did not intend on marrying twice. I certainly don’t intend on marrying a third time.”

She came back to reality with a crashing thud. “You don’t want me,” she said flatly, “you know that. You want a nice little Italian wife your mother will love who will host your dinner parties, charm your business acquaintances and greet you at the door every night in sexy lingerie. That would be your idea of perfection.”

An amused glint entered his gaze. “I’m fairly sure I would be bored with an obedient wife after you. But you are right on the lingerie—that would be my idea of perfection.”

She said a very bad word in her head. “You don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m different. Changed. Not the woman you married, nor will I ever be again.”

“Then I look forward to finding out who that woman is.” He gave her an appraising look. “I’m prepared to make concessions to make this work. Your career is a case in point. You’ve clearly become very successful. You’ve worked hard to get where you are. As long as it doesn’t interfere with our important commitments, we’ll make it work.”

We’ll make it work? Heat rose up inside of her. He had no idea what her work meant to her. The sanity it had been throughout her rocky life.

“As for my mother,” he continued, “she had certain…preconceived notions regarding our marriage you never dispelled with your behavior. You also never made an effort with her. If you do so, I expect you’ll find her a different woman.”

Her fingers curled into a fist. “She thought I deliberately trapped you into marriage.”

“Not an unreasonable assumption when our one night together resulted in a pregnancy. I did, however, make it clear that the responsibility lay on both of us.”

“How big of you.” A red mist of fury wrapped itself around her brain. “What other concessions are you prepared to make, Lorenzo? Are you prepared to let me beneath that impenetrable layer of yours? Talk to me instead of shutting me out? Confront our issues instead of pushing me to the outer fringes of your life until I cease to exist?”

“Yes.” The low rumble in his voice vibrated through her. “I understand I was distant at times…emotionally unavailable if you like. I recognize that as a fault of mine I need to work on. But let’s just be clear, Angelina, you locked me out just as surely as I ever did you with those cast-iron defenses of yours.”

After the big chill had begun. Because eventually it had become too painful to give and never get anything back.

Hurt contracted the muscles around her heart. The wine warming her blood, loosening her inhibitions, made her reckless. “If we’re going for the brutal truth here,” she growled, “if we’re not going to pull our punches, then let’s get all the skeletons out on the table shall we? The real reason our marriage failed was Lucia. Because you would have preferred to stay in your cave, pining for your dead wife. Instead you had to marry me.”

The color leached from his olive skin. His face tightened, cheekbones standing out like blades. The cold fire that engulfed his dark eyes told her she’d gone too far this time. “It was your obsession with Lucia that you wouldn’t let go of, not mine.”

Her chin lifted, heart pounding in her chest. “Tell yourself that enough and you might even start to believe it.”

The silence in the room was deafening. Chest tight, she pushed to her feet and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a magnificent view of Central Park lit up at night. Hugging her arms around herself, she took a deep breath and attempted to regain her equilibrium.

“You aren’t this heartless,” she said after a long moment, turning to face him. “I don’t believe you will let the Carmichael Company fail. You like my father too much.”

His eyes were a purposeful, dark velvet cool. “Then don’t make me. I meant what I said, Angie. I want you back. I want us to give this marriage the shot it deserves. You come back to me with your heart and head fully in it and I will ensure your legacy survives.”

The confusion swirling in her head deepened, thickened. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, struggled to contain her emotions, but they spilled outside of the edges of her barely shored-up walls. “Wasn’t it enough for you?” she asked, voice trembling. “Every second, every minute of those last excruciating months together? We couldn’t even be in the same room without tearing each other’s throats out. And when we did, it didn’t feel any better…it felt worse.”

He got to his feet and prowled toward her. “We lost a baby. It was painful, Angelina, it hurt.”

A rock climbed into her throat. “And here we are hurting each other again.”

He stopped centimeters from her. Her body reacted to the heat of him, the familiarity of him, vibrating with an internal memory she couldn’t control. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, trying to hold it in, trying to stop the insanity midflow, but he saw it, read her as he always had, eyes darkening with heat.

“The point is to get past the pain. To deal with what we should have dealt with years ago.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, fear bubbling up inside of her like magma, threatening to push her on a course she knew she’d regret. “I’m engaged, Lorenzo. I love him.”

Fire licked his gaze. “You know that’s a lie.”

“It’s not a lie. It’s the truth.”

“You are my wife.” Curving an arm around her waist, he drew her to him. She swallowed as her vibrating body swayed perilously close to the wall of heat that drew her like a moth to a flame. She flattened a palm against his chest, but her feet wouldn’t seem to take her anywhere and her eyes locked on his. “Kiss me like you don’t belong to me,” he said huskily, “and I might reconsider.”

“No.” Her sharp response sounded as panicked as she felt. “Why are you doing this? Why are you being so cruel?”

“Because I should have stopped you the first time you walked out. Because the thought of you with another man drives me insane…because you haunt me, Angelina, every time I’m with another woman. All I can see is those beautiful blue eyes of yours and those vows we recited…” He cupped her jaw in his hand, fingers closing possessively over her skin. “Because we are not over, mi amore. We never will be.”

Her heart stuttered, an ache enveloping her that seemed to go soul-deep. “You can’t do this to me,” she said hoarsely. “Throw threats at me one minute, then say these things the next and just expect me to—”

He lowered his head, breath mingling with hers. “Prove you feel nothing for me. Prove what I’m saying isn’t true and I’ll walk away.”

“No.” But even as she said it, his mouth was covering hers in a whisper-soft caress that switched on every cell in her body. She closed her eyes. Just do it, Angie. Prove it to him, then walk away.

He slid a hand up her back, flattened his big palm against her spine. Warm, possessive, his touch seeped into her senses, stroked a wounded, jagged part of her that had never healed. Warning bells went off in her head, a blaring, unmistakable cautionary signal she should stop this now. But she had to convince him it was over.

Slow, infinitely gentle nudges of his mouth demanded a response. She held herself rigid, determined to end it. Tightening his fingers around her jaw, he tilted her head back and took a deeper possession of her mouth. The alarm bells in her head grew louder as the sweet intoxication of his kiss melted her bones.

“Lorenzo—”

He slicked his tongue across her lower lip. Erotic, intimate, it sent shock waves of pleasure rocketing through her. Her mind blanked, stomach clenched, fingers curling around a handful of his T-shirt. He did it again, stroking soft, vulnerable flesh with a deliberate possession that made her quiver.

When he flicked his tongue along the seam of her lips and demanded entry, she obeyed, lost in a sea of sensation. He rewarded her with a hot, toe-curling caress that made her moan low in her throat, grab hold of him more firmly.

He brought her closer with the palm of his hand at her back. Swept it down to cup the flesh of her buttock. The kiss turned needy, desperate, her hips arching against his burgeoning arousal. Thick, hard, he was so potently virile he turned her blood to fire.

Reality slammed into her like a bucket of ice dropped over her head. She shoved a hand against his chest and pushed back. Breathless, her mouth bruised from his kisses, she stood staring at him.

How had that happened? How had she let that happen?

“I hate you,” she breathed. “I really do.”

His mouth twisted. “That makes two of us. Sometimes I really hate you, too, tesoro. It’s the rest of the time that messes us up.”

She shook her head. Backed away from him. Turning, she snatched her purse off the chair and walked out without looking back.

What had she done?