Читать книгу Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires - Rebecca Winters - Страница 83

THE WEEKS FOLLOWING her trip to Italy were as busy as Angie had expected as she caught up on the backlog of commissions that had come in. She ploughed through the work with the help of her fellow designers, knowing it was a good problem to have—growing pains for a business that seemed to have come into its own.

Burying herself in her work allowed her to achieve her other goal of putting her pregnancy into a manageable box and not let the fears eating away at the fringes of her psyche take control. The doctor had confirmed her pregnancy upon their return home, giving her a clean bill of health. She wasn’t going to fret about it. Or at least she was telling herself that.

Her husband, however, had clearly elected to take the opposite strategy. Although he was giving her the time to work he’d promised her, he had been monitoring her eating and sleeping habits like a hawk, enforcing periods of rest. When he happened to be around, that was. Ever since they’d come home, he had been working day and night to close the Belmont deal. Add to that another acquisition Franco was negotiating that required her husband’s counsel and Lorenzo wasn’t doing any eating or sleeping himself.

She knew it was an inordinately busy time, but the feeling that their life was sliding into its former self was growing stronger with every day. Their bond was too new, too nascent, not to allow the warning signals to affect her.

Another long day at the studio behind her, she walked into the penthouse just after eight, kicked off her shoes and made herself a cup of tea. Carrying it into the living room, she sat reading a book while she waited for her husband. But the book failed to keep her attention.

Weeks like this were the worst when Lorenzo was gone for nights on end. Old fears crept around her unsuspecting edges, insecurity set in. Given their dinners together at home had vaporized with her husband’s insane schedule and he refused to wake her up when he came to bed so late, she didn’t even have the comfort his passionate lovemaking offered, that seemed to make any obstacle seem surmountable.

The minutes ticked by, her agitation rising. Perhaps now that Lorenzo had had his fill of her, now that he’d gotten everything he wanted, he would lose interest again. Perhaps whatever client he was out wining and dining tonight was a convenient excuse to stay away. Perhaps the emotional distance she’d sensed in him since Portofino was a reality.

The clock struck ten. Discarding the book, she decided to take matters into her own hands. To be proactive rather than reactive. To take control of her relationship, something she hadn’t done the last time.

In her bedroom, she dug out the lingerie she’d bought earlier that week and slipped it on. The sexy cream-and-black baby doll that just covered her pertinent assets was fairly indecent. She stared at herself in the mirror, rosy color stinging her cheeks. The cream lace bodice did nothing to hide the bold thrust of her nipples, the silk encasing her curves a seductive caress that was pure temptation.

She pulled the elastic from her hair and let it fall around her shoulders the way her husband liked it. A slow smile curved her mouth. If this didn’t bring him running, nothing would.

Lorenzo arrived back at the table at the trendy restaurant in the meatpacking district, where he and his CMO were entertaining his Japanese business partners to find his phone sitting on his chair.

An amused smile curved his CMO’s mouth. “Figured you might not want the whole table seeing that,” he said, nodding toward the phone. He leaned closer. “PS—I’d go home if I were you.”

Lorenzo glanced at the screen. Almost choked on the sip of beer he’d taken. His wife dressed in a piece of lingerie he’d never seen before—an outrageously sexy piece, by any male’s standards, occupied the entire screen. Hair loose around her shoulders, the lingerie doing little to hide the dark shadow of her nipples beneath the transparent lace, she was the twenty-first-century version of a pinup poster. Times ten.

He glanced at the message.

Are you coming home?

Heat claimed his cheeks. It took very little of his creative ability to imagine peeling that silk off of her. How she would taste under his mouth. He’d thought his crazy social schedule might prove an ideal cooling-off period for the two of them given the depth of the emotion they’d shared in Portofino. But this, this was too much to resist.

“You didn’t see that,” he muttered to his CMO.

“What?” Gerald said innocently. “I’ll cover for you if you want to make an exit.”

Lorenzo tucked his phone into his pocket. Put his exit strategy into motion. Except his Japanese colleagues were intent on taking in the entertainment the club provided. It would be rude for him to cut the night short.

He texted his wife back.

Hold that thought.

It was close to midnight, however, by the time he walked into the penthouse. Devoid of light, it was cast in shadows. He let out a low oath that turned the silent space blue and threw his jacket on a chair.

Body pulsing with frustration, every ounce of his blood so far south it was never coming back, he reached up and loosened his tie. A flash of movement near the windows caught his eye.

He took in his wife, silhouetted against the New York skyline, the sexy negligee plastered to every centimeter of her voluptuous body.

Her breasts were bigger with the advance of her pregnancy, their lush, creamy expanse drawing his eye. That tantalizing glimpse of nipple beneath sheer, gauzy fabric made his mouth go dry.

“You waited up.” His voice was husky, laced with a need he couldn’t hide.

“I was on my way to bed.”

Chilly. Distinctly chilly. He gathered his wits as he moved toward her. “I tried to get away, but my business colleagues were in from Japan. It would have looked rude to leave.”

“It’s fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest, amplifying the view of the bare flesh he ached to touch.

He reached for her. She stepped back. “I don’t think so.”

“There was nothing I could have done, Angelina.”

“I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

He caught her hand and pulled her to him, content to work his way back into her good graces. Her perfume drifted into his nostrils, a tantalizing tease that stroked the heat in him higher. “Clearly you’re angry,” he murmured. “Let me make it up to you. I’m so hot for you, cara mia. I will make it so good.”

She lifted her vibrant blue gaze to his. “No.”

He blinked. “What do you mean ‘no’? You sent me a photo of you in lingerie.”

“That offer expired an hour ago.”

“You are my wife,” he barked. “Offers don’t expire.”

A mutinous set of her lips. “This one just did. Maybe next time I’ll be a compelling enough attraction that you will be home before midnight. Maybe next time you won’t blow off those dinners you insisted on. Maybe when I remember what my husband looks like, the offer will be available for redemption.”

He scowled. “You are being completely unfair.”

She shook her head. “This is history repeating itself, Lorenzo. I don’t like it, and I’m not imagining it this time.”

He drew his brows together. “It’s nothing like the past. We have been great together. We’re talking, we’re communicating. Just because you have hurt feelings that I didn’t jump when you sent me that photo doesn’t mean I’m ignoring you. It means I was busy.”

Her eyes darkened to a stormy, gray blue. “Just because you’ve had a few drinks and you’re hot for a booty call doesn’t mean you get to act like a child when it doesn’t go your way. Learn your lesson and maybe next time it will work out for you.”

Dio, but she was beautiful when she was angry. He loved this strong, sexy version of his wife—it turned him hard as a rock. The problem was, he needed her to give so he could get his hands on her.

“Bene.” He lifted his palms in a conciliatory gesture. “I’ve learned my lesson. Mission accomplished. You’ve made your point.” He trained his gaze on hers, hot, deliberate. “What would you like me to do? Get down on my knees and beg?”

Her confident swagger faltered, a blaze of uncertainty staining her beautiful eyes. He took a step closer. “Just say yes,” he murmured, raking her from head to toe. “While I’m there, I’d be happy to indulge you. Mouth, hands, name your pleasure.”

A blaze of sensual heat fired her eyes before the ice made a swift reappearance. “I am not a possession to be used and discarded according to your whims.”

“You’ve said that before,” he murmured, his good mood rapidly dissipating. “I find it as objectionable as I did the first time. That is not what this is, Angelina. These are extraordinary circumstances trying to land this Belmont deal.”

“There will always be another deal…another pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It never stops, Lorenzo. It never will.”

“It will. Once we land Belmont, I will be able to breathe again.”

She shook her head. “I’ve watched my mother go through this a thousand times, wondering when my father will deign to pay attention to her again, always putting her second, third, if he happened to be having an affair at the time. I’ve lived through it with you. I won’t repeat these hot and cold patterns again—that roller-coaster ride we do so well.”

“I am not your father.” Irritation edged his voice. “And I’ve put you first every time since we’ve been back together in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “you have. Which is why I’m speaking up. Because we’ve built such a great thing together…because I refuse to see things go back to the way they were.”

He shook his head. “You’re being too sensitive.”

“No, I’m not.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, too tired, too frustrated to know how to respond. He was giving her all he had and still she wanted more.

Her lashes lowered. “I need sleep. I have a long day tomorrow.”

He let her go, refusing to run after her, tongue wagging, like some desperate fool, despite the way he burned for her. Pouring himself a glass of water, he collapsed into a chair, too wired to sleep even though he couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed that particular human luxury.

Things would get better after he landed Belmont. His wife was completely overreacting—a guilt trip he didn’t need when making sure she was okay, that she and their baby were healthy, had been his primary obsession amidst the insanity of his life.

He sat back in the chair. Downed a long swallow of water. His wife’s indignation, quite honestly, was the least of his problems. Losing the Belmont deal was a real possibility. It was becoming more and more clear the branding issue might be a deal breaker. The business pages were ripe with speculation on the potential megamerger, Ricci stock was on a roller-coaster ride, the board meeting was looming and he needed to get Erasmo Bavaro, the Bavaro scion, onside. But the Bavaro brothers weren’t offering access to their father. He had to play the situation very, very carefully and it was driving him mad.

Oh, the world wouldn’t end if the deal fell apart, he conceded, but Ricci’s stock and reputation would take a serious hit. Confidence would be shaken. And it would be his fault.

I am beginning to think your ambition has got the best of you on this one.

A nerve throbbed at his temple, his fingers tightening around the glass. Had his father been right? Had he finally overstepped himself? Gotten too confident? Cocky?

He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. His culpability was a moot point at this stage. All that mattered was getting the deal done. Pulling it out of the ashes.

As for his wife? He’d never promised her perfection—had warned her this was who he was. He’d vowed to be there for her and he would. But perhaps she was right. Perhaps he’d dropped the ball on his promise to be present of late, had let their dinners together slide.

He could rectify that—take her out for dinner tomorrow night. Calm the waters at home.