Читать книгу Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires - Rebecca Winters - Страница 86

ERASMO BAVARO WAS as cagey as his son Marc and as animated as Diego, a fearsome combination in a silver-haired fox who reminded Lorenzo of his father.

It would have been fascinating to see the two titans face off in their heyday, but on a brilliantly sunny afternoon in Miami, with the Bavaro scion’s palatial poolside terrace the backdrop for the negotiations, his focus was on pulling Erasmo into the twenty-first century.

Erasmo, for his part, looked content to stay right where he was. Flanked by his lawyers at the long, olive wood table, coolly dressed in a flamboyant short-sleeved shirt and trousers, he swept a palm over his neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper goatee and eyed Lorenzo. “Let me tell you a story,” he said in a deeply accented voice. “Perhaps it will help you to understand where I’m coming from.

“The night we opened the Belmont in South Beach in 1950, we had the most popular blues singer on the planet, Natalie Constantine, lined up to play. Near the end of her set, Arturo Martinez walked onto the stage and joined her for the last two songs.”

Arturo Martinez. The Spanish megastar who had sold more albums in those days than any singer alive.

“They closed out the night in the piano bar. Two legends. Such was the mystique of the Belmont legacy. You could not have paid to be there that night.”

“They were great days,” Lorenzo acknowledged. “I wish I had been there that night. But that time has come and gone, Erasmo. It’s time for the mantle to be passed on. All good things must come to an end.”

“Speaks the man who puts money above meaning.” The Bavaro patriarch lifted a brow. “Can I share something with you, Ricci? Money will not give your life meaning when you are my age. Money will not keep you warm at night. Money won’t nourish your soul when you’ve spent fifty years in this business and every boardroom table looks like the rest. Meaning will. Your legacy will.”

“Speaks a man perhaps lost in his own sentimentality…”

Erasmo dipped his head. “Perhaps. But I would prefer to be remembered as a man who built things rather than tore down the work of others.”

The rebuke stung his skin. Lorenzo lifted the glass of potent, exotic rum his host had unearthed from his cellar to his lips and took a sip. It burned a slow path through his insides, but it didn’t take the sting out of the old man’s words. Nor did the fact that his wife, who’d walked out on him again, felt the same way.

Angelina thought he’d sold his soul for his success. Bartered it for an escape from the guilt he refused to acknowledge—the feelings he refused to address. The ironic thing was, in that moment, as the cast of lawyers digressed into legalese he couldn’t be bothered to follow, he couldn’t remember why this deal had ever been so important to him. Why he was sitting here haggling over a name when the most important thing in his life was back in New York. Refusing to take his calls.

And why would she? Regret sat like a stone in his stomach. He’d threatened to withdraw his funding of Carmichael Company if she left…to drag their divorce out for all eternity. Had he really thought that would make her stay?

His insides coiled tight. What the hell was wrong with him? He had no idea what he was doing anymore. Hadn’t since Angelina had laid all his truths out for him and challenged him to do the same. Since a phone call in the middle of a meeting in Shanghai had obliterated the life he’d known and had him planning a funeral rather than the family he and Lucia had envisioned.

He rubbed a palm across his forehead, a low throb sitting just below his skin. He’d told Angelina he wasn’t capable of loving again. Had meant it. But watching her walk out on him a second time, watching her lay her heart on the line about how she felt about him had done something to him. If his wife, who’d been hurt so many times it was a scar on her soul, could be that courageous, what did that make him? A coward?

The tightness in his chest deepened. He’d allowed her to walk away, continued to pretend he didn’t feel the things he did for her because then he wouldn’t have to face the truth. That he loved her. Had loved her from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. That he was so afraid of losing someone else, so afraid of losing her, so angry at her still for leaving him, he didn’t have the guts to put himself out there. To tell her how he felt.

His heart punched through his chest. Blaming yourself for Lucia’s death is easier than making yourself vulnerable again.

He curled his fingers into his thighs, waiting for the shame, the guilt, to dig its claws into him, to claim him as it always did when he allowed himself to think of that night. But it didn’t come. His fear was greater—his fear of losing his wife, the woman who made him whole.

He closed his eyes. What would she think if she knew the true story? That his inability to be present for his wife, to listen to her, the same failings he had brought to his marriage with Angelina, had led to Lucia’s death? That he was responsible for it?

He finished his drink in a long swig. Set the glass down. What was clear was that he hadn’t fulfilled his end of his bargain with his wife. He’d insisted Angelina be an open book, but he hadn’t been with her. He owed her the truth, because if he continued to use his guilt as a crutch, to hide from his emotions, he would lose her anyway. And losing his wife, he realized, wasn’t an option.

The lawyers droned on. The sun beat down on his head. Perhaps knowing, accepting he should have done things differently and forgiving himself for Lucia’s death were two separate things. Maybe he needed to forgive himself for being human in the decisions he’d made…maybe that was something he could live with.

He leaned forward, palms on the table. “We will cobrand the hotels,” he interjected, cutting through the din. ‘“The Ricci South Beach, formerly a Belmont hotel.’ That’s as far as I’m willing to take it.”

Cristopher gaped at his about-face. Lorenzo stood up. “You have twenty-four hours to give us a response—after that, the deal is dead.”

Marc eyed him. “You’re walking out?”

“I’m taking a page out of your father’s book. I’m finally getting my priorities straight. You’ve had a year to do that, Bavaro, I’m giving you another twenty-four hours’ grace.”

Whether he had that with Angelina after the things he’d said to her remained to be seen.

“Why don’t you just take his calls if you’re this miserable?”

Angie looked up from her bowl of pasta to find her sister’s watchful gaze on her. “Because we both need space. And,” she said, dropping the fork in the bowl and pushing it away, “I’m angry at him.”

Furious. Lonely. Miserable. But she wasn’t about to add fuel to the fire by dragging her sister into this. They were supposed to be having a nice night out at their favorite restaurant, something she desperately needed.

“You know,” Abigail said quietly, “Lorenzo called James this afternoon.”

She sat up straighter. “James? Why?”

“Father is stepping down and making James CEO. Lorenzo’s going to come in and work side by side with him to right-side Carmichael Company.”

Her jaw dropped. “And I don’t know about this why?”

“Apparently it’s been in the works for a while, but Father just made the decision this week. According to James, Lorenzo gave Father an ultimatum a few weeks back—step down or he will withdraw his financial support.”

“He’s good at that,” Angie muttered. “Throwing his weight around.” She frowned, playing with the straw in her iced tea. “The question is why? He can barely manage his own schedule. How is he going to accommodate this?”

“I don’t know,” Abigail said softly, her attention on something behind Angie, “but you could ask him. I think your space just ran out.”

She whipped her head around. Felt the blood drain from her face. Lorenzo, in a silver-gray suit, navy tie and white shirt, stood talking to the hostess. All magnetic, bespoke elegance, the pretty blonde was clearly dazzled by him, her megawatt smile as she pointed to their table blinding.

Angie turned back to her sister, butterflies swarming her stomach. “How did he know I was here?” Her gaze narrowed. “You told him.”

Abigail sat back in her chair, wineglass in hand. “You just said you’re in love with him. Not that that’s a news flash. You two need to work things out.”

“Traitor,” Angie growled. But then her husband was standing beside their table and everything inside her seemed to vibrate with the need to hold him, to have him, she’d missed him so much.

She pressed her lips together. Looked up at him. “What are you doing here?”

He eyed her, his dark stare making her heart thud in her chest. “I’ve come to get my wife.”

Her stomach lurched. “You can’t order me around, Lorenzo. I’m done with that.”

“It wasn’t an order. I’m asking you to come home with me and talk this out.”

She sank her teeth into her lip. “Lorenzo—”

“Please.” The husky edge to his voice raked her skin. Deepened the ache inside of her to unbearable levels.

She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“You think I don’t love you?” he rasped, his gaze holding hers. “What do you think this has all been about, Angelina? Me running after you like a lunatic? Me not being able to forget you? Me acting like a complete jackass? I’ve been in love with you since the first moment I laid eyes on you. If my behavior hasn’t made that clear, I don’t know what will.”

“He has a point,” Abigail said dryly. “As much as I’m enjoying this spectacular grovel, however, there are at least two tabloid reporters in the house tonight. Perhaps you should hear the man out.”

Angie barely heard her, she was so utterly gobsmacked by what her husband had just said. At the truth glimmering in his black eyes. Never had she expected to hear him say those three words. Certainly not in a restaurant full of people now staring at them.

She glanced at her sister. Abigail waved her off with an amused lift of her hand. “I’ll have the fudge cake while I imagine being a fly on the wall. Go.”

Lorenzo captured her fingers in his and dragged her to her feet. Through the crowded restaurant they went, her half running to keep up with his long strides.

The car sat waiting with the valet. Lorenzo tucked her into the passenger seat, got in and drove home. Angie watched him, head spinning. “What happened in Miami? Did you sign the deal?”

“No. I told Erasmo Bavaro I would cobrand the hotels, that was my final offer, and gave them twenty-four hours to take it or leave it.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “You said you’d never do that.”

“Things change.”

“The Bavaros got to you, didn’t they?”

“Perhaps. My wife also made it clear she disapproves of my slash-and-burn approach to business.”

She eyed him. “Why are you helping James?”

“Because I think Carmichael can be great again, but it needs your brother at the helm. A modern leadership. And,” he added, flicking her a glance, “I like the idea of building something again.”

“You have no capacity. What if you land Belmont?”

“I will hand it off to the VP I hired last week. It’s all part of the plan.”

“What plan?”

“To keep you.” Quiet words, full of meaning. Promise. “It was always about keeping you, Angelina. I just didn’t go about it the right way.”

Oh. Her heart melted. It was hard to stay angry when he said things like that.

Traffic unusually light, they made it home in minutes. Lorenzo flicked on the lights in the living room, poured them glasses of sparkling water, handed one to Angie and lowered himself into a chair. She curled up in the one opposite him.

“I need to tell you about Lucia,” he said quietly. “All of it.”

Her heart beat a jagged rhythm. “Lorenzo—”

He held up a hand. “I need to do it.”

She sat back, heart in her mouth.

“My trip to Shanghai, the week Lucia died, was an intense trip for me. Three days in and out—nonstop meetings. Lucia wanted to come. I told her no, I wouldn’t have any time for her. She was…nervous living in New York. She was from a small village in Italy, she didn’t feel safe here. I thought by not taking her with me on that trip, not dragging her through those time zones when we were trying to conceive, she would be better off.” His mouth flattened. “I also thought it would help toughen her up. Show her she could do it on her own.”

Oh, no. She pressed her fingers to her mouth. The guilt he must feel.

“When the robbers left her alone,” he continued, cheekbones standing out like blades, “she called me instead of 911. The call went to my voice mail. I was in a meeting. When I listened to the message, I lost my mind.”

Her throat constricted. “No,” she whispered. “Lorenzo, no.” Tears welled up in her eyes. She got up, closed the distance between them and slid onto his lap. “It wasn’t your fault,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his cheek. “Tell me you don’t think it was your fault.”

The soul-deep wounds in his eyes said otherwise. “I should have respected her fears and taken her with me.”

She shook her head. “You were trying to make her stronger. You were protecting her in your own way. I know that because you’ve done it with me. You’ve pushed me when I needed to be pushed, forced me to face my fears. It’s how you care.”

His dark lashes swept across his cheeks. “I’m not telling you this to inspire your pity, I’m telling you so you understand me. Us. It was never about me still loving Lucia, Angelina. It was about me being consumed by guilt. Me not being able to forgive myself for what I’d done. Me never wanting to feel that pain again.”

Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She brushed them away, salt staining her mouth. Finally she understood what drove her husband. Finally she understood him. He’d lost the most important thing in his life to a senseless act that could not be explained so he had blamed it on himself instead because, in his mind, he could have prevented it.

She cupped his jaw in her hands. “You have to forgive yourself. You have to accept what happened was beyond your control or you—we—will never be whole.”

He nodded. “I know that. Watching you walk away from me this week was a wake-up call. I thought I could outrun the past—the guilt. But having to face it or lose you, I realized that wishing I’d made different decisions, acknowledging I’ve made mistakes, is something apart from forgiveness. That maybe I need to forgive myself for being human. I think it might help me let go.”

Her heart stretched with the force of what she felt for him. For the peace she hoped he would find now.

“And then there was you,” he said quietly. “Admitting how I felt about you. How angry I still was with you. When you walked away from me the first time, I was just learning to trust, to love again. I was in love with you. But I wouldn’t admit it—wouldn’t allow myself to love you—because I didn’t think you were a sure bet. When you left, you proved me right.”

Her heart squeezed. “I should never have left. I should have worked through things with you.”

He shook his head. “I think it needed to happen. You needed to grow up—to become who you’ve become. I needed to realize who that woman is—to appreciate her. Our timing was off.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe it hadn’t been their time. Maybe now was.

“Forgive me,” he said, pressing his mouth to her temple. “I was a fool to let you walk away a second time…to say those things I didn’t mean. If I don’t have you, mi amore, I am nothing. I am a shell of a man, because you take a part of me with you every time you leave.”

Her heart climbed into her throat. “Promise me you will always tell me when you’re hurting. Promise me you will always be that open book you talked about and I will.”

“Sì,” he agreed, lowering his mouth to hers. “No more holding back.”

He kissed her then. Passionate and never-ending, it was full of such bone-deep need, such truth, it reached inside her and wound its way around her heart, melting the last of the ice. She curled her fingers around the lapels of his jacket and hung on as every bit of the misery of the past week unraveled in the kiss and was swept away.

A sharp nip of her bottom lip brought her back to reality. “That,” her husband remarked, “was for ignoring my phone calls this week.”

“You deserved it.”

“Yes,” he agreed throatily, standing and sweeping her up in his arms, “I did. Allow me to demonstrate how very sorry I am.”

He carried her through the shadowy penthouse to their bedroom. Dispensing with her dress, he set her on the bed. She watched as he stripped off his clothes, his body showcased to delicious advantage in the close-fitting black hipster briefs he favored.

His eyes turned a smoky black as he stripped them off and joined her on the bed. “You like what you see? Take it, cara, I’m all yours.”

She straddled his beautiful, muscular body, emotion clogging her throat. “I’ve missed you,” she murmured, leaning over to kiss him. “Nothing is right when I’m not with you. You are my heart, Lorenzo Ricci.”

His kiss said the words back. Passionate, perfect, it was everything she knew they were going to be. Because now that they were an open book, now that they had exorcised their last ghost, anything was possible.

Breaking the kiss, she took him inside her slick heat. Gasped when he tilted his hips and filled her with his thick, hard length in a single thrust that stole her breath.

“You can’t do it, can you? Let me take control?”

His dark eyes glittered. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

No…she wouldn’t. Not in this particular arena.

She let herself drown in his black eyes as he made love to her slowly, languidly, telling her how much he loved her until their breath grew rough and they were both poised on the edge of a release that promised to be spectacular.

“Say it again,” she murmured.

“What?”

“That you love me.”

His mouth curved. “Ti amo, angelo mio.”

I love you, my angel.

Her heart wove itself back together. “I love you, too, Lorenzo,” she whispered back before he closed his hands around her hips and took her to heaven.

Her first love. Her only love. Her forever love.