Читать книгу One Passionate Night: Her Brooding Italian Boss / The Heiress's Secret Baby / Best Friend to Wife and Mother? - SUSAN MEIER - Страница 15
ОглавлениеWHEN THEY ARRIVED at Antonio’s country home the next day, everything had a different feel to it. They were no longer adversaries. They were partners in his plan to paint again. The feeling of being on even ground was heady stuff for Laura Beth. She’d always been second-best, plain Laura Beth. Today they were equals.
Standing in the foyer, she faced him with a smile. “So? Ready to go to the studio?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“I thought artists had to work while they were inspired. Do you want to lose your momentum?”
She could tell from the expression that flitted across his handsome face that he didn’t. Still, he said, “How about lunch first?”
She caught his hand and tugged him in the direction of the back door that led to his studio. “How about work first?”
He laughed. “Wow. I have never known you to turn down food.”
“I had a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich while you took that catnap on the plane.”
She turned the knob on the ratty door of the cottage and it gave easily. Surprise almost had her turning to ask why he didn’t lock the door, then she realized he was totally comfortable here in the Italian countryside. Which was probably part of why it drove him so crazy not to be able to paint. This was his sanctuary, and it was letting him down. Since his wife’s death, everybody and everything seemed to be letting him down. She would not.
Pride billowed through her. She might make nothing else of her life, but helping him to paint again would be her crowning accomplishment. Even if she never told another soul, to protect his pride, she would know simple Laura Beth Matthews had done something wonderful.
They wound their way through the maze of old paint cans, broken furniture and fabrics to the last room. His studio.
Happy, she faced him with a smile. “So where do I sit? What do I do?”
He ran his hand down his face. “We just got off a plane. Give me a minute to adjust.”
His hesitancy filled the air. He wanted this so much and he’d tried and failed before. She knew that trying again, he faced disappointment again.
She stepped back, giving him space. “Sure.”
He glanced around, then rummaged through stacks of paper in the drawer of a metal desk so old it didn’t even have accommodations for a computer. He pulled out two tablets. One was huge. The other was the size of a spiral notebook. He set the large pad of paper on the top of the desk, and opened the smaller one.
“We’ll do sketches first.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“First, I just need to warm up, get the feel of your features, the shape of your body.”
She nodded eagerly.
“So, I’ll sit here.” He leaned his hip on the corner of the desk. “And you sit there.” He pointed at a ladder-back chair about ten feet away.
She frowned. “There?”
“Yes. These are preliminaries. Warm-ups. Something to get me accustomed to your shapes.”
Her gaze involuntarily rippled to the chaise near the windows. That would have been more comfortable. She wanted to sit there.
But he pointed at the ladder-back chair again.
She smiled hesitantly. Though she understood what he was saying, something really drew her to that chaise. Still, she sat on the ladder-back chair. Antonio picked up a simple number-two pencil.
“Really? A pencil? You’re not going to use charcoal or chalk or anything cool like that?”
He sighed and dropped the tablet to his lap. “I’m warming up!”
She waved her hand. “Okay. Okay. Whatever.”
* * *
By the time Antonio had her seated on the chair, his anxiety about drawing had shimmied away. Praying that she would stop talking and especially stop second-guessing his choices, he picked up his pencil and began sketching quickly, easily, hoping to capture at least five minutes of her sitting still.
When she wrinkled her nose, as if it was itchy, he stopped and stretched. He’d drawn small sketches of her eyes, her nose, her lips, her neck, her eyebrows, the wrinkle in her forehead, the side view of her hair looping across her temple and one sketch of her entire face.
“If you need to scratch your nose, scratch.”
She pulled in a breath and rubbed her palm across her nose. “Thank God.”
“What? You were sitting for...” He glanced at his watch. “Wow. Ten minutes. I guess you do deserve a break. For someone unaccustomed to posing, ten minutes is a long time.”
She popped off the chair. Shook out all her limbs. “I know I’ve sat perfectly still for more than ten minutes at a time, but sitting still without anything to think about or do? That’s hard.”
“I’d actually hoped to break you in with five-minute increments.”
“Meaning?”
“You’d sit for five minutes a few times in our first two settings, then ten minutes in our third and fifteen in our fourth...that kind of thing.”
“So we’re skipping a step?”
“Which could be good.”
“Can I see what you’ve done?”
He handed her the tablet.
She smiled. “These are great.”
“That’s just me messing around until I get a good feel for drawing your features. Then we move on to sketches of what I think a painting of you should look like.”
She beamed at him and everything inside him lit up. He told himself he was happy that she was enjoying the process, happy that he hadn’t yet had an anxiety attack, and motioned her back to the chair.
“If you can keep doing ten-minute sessions, we’ll do two more, then break for the day.”
“You’re only working a half hour?”
He laughed. “Yes. I’m not just indoctrinating you into the process. I’m easing myself in too.”
She sat on the chair, straightened her spine and lifted her face. “Okay.”
He sketched for ten minutes, gave her a break, sketched for ten more, then they had lunch. Later, while she sat by the pool, he paid his dad a visit. He expected them to argue like two overemotional Italians about Constanzo stranding them in Barcelona. Instead, his father quietly apologized, told Antonio he was tired and retired to his room.
The next day, Laura Beth easily graduated to sitting for fifteen minutes at a time. The day after that, she had a bit of trouble with sitting for twenty minutes, but eventually got it.
He drew her face over and over and over again. He sketched her arms, her feet, the slope of her shoulder. Feeling the rhythm of those shapes in his hand as it flowed over the paper, he felt little bits of himself returning. But he didn’t push. Fearing he’d tumble into bad territory, he didn’t let himself feel. He simply put pencil to paper.
On Sunday, with Ricky and Eloise in Italy on the last leg of their honeymoon, he forced Laura Beth to take the day off to visit with them.
Monday morning, though, she arrived in his studio, bright and eager to begin.
Trembling with equal parts of anticipation and terror over the next step of the process, he busied himself with organizing his pencils as he said, “This week we’re doing potential poses for the painting.”
“So now I don’t just have to sit still? I have to sit still a certain way.”
He glanced up. Her eyes were bright. Her smile brilliant. Enthusiasm virtually vibrated from her body.
“Basically, yes.”
Knowing how uncomfortable the ladder-back chair had been, he walked her to the wall of windows in the back of the room. He posed her feet, positioned her shoulders, placed her hands together at her stomach and strode back to the old metal desk to get his pad and pencil.
He worked for twenty minutes, trying again and again to make her come to life in a sketch, but failing. He knew what he wanted. That faraway look. And though he saw snatches of it in her eyes, it didn’t stay and he couldn’t catch it when it was only a glimpse.
With a sigh, he said, “Let’s take a break.”
“Wow. Was that a half hour already?”
“Twenty minutes. I can’t seem to get what I want from this pose, so I figured we’d stop, give me a bit of rest and try again.”
After a bathroom break and a few sips of water, Laura Beth was ready to go again. Antonio picked up his pencil and tablet. She positioned herself and Antonio started drawing. After only a few seconds, he said, “The light is wrong.”
She deflated from her pose. “Bummer.”
He shook his head. “It is a bummer, but we can come back to this tomorrow morning. Right now...” He glanced around. “Let’s try one with you sitting on the chaise.”
She walked over and sat down. Without waiting for instructions, she angled herself on the chair with her back to him, then looked over her shoulder at him.
The vivid image of her lying wrapped in the towel on her bed popped into his head, quickly followed by the pose he’d so desperately wanted to paint. Her wrapped in silk, one shoulder and her entire back bare, the swell of her hip peeking out at him, her face a study of innocence.
His finger itched to capture that. But he was sure the urge was a leftover of an aberration. Watching her at the gallery, he’d envisioned several compelling poses, expressions, little bits of humanity that would result in a painting every bit as compelling. He did not need to go there.
“That’s not how I want you.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s try this.” He wasn’t entirely sure how to position her. He had facial expressions in his mind. Images of her hair falling just the right way. And he couldn’t seem to get it right as he shifted her from one side to another, one pose to another.
“Okay. How about this? Lie down and pretend you’re daydreaming.”
“Oh! I get to lie down!”
He stopped in midstep toward the metal desk and faced her. “If you’re tired or anything, I don’t want you to overdo.”
She stretched out on the sofa. “I’m fine.”
Her inelegant movement struck a chord in him again and he eagerly grabbed the notebook. That was part of the essence he was trying to grasp. Beautiful yet impish. Troubled but still hopeful. With the image fresh in his mind, he began sketching. But after ten minutes he realized that pose didn’t work either.
Neither surprised nor disappointed—today was all about trying and failing—he gave her a break, then sat her on a chair.
Backing away from her, he said, “Think deep thoughts.”
Her face scrunched. “How deep?”
“I don’t know.” Remembering the feelings he’d had in the gallery and their subsequent conversation, he said, “Think about going home.”
She nodded, and he watched the change come to her eyes. Almost a sadness. Something tweaked inside him. But he didn’t say anything. Though he wanted to comfort her, they weren’t supposed to become friends from this. He wanted to paint her. She wanted to go home.
It made him sad. Almost angry. But he got the best sketches of the day.
After that they stopped for lunch. Rosina had prepared salads and bread, but Laura Beth skipped the bread, insisting she could feel herself getting fat.
He watched her single out and then dig in to her tomatoes with gusto and had to stifle a laugh. Feeling light and airy because he counted that morning as a success, he didn’t want to upset her in any way, shape or form. But the look in her eyes as he’d sketched her haunted him.
Casually, as if it were the most natural question in the world, he asked, “Do you not want to go home?”
Her head popped up. Her gaze swung to his. “I need to go home.”
“There’s a wide gulf between need and want.”
“I need my mother. Aside from Tucker and Olivia’s kids, I’ve never been around a baby. And I can’t really count Tucker and Olivia’s kids because I’ve never changed their diapers, never fed one of them and most certainly never walked the floor.”
“Ah. I get it. You need your mother’s assistance.”
“More her advice...her knowledge. Which means, since I need her so much, I want to go home.”
He laughed. “That’s convoluted at best.”
She shrugged. “It is what it is.”
But the faraway, sad expression came to her eyes again. He should have yearned to grab his pencil. Instead, that odd something tweaked inside him again. Only this time, he recognized it. It wasn’t a worry that they would get close. He hated to see her sad.
“What if you got a nanny?”
She gaped at him for a few seconds, then laughed out loud. “Right. I can’t even afford an apartment. Hell, Tucker hasn’t officially offered me a job yet, and you want me to hire a nanny?”
“But if he does offer you a job with a good enough salary, it would mean you could live where you want. That you wouldn’t have to go back to a small town that clearly makes you sad.”
“The town doesn’t make me sad. I told you before. I want my child to be raised there.”
He frowned. “So what makes you sad?”
* * *
Laura Beth fumbled with her napkin. For fifty cents she’d tell him the truth. She’d look him right in the eye and say, “I like being with you. I like the person I am with you. And I am going to be sad when I leave because I know I’ll only ever see you at parties where we’ll be polite like strangers.”
But then he’d draw back. Then he wouldn’t paint her. He might even put her in Constanzo’s plane and ship her home so he didn’t have to deal with her feelings.
So she’d handle them alone.
“I think it’s just hormones.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I seem to recall hearing a bit about them from Tucker when Olivia was pregnant.”
And that was it. He totally believed her. He didn’t even like her enough to say, “Are you sure?” He didn’t dig deeper. Proof, again, that he didn’t have the same kinds of feelings for her that she had for him.
In bed that night, she cautioned herself about getting so close to him—wouldn’t let herself pretend there was any chance they’d be together—and the next morning she forced herself to be as chipper and happy as any woman posing for a portrait should be. She couldn’t have him forever, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy what she had now. In fact, a wise woman would accept what she could get and make memories.
After breakfast, Antonio took her outside. She’d asked him a million times if there was anything special he wanted her to wear and every time he’d said, “Your jeans are fine.”
But his attempts at capturing an outside pose failed. When the next day’s poses also resulted in balled-up paper and strings of curses in Italian, Laura Beth had to hide several winces. On Friday, when his temper appeared—a real, live temper that went beyond curses and balled-up paper and resulted in explosions and tablets tossed into the trash—fear trembled through her.
Not fear of Antonio. She knew he would never hurt her. His anger was never directed at her, but always at himself. His lost focus. His inability to capture what he wanted. She also saw his volatility as part of his larger-than-life personality, very much like his dad’s. What scared her was that he might quit trying and ask her to leave.
The very thought caused her chest to tighten. So Saturday after breakfast she suggested she meet him in the studio. He frowned and asked why, but she only smiled and raced off.
She styled her hair as it had been the night of the gallery opening, put on makeup and slipped into the black dress and the high heels Constanzo had bought her.
When she walked into the studio, Antonio had his back to her. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and sashayed over to the wall of windows.
When he saw her, Antonio’s face fell. He gaped at her for a good twenty seconds, then grabbed the tablet. Not knowing if the lighting was good or bad, she simply stood there. She thought deep thoughts, trying to get that faraway look he always talked about catching. She knew that the sooner the painting was done, the sooner she’d be going home, but she didn’t care that dressing in the way that had inspired him would result in her going home. She longed to help him. This wasn’t just about her doing something important with her life anymore. This was about him. About wanting him to get his life back.
And if the way he frantically scribbled was any indication, she was succeeding. Finally giving her man what he needed.
Her man.
She struggled with the urge to close her eyes. He was her man. She could feel it in her bones. And she was his muse. But he would let her go. Because he believed he’d had his woman, the love of his life, and even though Gisella was gone, he didn’t want another love.
What she felt for him was pointless.
* * *
Antonio put down his pencil forty minutes later, belatedly realizing he’d made her stand stiff and silent way beyond her limitations.
“I’m sorry, cara.”
She shook her shoulders loose, then smiled. “It’s fine. Did you get what you wanted?”
“Yes.” The desire to kiss her rose strong and sure. It wasn’t just her pretty face and her bright personality that drew him. Her unselfish gestures never ceased to amaze him. For almost an hour, she’d stood stiff and straight, barely blinking. Even more, though, she’d realized what he needed when he didn’t. The dress, the hair, even the shoes had brought back the feelings he’d had in the gallery, and his artistic instincts hadn’t merely appeared. They’d jumped to full-blown life.
Because she’d made all the connections he couldn’t seem to.
Still, he fought the urge to kiss her by turning away, puttering with his tablets, pretending interest in old sketches that had no value now that he’d found what he wanted. “Thank you for thinking of the dress.”
She displayed her spike heels. “And let’s not forget the shoes and hair.”
She said it lightly, but an undercurrent of melancholy ran through her voice. All of this was about him. Nothing they’d done in the past ten days helped her. She still had her troubles.
He walked over and caught her hands. Fear of getting too close, of longing to kiss her, had to be shoved aside. He owed her. “You look so pretty. Let me take you to lunch.”
She shook her head. “Nah. You don’t have to.”
“I insist. Give me ten minutes to clean up.”
“It’s okay. There’s no need to thank me.”
He smiled. “I’ll let you drive.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you have a Jag?”
“I have a Lamborghini.”
“Oh, dear God.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “How can I turn that down?”
He motioned for her to precede him out of the studio and up the cobblestone path, then headed to his room to change. Considering her attire, he slid into beige slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt, which he left open at the throat.
When she saw his car, she squealed with delight and raced to get behind the wheel. He tossed the keys at her. She caught them like a left fielder for the Yankees. The engine rumbled to life and she shifted into reverse to get them out of the garage, then shoved the pedal to the floor when they reached the road.
The noise from the wind swirling around the open roof prevented conversation, so he pointed to give her directions to the nearest small town. He motioned with his hand to let her know she needed to slow down as they drew closer.
They entered the village and their speed decreased. The noise of the wind diminished. He heard the appreciative sigh that told him she was pleased with his choice of village, with its cobblestone streets, old houses, street vendors and sidewalk cafés.
“Park here.”
She pulled the car into a little space. They both got out and he directed her to walk to the right.
The way she looked at his little town was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Her lips kicked upward into a smile of pure joy, but not like a person surprised by what she saw. More like a woman who’d found a place she loved.
Mesmerized by her excitement, he caught her hand and led her down the street to the outdoor seating of his favorite local restaurant.
They ordered salads and once again she refused bread. He shook his head. “You are supposed to gain weight.”
“Yeah, but I’m not supposed to turn into a tub of lard.”
He laughed. “The way you talk reminds me of my childhood.”
Her gaze rose to meet his. “Really?”
“Yes. Everybody I know either speaks Italian or they’re a bigwig in the art world or in one of Dad’s former companies. You speak like a normal person.”
“I am a normal person.”
“And most of my foster parents were normal.”
Her eyes softened. “Did you have a rough time?”
He shook his head. “Tucker had a rough time. I think that’s because he was actually in New York City. I was in a quiet city in Pennsylvania. I had a bit of trouble with being angry about not knowing my dad, but my foster parents were always simple, normal people with big hearts.”
She said, “Hmm,” then cocked her head. “Pennsylvania’s not so different from Kentucky.”
He chuckled. “You have a twang that Pennsylvanians don’t.”
She frowned. “Hey, I worked really hard to get rid of that twang.”
“And you’ve mostly succeeded.”
* * *
Laughing, Laura Beth glanced across the table at Antonio. The blue sky smiled down on them. A light breeze kept everything cool. The hum of life, of street vendors, cars and chatting passersby, filled the place with life and energy. She totally understood why Tucker and Olivia spent several months a year in Italy. If she could, she would, too. But in a few days she’d be going home. Back to her blue-collar roots. Back where she belonged.
Emotion clogged her throat. She wouldn’t just miss Antonio. She would miss his world. Italy. Art. Interesting people. Sun that warmed everything.
Still, she swallowed back her feelings. She’d already decided her future was in her small town with her parents. Because she loved that world, too. She loved crisp autumns. Sleigh rides and skating in the winter. The love of people she knew. A quiet, humble place to raise a child.
It just seemed so unfair that she had to choose. But, really, she didn’t have a choice. She was broke. Longing to live in two worlds was the last resort of a foolish woman. And she knew it was time to get sensible. The best way to do that would be to take the focus of this conversation off herself and get it back on him.
