game. But we are going to learn how to communicate—in ways that do not involve the bedroom.”
The stare she leveled at him rattled every nerve ending. Made him ache to resort to tried-and-true methods. But he wasn’t going there. He was making good on the promise he’d just given her.
“I think,” he said evenly, deciding a change of subject was in order, “we should host a party in the Hamptons over the long weekend. Marc Bavaro, the CEO of the Belmont chain, has a place there. I’d like to try and soften him up a bit. Get a few outstanding issues resolved. It would also provide an ideal opportunity to formally announce our reconciliation given the gossip that’s running rampant.”
She muttered something under her breath. His brow lifted. “Scusa?”
“I said to put your stamp on me. That’s why you want to have this party.”
“I already did that,” he murmured, eyes on hers. “Why would I need to make a public display of ownership when we both know the truth?”
A flush stained her cheeks. “Go to hell, Lorenzo.”
“I’ve already been there, cara. At least this time there will be a great deal of pleasure along with the pain.”
Her eyes locked with his. A long, loaded moment passed as they took a step into uncharted territory. Lashes lowered, his wife studied him, as if deciding whether to continue the charge.
Her chin dropped. “Everyone’s calendars will be full on the Labor Day weekend.”
“They’ll be doing the rounds. What’s one more stop? Speculation about us alone will pack them in.”
She gave him a pointed look as if to say that was exactly the issue. “I have to finish the pieces for Alexander so he can match them up with the show. If something doesn’t work, I’ll need to come up with an alternative.”
“It’s one weekend. There’s nothing pressing between now and then. Work around it.” He pointed his whiskey glass at her. “This is where we learn to compromise, Angie. You give, I give—that’s how it works.”
Her mouth flattened. “Fine.”
“Good. Gillian will plan it, you will contribute your guest list and the staff in the Hamptons will execute. All you need to do is show up.”
Her expression remained frozen. He sought the patience he was not known for. “I expect you to invite your family. Whatever’s going on between you and your parents, you need to fix it. This will be a good opportunity to do so.”
“No.” The word flew out of her mouth—swift and vehement. He lifted a brow. “I went to see them last week,” she explained. “They aren’t in the Hamptons much anymore in the summer. There’s no point in inviting them.”
“I’m sure they’ll make the effort to come. It will look strange if they’re not there given I do business with your father.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “Speaking of parents, mine will be visiting the week after the party. They’ll stay at their apartment, but we’ll host them here for dinner. Decide on a date with Gillian that works for you.”
Her face fell further, if that was possible. “What did you tell them? About us?”
“That we’ve decided to make this marriage work. That we made a decision in haste at a time when we were both in pain and now we are rectifying it.”
“So you chose to leave out the part where you’re bullying me into becoming your wife again?”
“I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement. Motivation for us to make this marriage work.” He leveled his gaze on her combative face. “We made a deal, a commitment to each other, Angelina. I meant it when I said your heart and soul have to be in it, but I’m not so unfeeling that I don’t understand you need time to adjust. After that settling-in period, however, I expect an attitude adjustment, because this is not how it’s going to be.”
* * *
An attitude adjustment? Angie was still fuming after she and Lorenzo had shared a tense, mostly silent dinner on the terrace, where she ate little and talked less. It had been so generous of him to concede she needed time and space after what he’d done to her. Clearly she should be falling into line, looking forward to spending more time with his PA than she did her husband.
Her mouth twisted. I meant it when I said your heart and soul have to be in it. He didn’t even have a heart...or a soul for that matter. What would he know about it?
Lorenzo was ensconced in his home office to finish some work, so she elected to have a hot bath and go to bed. Constanza had unpacked all her things in the light, airy master bedroom, with its gorgeous vistas of the park, the housekeeper’s usual ruthless efficiency putting everything back as if she’d never left.
It was eerie to pull a nightgown from a puddle of silk in a drawer and untangle her hair with the pearl-backed brush that sat on the dresser in the exact same place it used to be. On edge, her nerves in disarray, she headed for a rose-scented bath in the Italian-tiled en suite, immersing herself up to her ears in hot, cathartic bubbles.
All sarcasm aside, she was relieved with her husband’s acknowledgment they needed time—that he didn’t expect her to jump into bed with him as seamlessly as her brush had landed back on the dresser. But clearly, she thought, stomach knotting, given that her things were where they were, he expected her to share that bed with him. The thought made her search desperately for something else to focus on, like why he had rose-scented bath bubbles in here.
Either Constanza had been thoughtful, as she was wont to be, or they had belonged to one of his lovers. Because surely, the tabloids couldn’t be right? Surely her highly sexual husband, who’d thought he was divorced, had had other women?
You haunt me, Angelina, every time I’m with another woman... Her heart sank, a numb feeling settling over her. He’d pretty much admitted he had. Lorenzo wouldn’t have spent two years pining after her as she had him. Going dateless until Byron wouldn’t take no for an answer.
The thought of her husband with other women lanced her insides. She sank farther into the bubbles and closed her eyes. They had been so happy in the beginning. That’s what hurt the most. What might have been.
After Lorenzo had accepted the consequences of what a broken condom had produced, he’d submitted willingly to her mother’s ostentatious society wedding—what he’d considered a politically advantageous match, she suspected. She’d been too crazy about him to care.
They’d spent the first months of their marriage in a pheromone-induced haze, tuning out the world. In Lorenzo’s arms, her worries about why he’d married her had faded to black. He’d hungered after her with an intensity that had made her feel as if she’d been the most important thing on the planet to him, their addictive obsession with each other inescapable, unassailable. The wounded pieces of her, the parts that had been convinced she was unlovable after a childhood devoid of emotion, had begun to heal. For the first time in her life, she’d felt whole, as if she was worthy of love.
And how could she not? Having her husband focus on her, choose to engage, had been like having the most powerful force in the universe directed at her. Suddenly all the pieces of her life had been falling into place and happiness had seemed attainable after years of wondering if it even existed.
Until
