he thought was that he had no idea what to think. Knowing his wife remained his and only his satisfied him on a level he couldn’t even begin to articulate. That she might be as haunted by him as he was by her...
He traced his gaze over her lush, vulnerable mouth. Across the enticing stretch of bare skin the askew neckline of her nightie revealed, down over the smooth flesh of her thighs where the silk had ridden up...the dusky shadow between her legs. Unbearable temptation. Hard as rock, he ached for her.
“Get off me.” His wife drew his attention back up to her flushed face.
His lip curled. “What’s the matter, mia cara? You afraid I’m going to penetrate those defenses you cling so desperately to? That make you feel so safe?”
A defiant look back. “Just like yours do?”
“Ah, but I am promising to open up.” A lazy smile twisted his lips. “I’m a caterpillar poised for transformation. You get to come out of your cocoon, too, and try your wings.”
“Very funny.” She pushed at his chest. “Off.”
He dropped his mouth to her ear. “An open book, Angelina. That’s what you and I are going to be. The brutal truth and nothing but. We might just survive this little experiment if we can offer each other that.”
He levered himself off his sexy, furious wife and headed for the bathroom. It occurred to him, then, as he stepped under a hot shower, his emotions a tangled mess, that he might have underestimated the power his wife still held over him. That both of them might end up getting burned before this was over.
ANGIE SPENT THE WEEK leading up to the Hamptons party attempting to avoid any further confrontations between her and Lorenzo. That combustible scene in their bedroom had convinced her engaging with her husband was not a good strategy. Avoidance was. And with Lorenzo immersed in his big deal, it hadn’t proven difficult. It was almost like old times.
Except it wasn’t. She had been working long hours, too, at the studio getting Alexander’s collection ready, with Lorenzo’s support. Her husband, however, had insisted they share dinners together, even if they had to work afterward. He was intent, it seemed, on making this marriage work. They talked, shared things about their day, managed, for the most part, to be civil. But soon afterward, Lorenzo retreated to his office to work, not coming to bed until the early hours, ensuring her strategy had worked perfectly.
Tonight, however, she conceded as she watched a perfect East Hampton sunset stain the sky, there would be no escaping—not from her combustive relationship with her husband, nor the past she’d worked so hard to leave behind. Tonight they would host the toast of high society for cocktails at their sprawling waterfront estate, an event that had the gossip hounds frothing at the mouth and her insides curling in an intense, visceral reaction that begged her to retreat.
But it was too late. It had been too late ever since Gillian had sent out the cream-and-silver embossed invitations via courier and the RSVPs had started flooding in by the dozens, proving Lorenzo’s point that a helping of titillating gossip would always command the day.
She watched a graceful, forty-foot sailboat navigate past on the gray-blue Shinnecock Bay, the high waves and white foam a perfect mirror for her churning insides. She adored the peace and tranquility of this exclusive enclave, the ability to escape a tourist-infested, muggy Manhattan and enjoy the cool breezes that tempered the island. What she didn’t enjoy was the microcosm of Manhattan society the Hamptons were at this time of year. Taking part in the requisite social circuit, forging the right contacts through her and Lorenzo’s recreational activities, being seen with the right crowd.
“You might as well be at work,” her entrepreneurial friend, Cassidy, had once said, referring to the intense networking that went on here 24/7. “At least in Manhattan, you can disappear into your town house, plead a prior engagement and no one will ever know. In the Hamptons, everyone knows.”
Her mouth twisted. And the cliquishness? The competitiveness? The feckless alliances that changed with the wind? She had seen the devastation they could wreak, had watched her mother shredded by their vicious bite and yet Bella Carmichael had, unfathomably, always gone back for more because headlining an American dynasty wasn’t something you just walked away from.
Her mother had learned to grit her teeth and smile as all Carmichaels did, even when her world was falling apart, pretending the gossip chasing through the room about Alistair Carmichael’s infidelities, which of his “assistants” he was sleeping with now, didn’t faze her in the least. That her husband’s predilection for twenty-five-year-old blondes and the power that came along with his ability to command them was par for the course in the world they lived in.
She smoothed clammy palms over her cranberry-red silk dress, praying her father’s indiscretions would not come up tonight. She’d already briefed the waitstaff her mother was not to be served alcohol under any circumstance. Watching her go off the rails in front of the upper echelons of Manhattan society was the last thing she needed.
“I like this dress.” Lorenzo materialized behind her, his hands settling on her hips. “Although,” he drawled, turning her around, his inspection dipping to the plunging neckline of the dress, “I’m not sure I’m going to appreciate every other man in attendance tonight enjoying the same view.”
Her pulse fluttered in her throat. Heat radiated from the light spread of his fingers to forbidden places, dangerous places, warming her insides. She took a step back, putting some distance between them.
The dress was provocative—the flesh revealed by the low neckline leaving a hint of the rounded curves of her breasts bare. It was more than she would normally put on display.
“It’s one of Alexander’s designs. He insisted I wear it tonight.”
“I’m not surprised. It was made for you.”
The sensual glitter in his eyes sent a skittering up her spine. Or maybe it was how good he looked in a silver-gray shirt and dark trousers that set off his spectacular dark coloring and beautiful eyes.
Her gaze dropped away from his. He curved his fingers around her jaw and brought it back up to his. The appraising look he subjected her to made her feel like glass—utterly transparent and far too vulnerable. “You’ve been off all day. What’s wrong?”
She pulled free. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“No, you aren’t.” Irritation clouded his expression. “There’s this thing that happens when we socialize, Angie. You turn into a plastic version of yourself. Aloof. Unreadable. Why?”
“That’s hardly true.”
“Every time, cara.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the sill. “You can tell me or we can keep your parents waiting. It’s all good with me.”
Heat sizzled her blood. “Perhaps because it’s always about a goal, a business transaction, rather than us enjoying ourselves. I was graded on my ability to accomplish those goals. Romance a partner of yours, flatter his wife, impress a potential target with my impeccable lineage...” She waved a hand at him. “Tonight it’s Marc Bavaro—what’s the goal with him? What would you like me to be, Lorenzo? Amusing? Intellectual? Cultured? Flirtatious?”
His
