accomplishing something by the end of the evening. To me it’s us being a team. But I would prefer for you to be yourself...for you to be the woman I have always appreciated that never seems to show up on these occasions.”
She leaned back against the sill, fingers curling around the edge. “And which woman is that? I’m intrigued despite myself, since I never seemed to get it right.”
“The vibrant, spirited woman I met that night in Nassau who didn’t seem to care what anyone else thought of her. Where has she gone, Angie? Where has that light gone?”
She blinked. Who did he think had snuffed out that spirit by asking her to be something she wasn’t? By shutting her out when she displeased him? By constantly making her aware she wasn’t measuring up?
She lifted her chin. “Why this sudden obsession with what makes me tick? It never seemed to concern you before.”
“Perhaps because I’m realizing the woman I thought I knew has all these vulnerabilities lurking beneath the surface, vulnerabilities I think might be the key to why she is the way she is, and yet she won’t let me near them.”
“I think you’re overthinking it.”
“I think I’m not.” He scowled and pulled his hands from his pockets. “I had some things to work through before, things I have worked on. It has proven illuminating to me. I would like to learn from it.”
Things like Lucia? Her heart beat a jagged rhythm in her chest. To allow herself to believe that, to believe he truly cared, that he wanted to know her, understand her, that he truly wanted this time to be different between them, threatened to poke holes in the composure she desperately needed as she faced her old social set tonight. Not to mention her parents, who were waiting for them downstairs.
“We should go,” she said quietly. “My parents will be waiting.”
He pushed away from the sill. “We’ll continue this later,” he warned, setting a hand to the small of her back to guide her from the room. His warmth, his undeniable strength, bled into her skin. She swallowed hard. Somehow in the midst of all the chaos in her head, among all the conflicted feelings warring inside of her, his touch anchored her as it always had. Perhaps that was why it had hurt so much when he’d taken it away.
The poolside terrace was lit with flaming torches as they joined her parents outside, the lights from the sprawling, Italian-inspired villa reflected in the infinity pool that served as the star attraction of the space. Sleek waitstaff dressed in black hovered at the ready, the marble-and-brick bar stocked with rows of the perquisite champagne on ice.
Della and Alistair Carmichael were already holding drinks, listening to the local band they’d hired to play. Angie gave her mother, who was looking her usual elegant self in a powder-blue cocktail dress, her silver-blond hair a perfect bob to her ears, a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Her gaze slid down to the drink her mother held as she drew back, the tightness in her chest easing when she saw that it was sparkling water.
“You look beautiful, Mother.”
“Thank you.” Her mother gave her a critical once-over. “Faggini?”
“Yes.” A wry smile twisted her lips at their practiced small talk. It was how they’d learned to coexist after their fiery relationship during Angie’s teenage years, when her mother’s alcoholism had emerged and everything between them had been a war of wills. Their practiced détente still didn’t quell the pain of losing the mother she’d once had, before Bella Carmichael’s disease had devastated her, but at least it was a norm she knew how to maneuver within.
“Lorenzo.” Her mother turned her attention to Angie’s husband, the feminine smile she reserved for handsome, powerful men softening her face. “It’s so lovely to see you.” She kissed him on both cheeks. “Although,” she said in a pointed tone as she drew back, “I think we’ve seen you more than our daughter over the past couple of years. Perhaps your reconciliation will remedy that.”
“We’re counting on it,” her father said, stepping forward. Tall and distinguished with a hint of gray at his temples, his eyes were the same slate blue as his daughter’s. That was where their similarities began and ended.
Eschewing the embrace he knew Angie would reject, he shook Lorenzo’s hand. “Angelina knows how thrilled I am to see her back where she belongs.”
Back where she belongs? A surge of antagonism pulsed through her. She wouldn’t be in this situation if her father hadn’t allowed his arrogance to blind him to the business realities staring him in the face. He was using her as a pawn and showed not the slightest conscience about it.
Lorenzo read the tension in her body, his palm tightening at her back. “My parents are in town next week,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps you can join us for dinner? It would be nice for us all to reconnect.”
Angie’s back went ramrod-straight as her mother gushed on about how lovely that would be. It wasn’t lovely, it was the worst idea ever. To put Saint Octavia, Lorenzo’s supremely dignified mother, in a room with her own, given Della Carmichael’s loose-wheel status of late, was a recipe for disaster.
Thankfully they were saved from discussing it further as the first guests began to arrive.
* * *
Hand at his wife’s back, Lorenzo greeted the arrivals. Guest after guest arrived in cars piloted by drivers who would spirit them from party to party that evening. His wife grew stiffer and stiffer with each new arrival and the open curiosity about their newly resurrected relationship. By the time Marc Bavaro, the CEO of the Belmont Hotel Group, arrived with his beautiful redheaded girlfriend, Penny, Angie had perfected her plastic self.
Lorenzo’s inability to understand what was happening to her, as his need to connect on a personal level with Bavaro pressed on his brain, made his impatience boil over.
“That’s Marc Bavaro and his girlfriend walking in now,” he murmured in his wife’s ear. “Can we try for happy just for the next few minutes? Less like you’re facing the executioner being by my side?”
Angelina pasted a smile on her face. “Of course,” she said sweetly. “Your wish is my command.”
Even without her real smile, his wife captivated Marc Bavaro. The CEO’s leisurely once-over of Angelina’s red dress, despite the stunning date at his side, made his wife’s cheeks redden. So Marc Bavaro did have a roving eye, as advertised. Lorenzo couldn’t necessarily blame him, given Angie’s ability to mesmerize any red-blooded male with whom she came into contact.
He tightened his fingers around her waist. “Great that you could make it,” he said to Marc. “Good to get out of the boardroom.”
“Agreed.” But Bavaro still wore the cagey expression that had been making Lorenzo mental as they debated the last few points of the deal.
“Your necklace is beautiful,” Penny said to Angie. “Is it one of yours?”
“Yes. Thank you. It’s one of my favorite recent pieces.”
“I love your stuff.” Penny threw Marc a wry glance. “I’ve given him lots of hints on what he can buy me for my birthday.”
“Perhaps you’d like to come in to the studio and I’ll design something for you?”
The
