shared a cocktail with the other couple in one of the bars. Sparkling water, sadly, for Angie, when a glass of wine might have mellowed her out. She focused all her attention on the Belmont CEO and his girlfriend, ignoring her husband completely, to the point where Penny jokingly asked her if Lorenzo was in the doghouse as they settled into their seats in the Belmont box to watch Puccini’s La Bohème.
She denied it, of course. Made a joking comment that Penny would see what it was like when the honeymoon phase was over. Lorenzo must have heard it with that laser-sharp hearing of his because his face turned dark. A mistake, she recognized, as the whisper of a chill rose up her spine. She had insulted his male pride.
She focused on the performance. He had earned that one.
La Bohème was one of her favorites, but tonight it couldn’t have been a worse choice. The story of Mimi and Rodolfo, the fiery, star-crossed lovers, sung to perfection by the visiting Italian soprano and her American tenor—had always moved her. But tonight, given her rocky emotions, her insecurities about her and Lorenzo, it affected her in a way she couldn’t hide. By the time the two lovers decided to stay together in the face of Mimi’s heartbreaking illness at the end of the third act, her imminent death on the horizon, tears were running down her face.
Lorenzo put a hand on her thigh. She ignored him, kept her eyes focused on the stage. When the act came to a close, she rooted around desperately in her bag for a tissue, a necessity at the opera, and dammit, how could she have forgotten them?
Lorenzo shoved the handkerchief from his front pocket into her hand. “Excuse us, will you?”
“What are you doing?” she whispered as he grabbed her arm and propelled her out of the box.
A tight, intense look back. “We are going somewhere to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Well, that’s too bad, amore mio, you don’t get to choose.”
Into the multistoried lobby they went, past the two glorious murals Marc Chagall had painted. Somewhere along the way, Lorenzo dropped the general manager’s name. The next thing she knew, he was directing her down a hallway and into an empty dressing room marked Visiting Performers.
* * *
Lorenzo twisted the lock on the door and turned to face his wife. What the hell was wrong with her? Watching her cry like that had made him want to crawl out of his skin, because he didn’t think all of it had to do with the admittedly heartbreaking opera.
Angie swept her hand around the room, dominated by the sofa that sat along one wall and a dressing table and mirror on the other. “We can’t be in here.”
“I was just told we could.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain to me why you are so angry, cara. I asked you to do me a favor. You know how important this deal is to me. What’s the problem?”
She jammed her hands on her hips, eyes flashing. “You ordered me to come. You know how important my career is to me and yet you completely discounted my work. The bracelet I’m creating is for Juliette Baudelaire—a huge commission, particularly if she spreads the word to her friends. It’s not just a bracelet, it’s a stepping stone in my career. And yet here I am, not delivering on time—twice—because of you and your needs.”
His irritation came to a sudden, sliding halt. “I had no idea it was for her.”
“How could you? You hung up on me before I had a chance to tell you.”
He muttered an oath. Pushed a palm over his brow. “Mi dispiace. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I called you. I was behind, annoyed because I had prior commitments I, too, had to cancel.”
She hugged her arms around herself. Glared at him. He scowled back. “You,” he said, waving a hand at her, “are so emotional tonight. What’s going on? Is it the pregnancy effect?”
The daggers in her eyes would have sliced him to shreds if they’d been real. “You, Lorenzo Ricci, are so oblivious, so emotionally unaware sometimes it blows my mind.”
He didn’t think that was fair. He thought he was very emotionally aware at times and had been with her a lot lately. They were talking. Communicating. Being honest with each other. The last couple of weeks had just been particularly brutal.
The thought vaporized from his head as his wife headed for the door. Moving with a swiftness born of his superior height and muscle, he made it there at the same time she did. Jamming his palm against the wood, he looked down at his very beautiful, very angry wife.
“We aren’t done talking.”
“Oh, yes, we are.”
“No,” he said deliberately, “we aren’t.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “What else would you like to say?”
“I’d like to say I’m sorry again. I sincerely feel badly that I did not check to see what it was you were working on. If I’d known, I would have come by myself.”
Her stormy blue gaze softened.
“I would also like to know how I am being emotionally unaware.”
She pursed her lips. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” He frowned. “I thought we had the pregnancy thing out in the open. We’re dealing with it.”
“It’s not that.” She shook her head. “Women cannot stand when a man plays the hormone card, Lorenzo. It’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull.”
“Oh. Certo,” he said, nodding. “I will remember that for the future. I had no idea. I thought pregnancy hormones were a documented thing.”
“Lorenzo.” She glared at him. “I’d stop while you’re ahead.”
“Bene.” He snagged an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Is there anything else you would like to tell me? Why you are so upset?”
Her gaze dropped away from his. “You haven’t been emotionally present the last few weeks. I don’t know where your head is. I don’t know where we are. I miss you.”
Guilt tied a knot in his chest. In trying to pull back, to not lead them down a path he couldn’t go, he’d hurt her.
“I’m sorry.” He bent his head and buried his mouth in the curve of her neck. Drank in her irresistible scent. “Things have been crazy. I will do better.”
“It’s... I—” She sighed. “We should go. Find Marc and Penny.”
“Not until you say you’re not angry with me anymore.” He slid his hands down over her bottom and pulled her closer. “I hate it when you’re angry with me.”
Tracing the line of her neck with his lips, he sank his teeth into the cord of her throat where it throbbed against her skin. Her breath hitched. “Fine. I’m not angry at you anymore.”
“I’m not convinced.” He dragged his mouth up to hers. Pushed his fingers into her hair and kissed her. Dominant, persuasive, he sought to fix whatever was going on with her.
