Her Brooding Italian Boss (11 page)

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.

“Tell me more about your childhood.” Changing her mind, she waved her hand to stop his response. “No. Tell me about Constanzo finding you. I’ve only ever heard bits and pieces of that story from Olivia. I’d love to hear it from your perspective.”

He grinned sheepishly and glanced down at his empty salad plate. A waitress strolled over and said something in Italian before she poured him a second glass of wine and took his empty plate.

He sucked in a breath. “Imagine being exactly where you are right now financially, taking your last pennies and getting on a plane to another continent and literally swapping a painting every month for your rent.”

She sighed dreamily. “It sounds romantic.”

“It was terrifying.”

“Yes, but at least you had something to barter. You had paintings that your landlord obviously wanted.”

He sniffed a laugh. “Don’t think he was being altruistic. I’m sure he’s made a bundle off me.”

“Maybe. But you still had something to trade.”

“Right. After I bought the canvases and paint.” He shook his head. “I was always scrambling for odd jobs, in a country I didn’t know, as I learned to speak the language.”

The breeze lifted the hair around his shoulders and she saw the tip of the webbed wing of his dragon tattoo, the sexy contrast to the quiet, calm man before her. Totally captivated by his smooth voice and his cool sophistication in the white shirt that accented his olive skin, she put her elbow on the table and her chin on her fist. “So what happened?”

He lifted his wineglass. “Constanzo bartered Tucker into paving the way for us to meet.”

“So he’d already found you?”

Antonio nodded. “Yes. But he was clumsy about it. He’d chased my mom out of his office when she told him she was pregnant and she’d disappeared, gone to America without even telling her family where she was going. Humiliated, she clearly didn’t want anyone to find her.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Her family didn’t even know I existed. But Constanzo knew that somewhere in the world was a child he’d rejected and he knew our getting to know each other wasn’t going to be easy.”

“Wow.”

“So Constanzo enlisted Tucker’s help, but it was actually Olivia who brought me into the fold.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tucker is like a bull in a china shop. Very much like my dad. Olivia appealed to me as a person. We connected immediately.”

She smiled. She could see Olivia and Antonio connecting. She saw signs of their closeness every time they were together. Until he’d stopped painting, they’d been totally in sync about his career. They connected like friends, not romantically, the way Laura Beth was drawn to him. But that was probably why it had been so easy for Antonio and Olivia. They were friends only, while she and Antonio had an attraction flipping back and forth between them, a longing to be close that actually somehow kept them separated.

“So how did they spring it on you that you were the long-lost son of a billionaire?”

“My cousin Maria had apparently figured everything out.” He laughed. “Maria makes bulls in china shops look tame. So rather than risk that she’d bulldoze the information into a conversation, they told me at my first showing here in Italy.”

She winced. “Yikes.”

“It was weird. But Constanzo had been involved in the preparations for the showing right from the beginning as backer. So I’d gotten to know him a bit, and when they told me he was my dad, instead of that resulting in confusion, it just sort of pulled everything together.”

The warm breeze ruffled past again, drawing her gaze to the square, the tourists and street vendors. “That’s nice.”

“What about you?”

Her gaze snapped over to his. Asking about his dad was supposed to keep the conversation off her. Now, here he was, bringing it back to her again. “Me?”

“Any odd stories in your life?”

“Unless you count the story of me getting pregnant, my life has been simple. Uncomplicated.” She shrugged. “Which is why I’m simple, silly Laura Beth.”

“Have you ever thought that being simple, being honest, being kind is a good thing?”

Her breath stuttered into her lungs. This was why she was falling head over heels in love with him. He didn’t just like her as she was. He made her feel that who she was was more than enough. It was special. And she was so hungry to be special that she gobbled up his compliments like gelato.

“I used to.”

“You should start believing it again.” He took her hand and she froze. The way he touched her always sent a zing of excitement through her, but it also always felt right. Natural. As if the two of them had been created to touch and love and talk.

“To me, you are wonderful.”

If she still had a sliver of her heart left, he took it with those words. And the horrible truth hit her. She wasn’t falling in love with Antonio. She was already totally gone. So in love with him that when she had to leave, her heart would dissolve into a puddle of sadness.

CHAPTER TEN

G
ETTING
READY
FOR
bed that night, she once again forced herself to face reality. She truly loved Antonio, and she believed he loved her too. Not the head-over-heels way she loved him, or the way he’d loved Gisella, but in a quieter, gentler way.

But he didn’t
want
to love her. She saw the hesitation in his eyes every time he pulled his hands back, stepped away from her, turned away rather than kiss her. His wife might be dead, but she was very much alive in Antonio’s heart. If he loved Laura Beth, and she believed he did, it wouldn’t be the same way Tucker adored Olivia or Ricky worshipped Eloise. It would be a quiet, simple, you-are-second-best kind of love.

She let that realization wash over her because it would dictate every decision she made from now until she boarded a plane and left him...left this beautiful place.

Knowing that he had feelings for her, she could push him to admit them. She could promise him the one thing he truly wanted—his ability to paint. She could be his muse forever.

She would win him. Win a place in his life.

But even if he asked her to marry him, she would always be second-best.

Was winning the object of her love, getting to be with the man she loved, worth never being in first place in anyone’s life?

She didn’t know. Right now, just the thought of leaving him, or only seeing him at friends’ functions, where he’d be distantly polite to her, shattered her heart. She wasn’t even sure she could walk away. As much as she needed her mom’s help, she also needed Antonio. She needed to hear him say she was special. She needed the feeling of purpose he’d inspired in her.

But she also needed to be someone’s one true love.

And Antonio had had his one true love.

* * *

Antonio refused to work on Sunday, so it was Monday morning before they headed to the studio again. Knowing they would be working, she’d worn the black dress and spike heels, wound her hair into the fancy hairdo and put on makeup.

He raced down the cobblestone path. “Today is the day I get you on canvas.”

She laughed. “Really? All in one day?”

“I’ll do a slight pencil drawing today and from here on out you won’t need to pose every day, just when I want to be reminded of something.”

“Sounds good.”

It really didn’t sound good. It sounded like the beginning of the end. Still, she kept up the happy facade as he chose canvas, found pencils and went to work.

But he cursed at his first attempts to sketch her. He took digital pictures and studied the light, the angle of her head, shoulders and torso. But nothing pleased him. By noon, he was annoyed with himself, and they quit for the day.

Tuesday, he got angry. He’d drawn plenty of versions of her, had captured the look he wanted in his initial drawings, but none of the sketches on canvas caught the look he wanted to show the world.

On Wednesday, she tried talking. So what if her face was moving? He wasn’t getting anything he liked anyway. And when she talked, she usually calmed him or inspired him. But that day it didn’t help.

As he ran an eraser over the shadowy pencil lines he’d made, her purpose shivered through her. The one thing she really wanted out of life—the one memory she wanted to hold in her heart to prove her time had meant something—was to pull him out of his anger, his funk, and get him painting again, and she was failing.

So she asked about Constanzo and let Antonio relax as he talked about his dad, about the success of his first showing and his rapid rise in the world of art. But he still sighed heavily and tossed that morning’s canvas out the back door as if it were trash.

She wondered if sweet, wonderful Gisella had ever seen his little fits of temper, and had to hold back a gasp. They’d never spoken about his wife! They’d never even brushed against the real reason he didn’t paint. And she suddenly saw the mistake in that. By ignoring that they were, in effect, trying to put a bandage on an open wound. She’d brought him this far by being someone he wanted to paint, but what if that was only half the battle? What if he needed to talk out some of his pain? What if he needed to face the sadness inside him before he could actually use his talent to the fullest?

As he set another canvas on the easel, she swallowed. Sucked in a breath. Prayed for strength. And finally said, “So is this what happened when you stopped painting?”

He peered over. “Excuse me?”

“Did you try canvas after canvas and toss them aside?”

He bristled. “Yes.”

“So tell me about it.”

“No.”

She sighed. “Look, I get it that you can’t paint because you lost the love of your life. I just lost a boyfriend who didn’t really like me and it hurt like hell. But you lost the love of your life. You need to address that.”

His expression shifted from angry to confused. Twice, he opened his mouth to say something. Twice, he stopped himself.

“What?”

He licked his lips and turned away. “Nothing.”

Purpose rattled through her again. She needed to get him to admit he’d quit painting because without his wife his art had no meaning. He needed to say the words. Needed those words to come out into the open so he could face them. “It’s not nothing. It’s
something
. Tell me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Look, this...me posing for you...is all about you getting your mojo back. So we’ve hit an impasse.” She glanced down at her black dress and heels, then smiled up at him. “I helped you through the last one by recreating the look that inspired you. Now I’m sensing that it’s your wife—your love for your wife—that’s holding you back. I don’t think I’m wrong. You need to talk about it.”

He tossed his pencil to the metal desk, massaged his forehead, then laughed slightly. “No.”

A minute went by in complete silence, but eventually he picked up a pencil and began drawing a light outline on the canvas.

Desperation filled her, but so did a realization. In falling for him so quickly, she’d forgotten his real pain. Maybe the first move was actually hers. “I don’t think I ever told you I was sorry.”

He peeked away from his work, across the room at her. “For what?”

“That you lost your wife.” She paused a second. Though forcing him to talk about his wife was the right thing to do, it hurt. Gisella was the reason he would never love her. And she gave herself a space of time to acknowledge that pain before she said, “She was beautiful.”

He turned his attention back to the canvas. “Yes. She was.”

Laura Beth swallowed hard. “And special.”

He said nothing.

“Please. I think you need to talk about her.”

“No.”

“My gram told me one of the hardest things about losing my pap was that after a few weeks people stopped talking about him. She longed to remember him, to keep his memory alive, and people seemed to forget him.”

“Laura Beth, please. That’s enough.”

“I just want you to know that you can talk about her with me.”

He stepped away from the canvas, his spine stiff, his eyes narrow. Irritation vibrated from him across the room to her. “Dear God! Will you just let it drop?”

She snapped her mouth shut. She knew he might not be eager to talk about Gisella, but she hadn’t expected him to get angry. “I’m sorry. I just desperately want this for you. I want you to be able to paint again.”

* * *

Antonio’s fingers tightened on his pencil. He realized she was trying to help him relax by what she considered to be a logical method, but she had no way of knowing her comments about his wife were actually doing more harm than good.

Still, it wasn’t her fault. No one knew the real story, his real pain, and though he would die before he would admit his failings, he could at least let Laura Beth know she wasn’t at fault.

“Look, my wife wasn’t exactly what everyone thought.”

“Okay.”

Again a soft word filled with regret. He shifted a bit, putting himself solidly behind the canvas. He hated the self-loathing in her voice. Hated that he was responsible for it. He might not be able to tell her the whole story, but he could tiptoe around enough facts that she’d stop feeling bad.

“I’m not angry with you. I’ve simply never spoken about my wife with anyone.”

“I still think you should.”

He sniffed a laugh. “Honestly,
carissima
, I don’t know what I’d say.”

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”

The truth would probably scandalize her. But he suddenly noticed that his pencil was moving with easy efficiency. The image he captured was perfect. His vision. Exactly what he wanted.

He didn’t know if it was the pose or the distraction of talking or even the power of the topic, but he was working...effortlessly. And he couldn’t break the spell, ruin the moment or lose the opportunity.

“I wish I could tell you the truth.” As the words spilled out and the picture before him began to take shape, something inside his chest loosened. A weird kind of excitement nudged his heart, and he wondered if she was right. Did he need to talk about his wife to let his anger with her go?

His pencil paused. He glanced over at Laura Beth. He might need to talk, but was Laura Beth—was anyone—ready to hear what he had to say? “The story of my marriage is not a happy one.”

She frowned and the look he’d been trying to capture flitted over her features, filled her eyes. A longing so intense it shifted every muscle in her face, darkened her eyes.

His pencil began to move again, feverishly, desperate to get that expression.

“You weren’t happy?”

“Is anybody ever really happy?”

“Don’t talk in abstracts when you know the truth. Olivia and Tucker are happy. Content. Eloise and Ricky are happy. You know happy. You know what it looks like. So you know if you were happy or not.”

Absorbed in his work, more grateful that he was succeeding than antsy about the conversation, he said, “Then we were not.”

“Then I’m sorry.” She waited a beat before she said, “Want to tell me what happened?”

As his pencil captured the fine details that made Laura Beth who she was, he weighed his options. Sunlight pouring in from the wall of windows gave the quiet room the feel of a sacred space. A time and place he could be honest. Having been left by the father of her child, if anyone could understand his situation, it would be Laura Beth.

And if telling her the truth was what he needed to do to rid himself of the demons that tormented him, then so be it.

He cut right to the chase, didn’t mince words, but was as honest, as open, as she’d asked him to be. “My wife ran around on me and aborted my child.”

The words that sounded so simple, so reasonable, in his head leveled him. His wife had gotten rid of his baby. Made a mockery of his naive love for her. Made him a fool. And now the words were out in the open, hanging on the air.

Behind the canvas, he squeezed his eyes shut, ran his angry fingers along his forehead. What was he doing?

He heard a soft swish, then saw Laura Beth’s long legs approaching before she appeared at his side.

“I am so sorry.”

A piece of her dark hair had fallen loose from its pins and framed her face. Her green eyes filled with sadness.

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

“What? That your marriage was a mess?”

“That my marriage was a lie. And I was a fool.”

She stepped closer, examining his face. “All this time, I thought you were mourning her.” She shook her head as if confused. “Everybody thought you’d been so sad these past years because you mourned her.”

“Not her, my child. To the world she was an icon. But I lived the truth. She was a narcissist, who did everything she did not out of love or compassion but to make herself look important.” He caught Laura Beth’s gaze. “For two years I’ve been trapped. I couldn’t tell the world who or what she was and yet I couldn’t live the lie.”

Her face softened. “Oh, Antonio.”

Turning away from her, he grabbed a cloth and wiped his hands.

“You should talk about this with Olivia. She knows all about being forced to live a lie.”

He shook his head. “I don’t really want anyone to know.”

“I know.”

He sniffed a laugh.

“So maybe, since you started opening up, you should keep going.” She paused, waited for him to look at her. “Get it off your shoulders.”

Her honest eyes beckoned. The feeling of something loosening in his chest shuddered through him again and he knew she was right. He’d started the story. He needed to finish it.

“A year after we were married, she scheduled a trip for her charity. I’d lost her itinerary, so I went into her computer to find it and what I found was an identical itinerary for a man. She had an explanation, of course, so I felt foolish for accusing her.”

He walked away from the easel. “Dear God, she held that first accusation over my head every time I questioned something she said or did. She’d remind me of how bad I felt over that mistake and I’d back off. For months, I believed lie after lie. Then she began to get careless. Her lies weren’t as tight. Newspaper pictures of her with one man became commonplace. I saw the smiles that passed between them. I
saw
the intimacy. Until eventually I got so angry I went through the documents in her computer in earnest and that’s when I found the abortion.”

Laura Beth squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m so sorry, Antonio.”

“She denied it. But I told her I had seen the appointment on her calendar, the check that paid the clinic. She told me that her life was her charity and she didn’t want any time taken away from that for any reason. She said she wasn’t cut out to be a mom. I exploded and told her I wanted to be a dad and she laughed. That’s when I knew our marriage was over.” He tossed a rag to the table. “I don’t believe she ever loved anyone as much as she loved herself. The fact that she didn’t even give me an option with our child proved she never thought beyond herself.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You needn’t be. She taught me some valuable lessons. People change. Love doesn’t last.” He sniffed a laugh. “Trust no one.”