her back, needed his heir, so he’d made it happen.
It was not about his feelings for her. Or lack of them... About a sentimental, real desire to give what they’d had a second chance. It was about him repossessing what he felt was his. Staking his claim.
She set down her cup in its saucer. If she was going to do this, she needed to do it with her eyes wide-open, naïveté firmly banished. On her terms. She wasn’t going to allow him to take control, to overwhelm and intimidate her as he had the first time around. She wasn’t sacrificing the independence and freedom she’d carved out for herself and she wasn’t letting her husband break her heart again. Those were her rules.
Defiance drove her back to her worktable when the movers left, where her anger fueled a furious burst of productivity. By the time she finished up a couple of pieces for Alexander Faggini’s Fashion Week show, her watch read 7:00 p.m. Oops. She was supposed to be home having dinner with Lorenzo right now—their first night together again in the penthouse. Unfortunately, she was going to be at least a half hour late.
* * *
“How’s the deal going? Still mired in legalese?”
“Sì.” Lorenzo cradled his mobile between ear and shoulder while he poured himself a drink in deference to the end of the week. “There’s a few small points Bavaro and I have to work through. He’s been a bit of a wild card.”
“Bene.” Amusement danced in Franco’s voice. “I love watching Father on this one. To make Ricci the largest luxury hotel chain in the world is an accomplishment even he can’t match. It kills him to think of you surpassing his achievements.”
Lorenzo smiled. His father, retired now and serving on the boards of other companies, had an endless thirst for competition. That included the one he had with his sons. It had made the bonds between him and Franco even tighter as they had united to combat their father’s powerful personality, with Franco running the shipping operations out of Milan, while Lorenzo oversaw the rest of the company from New York.
“He needn’t worry he’ll be forgotten. He has more than his fair share of achievements.” Lorenzo lifted the whiskey to his mouth and took a sip. “So,” he said, as the fiery spirit burned a soothing path through his insides, “when were you going to tell me about the IVF? I have to hear it from the old man?”
A low oath. “I should have known he’d jump the gun. We didn’t get the results on the latest procedure until today. I was waiting until we knew for sure before laying that on you.”
“I figured it was something like that.” He paused a beat, searching for the right words. “So what was the verdict?”
“It didn’t work. Likely never will.”
A knot formed in his throat. “Mi dispiace. I know how much you and Elena wanted this.”
“It is what it is.”
The raspy edge to his brother’s voice gutted him. It always hurt to be so far away but right now it felt like the sharp blade of a knife. “How is Elena taking the news?”
“Not well. She’s claiming it’s her fault even though I’ve told her it could just as easily be me.”
He closed his eyes. He didn’t know the pain of being denied what he’d always assumed to be his, but he did know what it was like to lose a baby. How deeply it had cut when just a week after being given a clean bill of health, Angelina had inexplicably lost their child. How you didn’t know how much you wanted something until it was taken away from you.
“Be there for her,” he said quietly. Do what he hadn’t done.
Franco exhaled. “We might adopt. I don’t know...it’s a big step.”
“It is. Take your time with it.”
A pause. Franco’s tone was wary when he spoke. “Your reconciliation with Angelina... The timing is...”
“It’s not because of this. Yes, there is that, but it’s become clear to me Angelina and I have unfinished business between us.”
“She walked out on you, fratello. How much more finished do you want it to be?”
Lorenzo winced, pressed a hand to his temple. “I bear responsibility for the demise of my marriage, too. You know I have my ghosts.”
“Sì. But she changed you, Lorenzo. You shut down after she left. You don’t trust like you used to—you aren’t the same man.”
No, he wasn’t. His wife had taken a piece of him with her when she’d walked out that door on the heels of the loss of his child, his fledgling trust in life and love, his half-built bond with Angelina vaporizing on a tide of bitterness so thick he’d wondered if he would ever move past it. But with time, as his grief over Lucia had subsided, his own faults had been revealed. It would be delusional of him to lay the blame solely at his wife’s feet.
“Angie was young. She needed time to grow. I intend for our marriage to work this time.”
“Or you will take the house down around you as you try.” A wry note stained his brother’s voice.
Lorenzo asked about his mother’s upcoming birthday celebrations. They chatted about that for a few minutes before his brother signed off. Lorenzo leaned against the bar and nursed his drink while he waited for his wife to deign to appear.
The thought that he would have to produce the Ricci heir no longer evoked the violent reaction it had when his father had lobbed that grenade at him. Instead of feeling roped and tied, he felt strangely satisfied. As if his father’s directive had been the incentive he had needed to rewrite a piece of history that hadn’t gone down as it should have.
Two years after the death of Lucia, he had still been without a taste for women the night he’d met Angelina in Nassau. Plagued by demons, if the truth be known, over the wife he hadn’t protected. Until Angie had walked out on the terrace while he’d been talking to one of her father’s associates and he’d felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.
All it had taken was one dance, his hands taking purchase of her lush curves, before he’d found himself in an isolated part of the gardens taking over the seduction, driven by a need he couldn’t name. His libido had woken up like a five-alarm blaze by the time they’d made it to his luxurious room on the Carmichael estate. Somehow, in the haze of his still ever-present grief, Angie had brought him back to life.
His mouth twisted as he brought the whiskey to his lips. Little had he known that the passion they shared would devolve into the plot from The War of the Roses. That the only place he and his young wife would be in sync was in the bedroom, where they’d solved every argument with hot, burn-your-clothes-off sex.
The clock chimed seven thirty. His good mood began to evaporate. The elevator doors swished open a couple of minutes later, his wife breezing in dressed in black capris and a sparkly, peasant-style blouse. Her hair pulled back in a ponytail, face devoid of makeup, she was still the most exquisite woman he’d ever known.
“Long day?” he drawled, leashing his anger.
Pink color stained her cheeks. “It was. I had to finish up some pieces for a show. I’m sorry I’m late.”
No, she wasn’t. But for the sake of their fresh start and given everything he’d thrown at her, he cut her some slack. “Go change.” He cocked his head toward the bedroom. “Constanza unpacked your things. She left dinner in the oven. It’ll keep while we have a drink.”
Her eyes darkened at the order. Firming her mouth, she dropped her purse on a chair and swept by him.
“Angie?”
She swung around.
“Put your wedding rings on.”
She lifted her chin. “Is this how it’s going to be, Lorenzo? Just like old times? You firing orders at me? Expecting me to run and do your bidding?”
“Married