by Jennie Lucas
Her old insecurity went through her. “You want to introduce me? At a formal ball? To a bunch of wealthy, gorgeous society people?”
“As you said, such social events are necessary, are they not? For the community?”
“I guess so,” she said reluctantly.
“The household staff will plan everything. All you need to do is find a ball gown. Excuse me.” He glanced back at his home office, which was filled with even more lawyers than before. “I must get back to work.”
She didn’t ask questions because she feared he’d only snap at her. She wanted to be supportive, to be a good wife. Surely if she was always agreeable and kind, he would love her for it? Surely she should be as small and quiet as she could, no trouble at all, so she wouldn’t be a burden?
She’d done that most of her life. She told herself she could do it again.
But suddenly, strangely, she didn’t want to. She thought of how she’d felt so powerful in Nico’s bed. How he’d encouraged her to stand up for herself, in everything from not feeling guilty over things that weren’t her fault, to refusing to eat things she didn’t like.
Be happy. Live your life only for yourself.
Okay, she thought, I’ll give it a try.
So the next day, when Honora walked the dog, she didn’t rush right back to the villa in case her husband finished work and wanted to see her. No. She would try to make herself happy.
She took the long coastal path and looked out at the sea.
She could see Le Sirenuse in the distance, the three lonely islands rising from the blue waves. One of the villa’s staff members had told her that, according to ancient legend, the rocks had once been inhabited by sirens who’d seduced sailors to their own destruction.
Honora shivered as she looked at the three rocky islands in the distance. How awful to think that someone could be led to their own ruin, simply by following their heart’s desire.
It felt good to be out of the villa, and not just falling asleep in a chair with a book in her lap, waiting for her husband to have time for her. Honora felt exhilarated to be in this village, to breathe this air, sweet with lemons and salty from the sea, that seemed so different from New York, or even the Hamptons.
As the days passed, she started talking to people and making friends. Once she tried it, she found it wasn’t even hard. Many English-speaking tourists came to the Amalfi Coast, and Trevello’s shopkeepers and inhabitants all spoke English to varying degrees, enabling her to chat with everyone, usually about the sweet-natured dog Figaro, who attracted love everywhere.
As the housekeeper rested her twisted ankle, Honora looked forward to walking her dog every day, hiking along the cliff-side path, even window-shopping in Trevello, looking for a ball gown.
Early morning was the best time to walk, she found, before floods of tourists arrived via buses or cruise ships. When the town was quiet, she could walk Figaro and hear his nails click against the cobblestones, as church bells echoed and shopkeepers swept their doorways and restaurant owners sprayed off their patios. She saw elderly women heading to church—stoop-shouldered, with handkerchiefs covering their hair—while other women of a similar age snuck back furtively to their homes, returning from midnight assignations, chic in Dolce & Gabbana and navigating the crooked streets in high heels.
She loved Italy!
Honora met an older lady of the first type coming up the hillside early one morning, pulling a small wheeled basket filled with groceries. She seemed to be struggling to lift it over the crooked curb in front of a tall gate and stone wall.
Honora hurried forward, Figaro trotting on his leash behind her, his tongue lolling happily. “Please, let me help,” she said awkwardly in English, hoping the woman wouldn’t think she was trying to steal her grocery basket.
The elderly woman smiled at her sheepishly. “Grazie. It is not so easy anymore.” She looked at Honora’s belly. “But you should not be lifting things...”
“I’m fine.” She tilted her head, looking up at the large, decrepit villa above them on the cliff. “Do you work up there?”
She gave a low laugh. “It is worse than that. It is mine.” She paused as a sad expression crossed her face. “For now...”
“Are you moving? That’s a pity. Trevello is so lovely.”
“I wouldn’t leave by choice.” The elderly woman looked down at her wrinkled hands. “Someone is trying to force me from my home.”
“That’s horrible!” Honora was indignant. “There ought to be a law!”
She helped the woman pull the heavy groceries past the gate and up the long, winding steps toward her faded house. It was not an easy journey. Even Figaro looked tired by the time they made it all the way up the many steep steps.
As Honora bid the elderly woman farewell, it crossed her mind that she’d ask their housekeeper if something could be done for her. Perhaps to have her groceries delivered?
Poor old lady with no family to take care of her, and her awful stepson trying to steal her home. When Honora had asked why her family didn’t help, she’d learned that the woman’s children had died when they were babies. Pregnant as Honora was, her heart broke even more.
After that, she made sure to check on her every day, just to say hello, but mostly to make sure the sweet old lady didn’t break her leg trying to haul groceries up alone.
But one such morning, after nearly four weeks in Italy, changed everything.
It had started out so well. The proprietor of one of the little shops had found Honora the ball gown of her dreams, handmade in Naples by his cousin, who’d come that morning to do the final touches on the fit. Her belly was huge now, she had to concede. As she left the shop, the owner and his cousin promised to have the dress delivered to the villa. Just in time too, because their formal reception was tomorrow.
Walking back up the cobblestoned road, the dog bounding happily behind her, Honora hummed happily to herself. Her husband had promised, absolutely sworn, that he’d finalize his business that afternoon. Apparently his acquisition of the Villa Caracciola was on the verge of a breakthrough. His team of lawyers had cracked the current owner’s legal objections, apparently by some unorthodox means.
“Unorthodox?” she’d asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” he’d replied, smiling. “It just means we’re going to win.”
To celebrate, he was going to sail with her on his yacht to the isle of Capri. She was already dressed for the excursion, in maternity capri pants, a white bateau T-shirt, with a red scarf wrapped around her dark hair.
So after tomorrow night’s formal reception, they’d be able to go home to New York. Finally. Her baby’s due date was growing perilously close, less than a month away. She’d started visiting a doctor in Positano for checkups, just in case, but she wanted to be back in New York when she gave birth. Her grandfather kept sending messages, asking when she was coming home.
Honora blinked herself out of her thoughts when she saw the elderly woman, Egidia, standing outside her gate in Trevello, looking around anxiously. As soon as she saw Honora, with Figaro beside her, the woman blurted out, “Is it true your husband is Nico Ferraro?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Do you know him?”
The white-haired woman’s face crumpled. “He is the one who is taking my home...”
Then she’d told Honora a story she’d hardly been able to believe. One she kept thinking about, over and again, for the rest of her dazed walk home.
“There you are,” Nico said when she finally came inside. “Where have you been all this time?”
“Out.” Squatting down, she let Figaro off his leash, and the little dog raced back to the kitchen.
Nico’s forehead furrowed. He seemed confused by her cold tone, as well he should be—he’d never heard it before. “Are you ready to go for a little adventure?”
“Yes,” she said qu
ietly, feeling like she’d already had more adventure than she could stand. As she looked at Nico in the checkered hallway of the elegant villa, it was as if she were seeing him for the first time. He was darkly handsome, wearing a blue shirt with the top two buttons undone. His body was so powerful, his shoulders broad. She’d kissed every inch of his skin, as he had hers.
She’d thought she knew him. She’d only known the man she’d wanted him to be.
Frowning at her unusual reserve, he looked her over from her sandals to her capri pants, to the red scarf in her hair, then bent to kiss her on the cheek. “You look beautiful. Were you shopping in Trevello again?”
“I found a gown for the reception.” She tilted her head. “I was walking Figaro. And talking to people in the village,” she mumbled.
“Figaro?”
Did he really not know? “Luisa twisted her ankle a few weeks ago. Tripped on a stepstool. He’s her dog. You haven’t noticed her hobbling around the kitchen on crutches?”
Nico looked at her in surprise. “Is she? I didn’t notice.” He nuzzled her. “I should bring you to work for me,” he said lazily. “You’re better than a bloodhound. We’d get our deals done faster, and probably cheaper, too, if we knew everyone’s secrets.”
Honora stiffened. “It’s not about ferreting out secrets. It just helps to know what people are going through.”
“Helps what?”
“To know how to be kind, and comfort them through it.”
Nico barked out a laugh, then sobered when he saw she was serious. Looking away, he said in a low voice, “I’m sorry. I just learned to see people’s secrets differently.”
“As weapons?”
He gave a brief nod. “In business, if you know your rival’s priorities—or better yet, their guilty secrets—it’s very useful. If you know someone is running out of cash, you can get them to drop their price because they’re desperate. If you know secrets about their banker, their lawyer, you can convince them to do a shoddy job for their employer. If you—”
“I get it.” Feeling sick, Honora looked at her husband in the grand foyer of the Italian villa. “So that’s what you do? Blackmail people? Hurt them?”
“Blackmail?” Nico looked at her incredulously. “What do you think this is? Real estate isn’t about making friends. It’s a battle. If I’m disciplined, I win. If I’m not, if I’m weak, I’ll be the one who’s destroyed.”
“You see sharing as weakness,” she said slowly. “That’s why when I told you about my parents, you said my secrets were safe with you.”
He straightened. “I want you to feel safe. To know I’m on your side. I will never let anyone hurt you, Honora.”
What about when he was the one who hurt her? she thought.
She was quiet as he drove them to the marina, where they boarded his yacht, the Lucky Bastard. She felt Nico’s gaze, his full attention. But what she’d learned that morning hung like a dark cloud over the distant horizon.
Maybe Nico was right about knowledge being a weapon, she thought. Because what she’d heard about him from Egidia Caracciola felt like a bullet wound in her heart.
She had to confront him about it, but she feared she already knew what his reaction would be. And if she was right, their marriage might come crashing to the ground. She was afraid it would be the end of everything, because how could she spend the rest of her life with someone so heartless and cold?
The yacht crossed the Tyrrhenian Sea to Capri, the legendary playground for the wealthy just off the Italian coast. Around them, the yacht’s staff bustled about, offering sparkling water and fruit, delicious meats and cheeses and freshly baked bread.
But for once, Honora had no appetite.
Nico remained close at her side, touching her hand, being charming, pointing out the sights—particularly the three rocky islands she’d looked at from a distance. “Le Sirenuse,” he said. “Also called Li Galli. There’s a story about sirens, luring lovestruck sailors to their doom...”
“I know,” she said flatly. She felt tears burning the backs of her eyes and blinked fast, looking out at the bright blue horizon. As the yacht skimmed lightly over the water, the beautiful isle of Capri loomed large, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to squelch her emotions for much longer. She turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes.
What else hadn’t he told her?
Who was Nico Ferraro?
“Is everything all right, cara?” he asked in a low voice. Blinking, she tried to smile.
“Of course.” But the words caught in her throat.
He clearly intended to make this afternoon special and romantic. When they arrived at the marina, he was quick to grab her red scarf when it got tugged away from her dark hair by the wind. Holding her hand, he helped her off the gangplank of the ship and along the dock into the charming seaside village. And he didn’t let go of her hand.
As they explored the island together on foot, he was attentive, warm, sweet. But that only made her feel sadder as they wandered in and out of tiny shops, including, at his insistence, the fancy designer boutiques and jewelry stores that filled this exclusive, dreamy island.
Honora preferred the quaint little tourist shops. Trying to avoid his direct gaze, she bought some Limoncello liqueur and gardening gloves for her grandfather, some cioccolato al limone for Phyllis and a hoodie and snow globe for Emmie.
“All these gifts for others,” her husband murmured, looking down at her, cupping her cheek. “I want to get something for you.” He put his large hand gently on her belly. “What do they call it? A push present? I want to get you the best push present in the world, so if you go through pain giving birth to our child, you won’t feel it, but you’ll only remember the reward.”
Honora looked at him, then said in a strangled voice, “Our baby is the reward.”
His expression changed. “Of course. But I also want to get you a gift. Just for you.” He grinned. “Think of it as recompense for all these weeks when I was so distracted.”
He thought people’s secrets were weapons to be used against them—even against his own family. He thought Honora wanted to get paid for giving birth to their child. He thought he could make up for his absence during their honeymoon by throwing money at her. All of it was adding up in strange ways. She swallowed hard.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “It’s early, but you didn’t eat much lunch...”
“If you want,” she said, still not meeting his eyes.
They ate dinner at a taverna on the edge of the sea, where she didn’t even taste her linguine con vongole, and the conversation was stilted. She could feel his bewilderment, that even though he was trying so hard to please her, somehow, it wasn’t working.
They finally returned to the yacht at twilight, and sailed back across the sea as the red and orange sun fell into the western horizon.
He pulled her beside the railing, where the staff couldn’t hear. “What’s going on, Honora?”
“Why do you think something’s going on?” she said, evading him.
Nico looked down at her, so darkly handsome that her heart twisted in her chest. “I wanted today to be special. I hoped to buy you a gift you could treasure...”
Feeling the ache in her throat, she looked away at the dark glittering sea. “The gifts I treasure aren’t things you can buy.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, trying to tease her. “A diamond tiara? Your own yacht? A green Ferrari to match your eyes?”
She said in a low voice, “That’s not what I care about.”
“What is it, then?” Red twilight was turning violet across the Tyrrhenian Sea as he looked down at her grimly. “Tell me what’s wrong, Honora.”
She took a deep breath.
“I want you to tell me why you’re trying to hurt people. And don’t tell me it has anything to do with business.” She looked him in the eyes.
“Why are you trying to destroy your own family?”
* * *
After all their days apart, Nico had wanted today to be special. He’d wanted to romance her, if he could not love her.
After weeks of frustration, his lawyers had finally found a way to force the sale of his father’s ancestral home. Nico’s stepmother had been vicious, keeping the villa tight in her grip, using every trick she could, calling in favors from old friends in law and government, even pulling in environmental and architectural objections. In the last month, Nico had spent millions of euros in legal fees, far more than the property was actually worth.
But now, finally Villa Caracciola would be his. His stepmother was out of money and out of options. The villa was her only asset. She had no choice.
It had been a long, hard fight, but it was nearly over.
Through it all, Nico had missed being able to enjoy his wife’s company, since he’d seen her only at night, in the dark heat of their bed. He’d never intended for her to spend the days of their honeymoon alone, or for their time here to stretch to a month. But as he’d told her, real estate was a war, and this was one battle he did not intend to lose.
Now, he was eager to make up for lost time with Honora, with some grand gesture to delight her. And what better place than the famously romantic island of Capri?
Sailing across the sea in their yacht and walking the charming streets hand in hand with his beautiful wife—so lovely in her white T-shirt showing off her curves, and the red scarf pulling back her long, tumbling dark hair—should have been the most perfect day of their honeymoon.
Instead, the day had been useless. Honora, usually so loving and warm, had refused to even look at him.
Now, out of the blue, she’d attacked him like this.
Nico pulled away from her on the yacht’s railing, feeling strangely hurt. He didn’t understand what she was talking about, but he felt her harsh criticism, just when he’d least expected it.
“Trying to destroy my family?” he repeated, blinking in the twilight. “What are you talking about?”
