‘When?’ she asked, scrolling back desperately.
‘The photos,’ he said with a wry smile on the mouth she just wanted to kiss now. You told me you’d deleted them, but you haven’t. They’re still on your laptop. I saw them just now. I opened your laptop to check up on pregnancy tests and I found them. Photos of me. Why?’
She closed her eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter why.’
‘It does to me, because I know why I would want photos of you. Why I took them. So I can look at the images when you’re gone, and still, in some small way, have you with me. Amy, I’m scared,’ he went on, and she opened her eyes and looked up at him again, seeing the truth of it in his eyes.
‘I’m scared I’ll fail you, let you down like I let Lisa down. My lifestyle is chaotic, and it’s not conducive to a happy marriage. How many celebrity chefs—forget celebrity, just normal chefs—are happily married? Not many. So many of their marriages fall apart, and I don’t want that to happen to us, but I need you in my life, and I’ll have to trust your faith in me, your belief that we can make it work. That I won’t let you down.’
‘You already have, today. You didn’t listen.’
He closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly, and then he looked up, his eyes locking with hers, holding them firm.
‘I know. And I’m sorry, but I’ll never do it again. I love you, Amy, and I need you, and I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. Please marry me.’
He meant it. He really, truly meant it.
She closed her eyes, opened them again and smiled at him. She thought he smiled back, but she couldn’t really see any more. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘Oh, yes, please.’
He laughed, but it turned into a ragged groan, and he hauled her into his arms and cradled her against his heart.
‘You won’t let me down,’ she told him. ‘I won’t let you. Just one more thing—will you please kiss me? I’ve forgotten what it feels like.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Ella’s downstairs with your mother, and she needs to be back in bed in her own home, and so do I. Come home with us, Amy. It doesn’t feel right without you.’
It didn’t feel right without him, either. Nothing felt right. And home sounded wonderful.
‘Kiss me first?’ she said with a smile, and he laughed softly.
‘Well, it’s tough but I’ll see if I can remember how,’ he murmured, and she could feel the smile on his lips...
EPILOGUE
‘ARE YOU READY?’
Such simple words, but they’d had the power to change the whole course of her life.
Was she ready?
For the marriage—the lifetime—with Leo?
Mingling with the birdsong and the voices of the people clustered outside the church gates were the familiar strains of the organ music.
The overture for their wedding.
No. Their marriage. Subtle difference, but hugely significant.
Amy glanced through the doorway of the church and caught the smiles on the row of faces in the back pew, and she smiled back, her heart skittering under the fitted bodice that suddenly seemed so tight she could hardly breathe.
The church was full, the food cooked, the champagne on ice. And Leo was waiting for her answer.
Her dearest friend, the love of her life, who’d been there for her when she’d scraped her knees, had her heart broken for the first time, when her father had died, who’d just—been there, her whole life, her friend and companion and cheerleader. Her lover. And she did love him.
Enough to marry him? Till death us do part, and all that?
Oh, yes. And she was ready. Ready for the chemistry, the fireworks, the amazingness that was her life with Leo.
Bring it on.
She straightened her shoulders, tilted up her chin and gave Leo her most dazzling smile.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m ready. How about you? Because I don’t want you feeling pressured into this for the wrong reason. You can still walk away. I’ll understand.’
‘No way,’ he said, just as firmly. ‘It’s taken me far too long to realise how much I love you, and I can’t think of a better reason to marry you, or a better time to do it than now.’
His smile was tender, his eyes blazing with love, and she let out the breath she’d been holding.
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she said with a little laugh, and he smiled and shook his head.
‘Silly girl. Amy, are you sure you don’t want my father to walk you down the aisle? He’s quite happy to.’
‘No. I don’t need anyone to give me away, Leo, and you’re the only man I want by my side.’
‘Good.You look beautiful, Amy,’ he added gruffly, looking down into her eyes. ‘More beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said softly ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’
She kissed his cheek and flashed a smile over her shoulder at her bridesmaids. ‘OK, girls? Good to go?’
They nodded, and she turned back to Leo. ‘OK, then. Let’s do this,’ she said, and she could feel the smile in her heart reflected in his eyes.
‘I love you, Amy,’ he murmured, and then slowly, steadily, he walked her down the aisle.
And when they reached the chancel steps he stopped, those beautiful golden eyes filled with love and pride, and he turned her into his arms and kissed her.
The congregation went wild, and he let her go and stood back a little, his smile wry.
‘That was just in case you’d forgotten what it’s like,’ he teased, but his eyes weren’t laughing, because marrying Amy was the single most important thing he would ever do in his life, and he was going to make sure they did it right.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from HER BROODING ITALIAN BOSS by Susan Meier.
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CHAPTER ONE
LAURA BETH MATTHEWS sat on the rim of the old porcelain tub in the New York City apartment she had to vacate by the next morning. Her long brown hair had been swirled into a sophisticated French twist. Her lilac organza bridesmaid gown was an original Eloise Vaughn design. A pregnancy test shook in her right hand.
Tears pooled in her eyes. There was no question now. She was going to have a baby.
“Laura Beth! Come on!” Eloise called from the hall as she knocked on the bathroom door. “I’m the bride! I should at least get ten minutes in the bathroom to check my makeup.”
“Sorry!” She swiped at her tears and quickly examined her face in the medicine cabinet mirror. No real mascara smudges yet, but the day was young.
For the first time since she, Eloise and their third original roommate, Olivia Prentiss Engle, had decided to spend the night before Eloise’s wedding together and dress together, Laura Beth regretted it. She was pregnant. The father of her child, one of Olivia’s husband’s vice presidents, had called her a slut when she’d told him she was late and they might be parents. And now she didn’t just have to smile her way through a wedding; she had to hide a pregnancy test in a tiny bathroom.
She glanced around. “I’ll b
e two more seconds.” Out of time, she wrapped the stick in toilet paper and tossed it in the little wastebasket. Satisfied neither Olivia nor Eloise would rummage through the trash, she sucked in a breath, pasted on a happy smile and opened the door.
Eloise stood before her, glowing, a vision in her original Artie Best gown, designed specifically by her boss, the one and only Artie Best. Smooth silk rode Eloise’s feminine curves. Rhinestones sparkled across the sweetheart neckline. And real diamonds—enough to support the population of a third-world country for a decade—glittered at her throat.
Tears pooled in Laura Beth’s eyes again, but this time they were tears of joy for her friend. Eloise, Olivia and Laura Beth had moved to New York City with stars in their eyes. Now Olivia was a married mom. Eloise would be married in a few hours. And Laura Beth was pregnant, with a deadbeat for her child’s father and twenty-four hours to vacate her apartment.
She was in deep trouble.
* * *
Antonio Bartulocci studied his shoulder-length curly black hair in the mirror. He’d gotten it cut for Ricky and Eloise’s wedding, but he still debated tying it back, out of the way. He looked to the left, then the right, and decided he was worrying over nothing. Eloise and Ricky were his friends because they liked him just as he was. They didn’t care that he was a tad bohemian. Most artists were.
He straightened his silver tie one last time before he walked out of the bedroom of his suite in his father’s Park Avenue penthouse and headed for the main room.
Comfortable aqua sofas faced each other atop a pale gray area rug, flanked by white Queen Anne chairs. A gray stone fireplace took up the back wall, and a dark walnut wet bar sat in the corner. The view of the New York City skyline from the wall of windows in the back had taken Antonio’s breath away when he first saw it. Since his wife’s death, it barely registered.
“Hurry up, Antonio,” his father called from the bar as he poured bourbon into a crystal glass. He wore a simple black suit, a white shirt and yellow striped tie that would be replaced by a tuxedo for the reception later that night. Though he was well into his seventies and a few pounds overweight, Italian billionaire Constanzo Bartulocci was a dashing man. A man whose looks spoke of money and power, who lived not in an ordinary world, but in one he could control. Unlike Antonio’s world, where passion, inspiration and luck ruled.
“I’m right behind you.”
Constanzo jumped and faced his son, his right hand over his heart. “You scare me.”
Antonio laughed. “I’ll bet I do.”
After downing his drink in one long swallow, Constanzo pointed at the door. “Let’s get going. I don’t want to end up in a crush of reporters like we did the last time we went somewhere.”
Antonio straightened his tie one more time. “Hey, you made me the paparazzi monster I am today.”
“You are not a monster.” The lilt of an Italian accent warmed his father’s voice. “You could be one of the most important painters of the twenty-first century. You are a talent.”
He knew that, of course. But having talent wasn’t what most people imagined. He didn’t put his gift away in a shiny box and take it out when he needed it. Talent, the need to paint, the breathtaking yearning to explore life on a canvas, were what drove him. But for the past two years he hadn’t even been able to pick up a brush. Forget about painting, accepting commissions, having a purpose in life. Now, he ate, drank, slept—but didn’t really live. Because he’d made millions on his art in the past few years, and, with his savvy businessman father’s help, he’d parlayed those millions into hundreds of millions through investments, money wasn’t an issue. He had the freedom and the resources to ignore his calling.
The private elevator door silently opened. Antonio and his father stepped inside. Constanzo sighed. “If you had a personal assistant, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Antonio worked to hide a wince. He didn’t have to ask what his father meant. He knew. “I’m sorry.”
“I wanted you to be the artist who did the murals for Tucker’s new building. Those works would have been seen by thousands of people. Ordinary people. You would have brought art to the masses in a concrete way. But you missed the deadline.”
“I don’t have a brain for remembering dates.”
“Which is exactly why you need a personal assistant.”
Antonio fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. What he needed was to be left alone. Or maybe to roll back the clock so far that he hadn’t married the woman who’d betrayed him. But that wasn’t going to happen. He was stuck in a combination of grief and guilt that paralyzed him.
Constanzo’s limousine awaited them on the street. They walked under the building portico without speaking. Antonio motioned for his father to enter first.
When he slid in behind him, soft white leather greeted him. A discreet minibar sat near the media controls. His father hit a few buttons and classical music quietly entered the space.
The driver closed the door and in less than a minute the limo pulled onto the street.
“A PA could also handle some of the Gisella problems that remain.”
Antonio’s jaw twitched.
Constanzo sighed. “Well, you don’t seem to want to handle them.” He sighed again, more deeply this time. “Antonio, it’s been two years. You cannot grieve forever.”
Antonio glanced at his father. He let his lips lift into a small smile. Pretending he was grieving had been the only way he’d survived the years since his wife’s death. Beautiful Gisella had burst into his life like a whirlwind. Twenty-four hours after they’d met they’d been in bed. Twenty-four weeks after that they were married. He’d been so smitten, so hopelessly in love, that days, weeks, months hadn’t mattered. But looking back, he recognized the signs he should have seen. Her modeling career hadn’t tanked, but it had been teetering, and marriage to the newly famous Italian painter had put her in the limelight again. Her sudden interest in international causes hadn’t cropped up until she found a way to use them to keep herself, her name, in the papers and on everybody’s lips. She’d even spoken at the UN. He’d been so proud...so stupid.
“My son, I know adult children don’t like nagging, meddling parents, but this time I am correct. You must move on.”
Without replying, he looked out the window at the hustle and bustle of New York City in the spring. Bumper-to-bumper traffic, most of it taxicabs. Optimistic residents walking up and down the sidewalk in lightweight coats. The sun glittering off the glass of towering buildings. At one time he’d loved this city more than he’d loved the Italian countryside that was his home. But she’d even ruined that for him.
“Please do not spoil Ricky and Eloise’s day with your sadness.”
“I’m not sad, Dad. I’m fine.”
The limo stopped. They exited and headed into the enormous gray stone cathedral.
The ceremony was long and Antonio’s mind wandered to his own wedding, in this same church, to a woman who hadn’t really loved him.
No, he wasn’t sad. He was angry, so furious some days his heart beat slow and heavy with it. But he couldn’t ruin the reputation of a woman who’d used him to become a cultural icon any more than he could pretend she’d been the perfect wife she’d portrayed.
Which meant he couldn’t have a PA digging through papers in his office or documents on his computer.
The ceremony ended. The priest said, “I now introduce Mr. and Mrs. Richard Langley.”
His best friend, Ricky, and his beautiful new wife, Eloise, turned and faced the crowd of friends and relatives sitting in the pews. A round of applause burst through the church and Ricky and Eloise headed down the aisle. Matron of honor Olivia Engle and best man Tucker Engle, also husband and wife, followed them out of the church. Antonio walked to the center aisle to meet his partner, Laura Beth Matthews.
Laura
Beth was a sweet young woman he’d met and had gotten to know fairly well over the years when she’d visited Olivia and Tucker at their Italian villa, and every time there was a baptism, birthday or holiday party at the Engle penthouse on Park Avenue. Unfortunately, she had usually been with an annoying boyfriend, someone who didn’t fit into Tucker Engle’s world or Ricky Langley’s, but who desperately tried to.
Laura Beth slid her hand to Antonio’s elbow and he smiled at her before they walked down the aisle and out of the church.
As Ricky and Eloise greeted the long line of guests filing through the vestibule, Antonio turned to Laura Beth. “You look lovely.”
She glanced down at the pale purple dress. “Eloise designs the most beautiful gowns.”
“Ah, so she did this herself.”
Laura Beth nodded. When she brought her gaze back to his, though, her green eyes were dull. Not sad for the change in her life that the marriage of her last roommate would bring, but lifeless.
He caught her forearm to bring her attention to him. “Are you okay?”
She suddenly brightened. “Sure. Yes. I’m fine. Wonderful. It was just a stressful morning.”
“Tell me about it. Have you ever tried traveling with a billionaire who expects everybody and everything to be at his fingertips?”
Laura Beth laughed. “Oh, come on. I love your father! He’s not a prima donna.”
“You’ve only dealt with him when you were on vacation or at a party for one of Tucker and Olivia’s kids. Just try flying across the Atlantic with him.”
She laughed again and something lightened in Antonio’s chest. With her dark brown hair and bright green eyes, Laura Beth was much too pretty to be so—
He paused, not able to put a label on her mood. Nervous didn’t quite hit the mark. Unhappy wasn’t it either. She seemed more like distant. As if she were preoccupied.
Best Friend to Wife and Mother? Page 18
