A Family Affair: The Secret; Truth in Lies, Book 8

by Mary Campisi

  The automatic doors opened again and Roman Ventori entered, caught her eye, and nodded. Angie nodded back, let out a slow breath of relief. The man drove her crazy, annoyed the heck out of her, but at least with him, she knew what to expect. It’s not that she knew him, but there was comfort in certain behaviors and they did have a rather bizarre history together, even if it started and ended with his father and Pop Benito’s matchmaking hopes. And while he’d been gone from this town a long time, he knew these people, knew the dynamics and the backstories. He could help her help them with whatever news came about Gina and the baby because it wasn’t like she could excuse herself and leave. No matter how uncomfortable the situation made her—and tightrope emotions like this made her very uncomfortable—she wasn’t leaving. She forced a half smile, stood, made it three steps toward Roman when the model beautiful woman clutched his arm, pressed herself against his side. Angie froze, Roman’s gaze narrowed on her, jaw tense, lips flat.

  Cash advanced on them, glared at the woman, then turned to Roman. “What the hell is she doing here?”

  The woman spoke. “I came because I heard about Gina and the baby. My parents said it was all over the scanner.” Her voice dipped, filled with concern. “Are they going to be all right? Oh, please, I hope they are.”

  “Why do you care so much when you made her life miserable? Is it because you’re the one who’s miserable now? Alone, unloved.” He paused, spat out, “Used up.”

  “That’s enough.” Roman stepped in, stared Cash down.

  But Cash Casherdon didn’t seem to care that Roman Ventori was taller and broader than he was because Cash crossed his arms over his chest, scowled, and tossed out more venom. “You’ve been gone too long to know what she’s done and how many people she’s hurt, and just because she’s acting like she cares, let me clue you in. It’s an act. We all know Natalie Servetti,” he bit out. “Some a little too well.”

  This was Natalie Servetti? Angie zeroed in on the woman’s hand clutching Roman’s arm, the hip pressed against his. Close. Too close. Friends did not stand that close…unless they were more than friends.

  Roman glared at Cash, his lips flattening. “Talk like that again, and we’ll take this outside.”

  “What’s going on here?” Nate Desantro stood in the entrance, his expression fierce, irritated. “Are you two really going to have a pissing match when God knows what’s happening in there?” He pointed to the closed doors. “If you can’t act civilized at a time like this, then you both ought to leave.” Nate settled his gaze on Natalie, said in a tone that held no emotion, “Word has it you’re reformed. If that’s so, then show us a good faith effort and do not cause any drama. Can you do that?” When she nodded, he said, “Good,” as though he didn’t want to waste any more oxygen on the woman, and made his way toward Tess and Angie. “Ladies.” He found a seat, sank down, and dragged both hands over his face.

  The man looked tired. And worried. Was he thinking about his own wife, worrying this could happen to them? Of course he was; only a fool wouldn’t consider it, and this man was no fool. The more Angie was around him, the more she wondered if the gruff exterior was a facade for the caring, intelligent, devoted man underneath. Maybe that’s what Christine saw when she looked at him; maybe that’s why she’d married him. People often showed a side of themselves they wanted others to see and hid the vulnerable part. It was human nature, wasn’t it? Protect the part that can get hurt, expose the part that’s been roughened by life and disappointments. But at some point, if you were ever going to really care about another person, you had to let them see the vulnerable part; you had to trust them enough to believe they wouldn’t crush it, and crush you with it.

  Angie didn’t know if she could do that. She’d come close with Johnny, but she hadn’t really opened up, not one hundred percent, like she bet Nate and Christine Desantro had, or Cash and Tess Casherdon, or Ben and Gina Reed. They were “all in,” scars, fears, and weaknesses. She glanced at Roman who sat across the room with Natalie Servetti, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor. What was he thinking? Should she go to him, talk? It was pretty obvious Natalie Servetti was an outcast in Magdalena, but did Roman think he was, too? Is that why he was with Natalie? Or was there another reason?

  Were they together? Her stomach jumped, twisted, and shot bits of saliva to her throat. Roman and Natalie Servetti? More jumping and twisting, more saliva squirting to her throat. She swallowed, swallowed again, pushed away pictures of those two beautiful bodies naked and entwined.

  “Sorry you had to witness my husband’s temper,” Tess whispered. “Testosterone in all of its glory.”

  “Right.” Angie knew all about tempers and letting them get out of control. She was working on it, trying to identify those pesky triggers that set her off. “So, that’s the woman you told me about the other day?” She tried to ignore Roman and Natalie, but they were in straight eyeshot, several yards away and damn, but she couldn’t help if her eyes insisted on landing there every fifteen seconds. Like right now. Natalie was snuggled against Roman, as close as a separate chair would permit, her dark head on his shoulder, eyes closed, hand clutching his arm. He didn’t seem to notice as he sat statue-still, eyes on the floor, as though he wished himself anywhere but here.

  “That’s the woman,” Tess said, her voice low, gaze darting to her husband who’d slouched in a chair next to Nate Desantro. “She’s probably slept with most of the town, and now we’re supposed to feel sorry for her? I just hope she isn’t sleeping with Roman.” She gasped, her expression shifting to horror. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. She’s not,” she stumbled from one sentence to the next. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

  “Tess, stop. You don’t need to apologize to me. Why would you…” Of course. Tess thought Angie and Roman had a “thing” for each other. “You don’t need to apologize,” she repeated, a bit sharper than necessary, but she wanted to make her point. She and Roman Ventori were not together.

  “Sure, whatever you say.” Tess dropped her voice ten decibels. “But if there’s nothing going on between you two, why’s he staring at you when you aren’t looking, and why did you look like you were going to faint when he walked in with Natalie?” Angie darted a glance at Roman who wasn’t staring at the floor but straight at her with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I thought.”

  ***

  As time dragged by and news of Gina’s hospitalization swept through town, the residents of Magdalena began filtering in. Of course, they were not empty-handed; trays of sandwiches and croissants, peanut butter cookies, cream-filled donuts, apples and grapes, coffee, tea, lemonade. When Pop Benito arrived, he carried six dozen pizzelles for “sustenance and security.”

  Odd, that in a time of distress food brought people together. Angie remembered this from the illness and deaths of her grandparents. There’d been vigils and hours of waiting in hospitals, and everyone said they had no appetite, couldn’t think about eating, but when the food sat in front of them, they ate. Plates of lasagna, baked ziti, meatball subs. Wedding soup and minestrone, on and on the food caravan went until their bellies were full and their hearts grew hopeful. The eating in times of illness or death was a ritual of sorts, a joining that tied people together in sickness, grief, desperation, and hope. Ben had made his way to the waiting room once, looking weary and tense. He said something about the possibility of a cesarean section, but his expression said there was a lot he didn’t know, and most of it was out of his hands. He’d stuffed a donut in his mouth, chugged a bottle of water, and headed back to his wife. That was devotion, that was true love, and that scared the hell out of Angie.

  She managed to eat a ham and Swiss croissant and nibble on a pizzelle but her thoughts were on Ben and Gina and their baby. And Tess and Cash. They were the only couple in the group who weren’t pregnant and from the little Tess had shared and the desperateness in her voice when she spoke of babies and pregnancy, they wanted one but nature wasn�
��t cooperating. Angie sighed, glanced at Roman who had his eyes closed, long legs kicked out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles, and his own personal cling-patch, Natalie Servetti, glued to his arm.

  “I’m going to get some air,” Angie said, handing Tess her second pizzelle. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Sure. I’ll come get you if we hear anything.”

  Angie stood and made her way out the exit doors to the balmy air and the night sounds of crickets, an owl, and a summer breeze. The hospital building was low and squat, and twenty steps and a left turn took her out of the stark lights of the entrance. She leaned against the brick of the building, closed her eyes, and lifted her face to the night air. Exhaustion rolled over her, spilled through her in gulps of worry and concern. She said a silent prayer for the Reeds, for their friends and family, for the town. It was not in her nature to get involved or inquire about strangers, but these people had worked their way past her defenses and made her care. Her breathing leveled, turned slow and steady as the quiet of night calmed her, gave her peace.

  “Hey.”

  Angie’s eyes shot open. Roman Ventori stood an arm’s length away, hands shoved in his pockets, staring down at her. No smile, no smart-ass look, just a stare. Deep, dark, intense.

  “Where’s your sidekick?”

  “Inside.” The look turned darker, more intense. “Look, we’re not…together.”

  A laugh spilled out before she could stop it. “I know that.” But apparently her traitorous body did not know because it turned all warm and tingly.

  “Okay, I just wanted you to know.”

  More staring. Why? she wanted to ask. Why do you want me to know? Of course, she wouldn’t ask that question, would she? But apparently her traitorous brain would. “Why do you want me to know?” Was that breathy voice really hers?

  “Because…” he stumbled, tried again. “Because…ah, hell. You ask too many questions.”

  Now he sounded ticked as if he wished he’d never opened his mouth. But she wanted to hear more, needed to hear more, and the only way to do that was to make him want to tell her. How the hell did she do that? This was so not her style, but if she wanted the answer, she had to ask and ask nicely. Angie forced a sweetness into her voice, attached a smile to it, and said, “I’m sorry I ask so many questions. Please, will you tell me?” One more smile and that should do it.

  “I guess because there’s something about you, Angie Sorrento, that gets under my skin, and not in a bad way.” Those lips inched into a slow smile, stole her breath, made her heart beat triple time. “Not in a bad way at all,” he said as he cupped her chin between his fingers, closed the distance between them, and kissed her. The kiss was gentle at first, cautious, sweet, patient, but then it turned, burst like wildfire when she opened her mouth, welcomed his tongue, sucked. He groaned and pinned her against the brick wall, his hands sifting through her hair, moving along her body, tracing her breasts, her hips, her butt. She was no innocent either as she moaned into his mouth, dragged her hands along his back to his thighs. When he lifted her in his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist, it was Angie who squirmed against the bulge in his jeans, Angie who yanked his shirt up to feel flesh, Angie who let out a moan when he cupped her breast through her T-shirt. She wanted more, oh yes, she wanted all of it. She wanted him.

  She broke the kiss, tried to get away but it was impossible with her legs wrapped around his waist and his left hand holding her against him. “Let me go. Let me go, damn it.” She tried to jerk out of his grasp, but he held tight.

  “Stop it,” he muttered, his gaze dark, unreadable. “Just stop before you hurt yourself.” When she stilled, he released her, eased her along his body, making sure she rubbed against his sex. As if she could ignore it. “What the hell, Angie?”

  Those eyes never left her as he waited for her to say something. Well, he could wait forever because not one word was coming out of this mouth. She tucked in her T-shirt, ran her hands through her hair, and straightened her jeans. She might be able to avoid Roman Ventori, but what answer was she going to give herself? Temporary insanity? Too long without a man? Fear of death? The crisis with the Reeds? Who was she kidding? She could call it whatever she wanted, but the truth had leaked into her brain the second he touched her. She wanted him. Him. Not anybody else. Angie smothered that truth with a shrug and a casual, “These situations make people do crazy things, don’t they?” When he simply stared at her, she shrugged again and said, “Guess you were my moment of craziness. Sorry about that.” Then she turned and made her way back to the waiting room where everything looked the same: the people, the trays of food, Pop’s pizzelles. But nothing was the same, not anymore.

  Chapter 11

  Roman waited fifteen minutes before he walked back into the emergency room waiting area. He spotted the back of Angie’s curly head, turned away from the chair he’d vacated earlier, a deliberate attempt to avoid him. Sure, why not pretend they hadn’t been all over each other a little while ago, tongue to tongue, hip to hip, crotch to… He pushed that last image away. Yeah, they’d just pretend it never happened. Pretend she hadn’t ripped his shirt out of his jeans, rubbed herself against him, moaned in his mouth. Never happened. None of it. Roman ran a hand through his hair, let out a big sigh. No big deal, right? People groped in the dark all the time; hell, they did much worse than that and nobody made a big deal over it. Consenting adults could do whatever they wanted. He and Angie were consenting adults. No. Big. Deal.

  Except it was. Damn it, it was a big deal. His gaze narrowed on the back of her head, willed her to turn around, though he knew she wouldn’t. Chicken. She couldn’t look him in the eye and tell him what had happened or why she’d told him to stop. Hell, what had happened and why had she told him to stop? He wished he knew. He’d gone outside to make sure she was all right because he’d been watching her in the waiting room, taking note of her pale face, the way she pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth, the clasping and unclasping of hands. Those all said everything was not okay, and he’d only meant to check on her when he followed her outside. But when he found her leaning against the brick, eyes closed, lips parted, that wild mass of crazy hair he wanted to touch blowing about her face, he forgot why she annoyed him, forgot why some days he didn’t particularly like her or her upper-handedness, forgot everything but the need to kiss her. He’d left her a way out as he fumbled with his words, more teenager than grown man, but she hadn’t taken it. Instead, she’d stared at him with those brown eyes, that smile slow and welcoming, and when she spoke, he recognized the teasing in her words. He hadn’t pictured Angie Sorrento as a seductress, but he’d been a fool not to see it before. The woman was fire and passion in a pint-sized package and while she might deny the sparks, she’d felt them, he knew it, knew too, he’d make her feel them again. He settled into his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes to work on a plan.

  Natalie returned from wherever she’d been and snuggled against him, her coconut body lotion tickling his nose, and not in a good way. Why had he let her talk him into bringing her here? He’d missed his meeting with Charlotte but that wasn’t actually a bad thing. In fact, he didn’t really like the idea of heading down memory lane with her in a place where a lot of those memories were made—minus clothing. What did she really want? If Natalie had minded her own business and stayed away from the hospital, he’d already know. And he and Angie might have gone on annoying one another, tossing barbs and waging intellectual battle on each other instead of doing something stupid like that kiss. And the touch. Plural: touches. Damn. He pretended he was asleep so he didn’t have to talk to Natalie. A man could only take so much “reform” and “I’m so sorry” in one day. She was edgy because there’d been another panty delivery, this pair black, and the recipient was the new minister in town. Yeah, that would go over well. His brain darted between thoughts of tonight with Angie Sorrento and Natalie Servetti’s panty gifter, trying to figure out a game plan to uncover the
truth behind both. Round and round, he played scenarios, aggravating and exhausting his poor gray matter to the point that when Ben Reed burst through the emergency room door, raised his hands, and said, “It’s a boy!” Roman was so damn relieved he almost hugged the guy.

  The residents of Magdalena bounded out of their chairs, swarmed the new father, congratulated, hugged, slapped on the back, and thanked the good Lord for keeping mother and child safe. Alexander Benjamin Reed entered the world at 3:52 a.m., seven pounds, eight ounces, twenty and a quarter inches long. Mother and baby were resting. Father doing well with a small gash on his forehead suffered when he fainted. Yes, fainted. Ben swore he “passed out” from low blood sugar and the fact that he’d only eaten a donut in the last several hours. Gina didn’t dispute her husband’s story, though she gently reminded him that he should avoid warm rooms with doctors, examination tables, and IVs. His buddies would save the teasing for later, days after the worry of this night had subsided.

  Roman waited his turn, shook Ben’s hand and congratulated him. Natalie decided to hang back near the door. The man might be tired and worn out, but the grin on his face said he’d think about that later because this moment was for celebrating. A pang of sadness shot through Roman, settled in his chest, trickled to his gut. If he and Jess had become parents—a thought he now realized would have been a very bad idea—would anyone have visited them? Would they have baked a ham or made a pot of chicken soup and delivered it to the house? Oh, there would be the silver toothbrush, the deluxe stroller, the gift certificates to high-end department stores, but what about the personal touch that said, “We care”?

  Small towns were about friendship, caring, and community. He’d known that once, had lived it and loved it before the town turned on him. Could he give them another chance? Give a relationship another chance? Would he want to? He glanced across the room, caught Angie’s eye seconds before she looked away. The truth hit him smack in the chest, sucked the air from his lungs, and settled in his brain. Maybe, it said. And again, louder, Maybe.