Lidia arrived at the orphanage during our visit last summer. She had dirt on her face, dark circles under her eyes, and wore tattered pajamas. She was malnourished, frightened, and shy. And for whatever reason, she would only allow Cristiano to come anywhere near her.
It was an unusual bond at first, but the more time we spent around her, and the more I saw the two of them interact, the more we began to feel an undeniable attachment, and the more we began to realize that imagining a future without this little girl in it felt sort of . . . empty . . . in a way it hadn’t before.
We talked it over, our discussions ranging from casual to in-depth. But it wasn’t until last January, when we were knee-deep in our usual routine, when we realized it was Lidia’s birthday, and that she wouldn’t be sharing it with a mother or father. We both wanted to be there, celebrating with her, showering her with love and confetti and balloons. We missed her smile. Her laugh. The way her tiny arms felt wrapped around our shoulders.
So we made some phone calls. We returned, yet again, to the Ciudad de la Esperanza. And we set the wheels in motion to make this little girl ours.
Delilah pads lightly from around the corner, a baby swaddled in a blue blanket sleeping soundly in her arms, and oversized house slippers covering her feet. There’s a contented peacefulness in her exhausted expression.
“Look who’s here-” she begins to say, stopping in her tracks when she sees my sweet little dark-haired angel. Her eyes widen before glistening, and she lifts her hand to her lips, sucking in a startled breath. “Daphne . . .”
I glance at Cristiano who wears a proud beam as he rests his hand on Lidia’s shoulder. Lidia reaches up and slips her tiny fingers into his palm, smiling when he gives it a reassuring squeeze.
“This is our new daughter, Lidia,” I introduce them. “Lidia, this is your aunt, Delilah. My sister.”
“One of your aunts,” Cristiano corrects me. “You have several.”
“That’s right,” I add. “Lots of aunts and uncles and cousins. Gran familia.”
She turns to Cristiano, burying her face against his wool coat. Scooping her up in his arms, she wraps her hands around his neck.
“It’s a lot to take in, I know.” I say, rubbing comforting circles into her back.
Delilah steps closer, her gaze flicking between Cristiano’s and mine. “I had no idea . . .”
“No one knew,” I say with a soft grin. “The adoption process was lengthy and complex, and there were no guarantees. We didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.”
“So this is why you’re on sabbatical?” Delilah says with a smirk. “I should’ve known you were up to something.”
“Nobody knows then?” Delilah asks, giving me side eye. “Not even Mom and Dad?”
“Not a soul,” I say, grinning.
Lidia turns her attention to Delilah, peering over her arm and clinging to Cristiano like her life depends on it.
Delilah steps closer, one hand cradling her baby and the other reaching toward my new daughter, then pausing as if she knows to take things slow. I know my sister, and deep down, she’s dying to wrap her arms around this child and give her a warm, Rosewood welcome, but the licensed therapist in her knows it’s best to wait until Lidia’s comfortable with her.
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing,” Delilah says softly. “I can’t wait to get to know you, Lidia. And I can’t wait for you to meet the rest of the family. Your grandma and grandpa are going to swallow you whole.”
Lidia’s wide gaze latches onto mine, suggesting Delilah’s message got lost in translation. I whisper words of comfort and she exhales softly.
“English is her second language,” I say to my sister with a wink.
Glancing down at sleeping Nico, I pull the mink-y blanket away from his face and take a closer look. “Hello again, sweet baby.” I was fortunate enough to be there three weeks ago when he was born. I was there when Nolan came into this world too. “I can’t believe how much he’s changed already!”
Delilah wears a tired smile, her eyes half drooping. “Yeah. He really has. Nico takes after the Rosewood side I think. Noah’s all de la Cruz and Nolan’s a fifty-fifty blend. But Nico, he’s got a lot of us in him.”
Baby Nico stirs awake, his eyes fluttering softly when he hears his mother’s voice.
“Uncle Cris, I wanna show you my new toys. Lidia, you can come too!” Nolan slips his little hand into Cristiano’s, pulling them all toward the family room.
“He sure loves his Uncle Cris,” Delilah says, watching them disappear around the corner. “I told you about the framed picture right? The one he keeps on his nightstand? Every night, we have to say, ‘Goodnight, Uncle Cris!’ before we turn out the light.”
“That’s adorable.” I chuckle, wrinkling my nose. “Where is everyone?”
“Derek, Serena, and their girls are in the kitchen with Mom and Dad. Demi, Royal, Beckett, and Campbell are on their way. Zane and Noah are in the basement playing video games last I knew.” Delilah situates Nico, moving him to her other arm. “Did Cristiano bring his camera?”
I nod. “Yep.”
Over the past several years, Cristiano’s taken up photography, turning it into a full-blown career. He’s officially retired his “Jax Diesel” persona, opting to be on the other end of the camera, only he doesn’t just photograph cover models, he captures weddings, engagements, babies, and families. His photos are creamy and dreamy, using all natural light and candid moments. He truly has a knack for capturing all of life’s priceless moments on film.
“Awesome,” Delilah says. “I’m going to have him snap a few of Nico and his brothers together. Would be nice to get a few of all the cousins together too.”
“He’d be honored,” I say, following her into the kitchen. Peering to my right, we pass by the family room, and I watch as Cristiano sits cross-legged on the floor between Nolan and Lidia, surrounded by an army of action figures and little toy cars. The children are playing hard and giggling at something Cristiano just said, and I’m willing to bet their little imaginations are running wild.
Leaning against the wall that separates the family room from the kitchen, I spot Cristiano glancing up at me from across the room.
“Everything okay?” he asks, his dark eyes reflecting off the twinkling Christmas lights covering the blue spruce tree beside him.
Smiling, I nod toward the man who owns my heart and soul. I love watching him as a father. He’s so good with Lidia. So patient and sweet. So doting and protective. He looks at her like she’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. I couldn’t ask for a better partner as we embark on this thrilling, and at times challenging, new chapter in our lives.
“Yes. Everything’s fine,” I assure him.
In a few minutes, I’ll bring my parents and the rest of my family in here to meet Lidia, and the day after tomorrow, we’ll head to Jersey so she can meet the other half of her family. All four of Cristiano’s brothers are in town with their families, and Valentina’s cooking up a world glass, traditional Italian dinner. None of them know about Lidia either, and I know Cris is dying to introduce them.
While the anticipation of what’s to come in the immediate future sends tingles and butterflies zipping through me, it’s the great unknown that excites me the most. When we return home in a few days, to Seaview, it’ll be the three of us. Me, Cristiano, and our Lidia: the three Amatos. And I have a feeling that whatever lies beyond that, are the most priceless adventures this trio will ever know.
Dream Cast
Daphne – Claire Holt
Cristiano – Joseph Cannata
Weston – Wyatt Russell
Joey – Nicola Peltz
Delilah – Nina Dobrev
Zane – Mario Casas
Bliss – Blythe Danner
Robert – Tom Selleck
Demi – Mila Kunis
Royal – Zayn Malik
Derek – Jamie Dornan
Serena – Jessica Chastain
&
nbsp; Fabrizio – Julian Casablancas
Valentina – Isabella Rossellini
Dark Promises
A Preview
1
Rowan
“Smile through it, darling.” My mother’s signature adage echoes in my mind as I bite my lip to keep from crying. The polished marble floor of Rhett’s master bath chills the bottoms of my feet. He’s pounding on the other side of the door, and I want to be anywhere but here.
“Rowan, you okay?” His voice is muffled and distant, and yet it’s right there. “Talk to me. Unlock the door.”
He doesn’t care if I’m okay, he only wants to ensure I’m not a liability.
“Yes,” I call, squeezing my eyes until the burn subsides. I slip into clean clothes and gather my things in a hurry, shoving my toothbrush, mascara, and lip balm into my overnight bag before scanning the room one last time. Anything left behind will be thrown away, I’m sure. Rhett twists the doorknob, and I’m beginning to wonder who broke up with whom. “Be out in a minute.”
Ten hours ago it was just another Friday night bent over his bed, my wrists secured with his necktie as he helped himself to my body. Rhett stole his pleasure from me as if I belonged to him, and I did belong to him. I loved him.
Still do.
This morning over coffee, he told me I looked sexy in his unbuttoned dress shirt, hair tousled in my eyes and his lingering taste on my tongue. And then he told me we were over. Just like that. Like we were discussing the weather. His senate campaign kicks off soon, and he can’t have any casual relationships sullying his whistle-clean reputation.
I experience his words once more, letting them sink into the deepest parts of me all over again, and pressure builds in my chest. They were so abrupt; a zero to sixty ending for a zero to sixty beginning.
“You knew this would come to an end at some point, right?” he’d said, lifting a coffee mug to his full lips. His sandy hair was neatly combed and parted on one side, and his suit jacket rested on the back of his chair, neatly folded in half. He was going somewhere; somewhere I wasn’t invited because our relationship has always been below the radar for a myriad of reasons; all of which I assumed were temporary. “What we had was fun, Rowan, but now it’s time to work. Fun’s over. You understand, don’t you?”
The jostling handle quiets, replaced with heavy breathing on the other side. There’s a soft thump, as if he’s slumped against the outside of the door, then a moment later, the floor creaks.
“Your cab’s downstairs.” His voice is low, ice cold. “Meter’s running.”
So this is how it ends.
I give myself another minute to gather my composure, take a deep breath, and sling my bag over my shoulder. Twisting the knob until the lock pops, I brace myself for what lies on the other side.
Only it isn’t Rhett. He’s gone.
His bed is made. His room is cold. All traces of us have been removed, including the vase of red roses he’d given me three days ago.
When I reach the main level of his townhome, he isn’t there either. A taped note on the front door bears my hastily scribbled name across the front.
Rowan,
Forgive me for leaving. You must think I’m a terrible human being, but the truth is I’m just terrible at goodbyes.
Eighty-four weekends ago we were two strangers in a bar, trying to escape our fates like we had any say in the matter. What you saw in me, I’ll never understand. But I’ll tell you now like I told you then, you deserve more than what I can give you.
Someday you’re going to find a man who will make you forget I existed. And I’ll see you with him. And I’ll miss what we had. And it will hurt because we’ll be strangers all over again. But then I’ll smile because you’re happy, just like I knew you would be. And I’ll know that everything worked out for the greater good.
I wish I could give you more of me. I’m sorry.
Rhett
It’s bullshit. All of it. I crumple the letter and toss it on the foyer floor. Politicians and heartfelt apologies are a glaring contradiction.
But I can’t blame him for everything. Rhett Harrison was raging waters, and I dove in head first, knowing full well I couldn’t swim. I’ll let myself gasp for air. I’ll let myself feel the water in my lungs and the threat of looming darkness. Then I’ll thrash my way to the surface, choking and desperate to breathe, and I’ll be better for it. I’ll never let another man hurt me the way he did ever again. It’s going to take time, but I can do this.
I can seal my heart until it’s airtight.
But for now, I need to forget.
I need to forget the burn of his lips on my skin, the pull of my hair in his fist, and the countless breathless sighs when he almost told me he loved me, and all those moments I silently whispered it back, like a fool.
2
Rowan
There’s a dangerous glint in Keir Montgomery’s eyes, and finding myself in the center of his attention is exactly where I want to be. Spinning my glass between my thumb and forefinger, I glance away, removing my stare from his broad, suited shoulders and facing the bartender instead. From the corner of my eye, I observe as he moves closer to me, my intentional disregard luring him in like a magnet.
A moment later, his presence fills my periphery as he stands beside the empty bar stool on my left. I lift my crystal tumbler to my lips, pretending I don’t notice him when every fiber of my body is reeling. I’m practically sending out shockwaves over here, but my exterior is a crafted shade of calm.
“Excuse me,” his voice is carried through sensual lounge music and followed by the invasion of his old-moneyed cologne into my lungs.
“Yes?” Glancing up, I meet his gaze, blinking once as I stare at him through dark, painted lashes.
I pretend not to notice the swarm of Secret Service Agents flanking his sides. And now mine. I pretend his familiar face doesn’t register and that I haven’t seen his obsidian hair or crystalline blues in hundreds of photos before. I pretend not to know he’s the youngest son of the President of the United States. I pretend he’s just any other guy in any other bar in any other city.
And I pretend I didn’t come here looking for him.
“Is this seat taken?” He asks the question as if the answer doesn’t matter, as if he has no problem taking exactly what he wants even if it belongs to someone else.
My heart flutters for a fraction of a second, and my eyes flick from his wickedly handsome smirk to the seat and back.
“All yours,” I say, taking my time and swiveling my stool until I’m no longer facing him. Fighting a smile, I brace myself for the inevitable pat I’m going to feel on my shoulder any moment now.
Drawing in three breaths, I wait for a tap that never comes. The bartender hunches over, resting on his elbows as he yells above the music. The president’s son orders a drink. Whiskey. Neat. The restless stir of impatience floods my center, but I refuse to let it ruin my strategy.
All I need is one night with him. One night to feel alive. One night to feel desired again. One night to rebel against everything I ever thought I was.
Two weeks ago Rhett walked out of my life, and my heart has been screaming to forget him ever since. It hasn’t been as easy as I thought it was going to be. And that’s why I’m here.
I observe from the corner of my eye as the man fixes Keir’s drink at warp speed, delivers it on the house, and then stops short in front of me.
“Would you like another, miss?” he asks, thick brows lifted as he points to my empty glass.
“Please.” I slide it his way. He swipes it from the counter and shuffles down a few spots.
Rapping my fingertips against the counter, I wait for my refill, finish half, and contemplate my Plan B because I don’t have all night. If Keir didn’t just infiltrate my space for the sake of hitting on me, I’ll have to take a different approach. Gathering my black satin clutch, I unsnap the top and pretend to check my phone. When I’m sure he’s watching, I slide my bag under my left ar
m and gracefully slide off the stool.
Striding across the dark-as-midnight Goldsmith bar, I dip into the ladies’ room to buy some time. Touching up my lipstick and powdering my nose and dabbing perfume onto the backs of my wrists and behind my ears, I check the time on my phone and wait an extra minute before reemerging.
Keir has a reputation. He’s a womanizer with a healthy appetite for casual liaisons. I’ve done my research. I know where he frequents; Goldsmith being his signature hang out followed by Greenbrier. I know his modus operandi. I know what turns him on, and I know what makes him run for the hills.
It’s now or never.
Either this is going to happen. Or it isn’t.
And I really, really want this to happen. I need this to happen for reasons no one could possibly begin to understand. I need his hands in my hair. His lips pressed hard against mine. My body pinned beneath his. I need him driving himself into me again and again, so hard I forget my name. Forget where I am. Forget why it hurts . . .
Giving myself a final once-over in the mirror, I tuck a blonde wave over my right shoulder and pull the door wide.
Almost instantly, my lips draw up in the corners and our eyes meet. “I was wondering when you were going to make your move.”
“You’re a distraction,” he says, his eyes wild and trained on me.
I smirk. “I beg your pardon?”
“I came here for a drink. Was supposed to meet someone,” he says. “And then I saw you.”
I try to contain the frivolous satisfaction building deep in my chest before it radiates from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.
“Bold,” I say, pushing past him. If this is going to work, he needs to chase me. Men don’t like to be pursued, especially men like Keir.
Cold Hearted Page 49
