Her Brooding Italian Boss

by Susan Meier

  She cleared her throat. “I have nothing to do.”

  He sucked in a long breath and said, “Fine,” as he turned on the stool. But when he saw her, he burst out laughing. “Trying to tune in to my librarian fantasy?”

  She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’m trying to look like a PA so I get a fair shot at working for you.”

  He rose from the stool and walked toward her, stopping mere inches in front of her. “You still want to work for me?”

  Her heart jumped. The pirouetting tingles became little brush fires. A smart girl might take Constanzo’s severance and run. But though Laura Beth prided herself on being smart, she was also a woman who didn’t take charity and who liked a long-term plan. This one, working for Antonio, living in Italy, was a good one. She couldn’t afford New York. She didn’t want to burden her parents. Keeping this job was the right move.

  Instead of stepping back, she stepped forward, into his personal space, showing him he couldn’t intimidate her. “Yes. I still want to work for you.”

  “You’re a crazy woman.”

  “I’m a desperate woman. Your confusion about painting me isn’t going to scare me.”

  He out and out laughed at that. “Fine.”

  She motioned to the door. “So let’s get back to the office and tackle those letters requesting commissions.”

  * * *

  He almost followed her to the door, but hesitated. He’d been thinking about painting her. Imagining it. Mentally feeling the sway of his brush along the canvas. The ease of movement of his arm and hand as they applied color and life to a blank space.

  But his hand had shaken when he’d reached for a brush. His heart had pounded. His fingers refused to wrap around the thin handle.

  “Come on, mister. I don’t have all day.”

  He laughed. Dear God, how he wished he could get that on a canvas. Sensuality, sass and sense of humor. A few years ago, capturing that wouldn’t even have been a challenge. It would have been a joy. Today, he couldn’t pick up a brush.

  He ran his shaky hand along his forehead as sadness poured through him. This place of being trapped between desire to paint and the reality that he couldn’t even pick up a brush was as hot and barren as hell.

  And maybe she was Satan.

  He glanced at her simple skirt, the shirt made for a man, the too-big glasses. Or maybe she was right. Maybe she was just a single woman looking to make a life for herself, and he was Satan—depriving her because he worried that he couldn’t endure seeing her pregnancy, watching another man’s child get the chance for life his child hadn’t. Watching her joy over becoming a mom.

  “I’m not ready to answer the letters about commissions yet.” He wasn’t sure why he’d said that, except that turning everything down really was like telling the world his career was over. “But maybe it’s time I looked at some of the invitations.”

  “Invitations?”

  “To parties and galas and gallery openings.” He caught her gaze. “Maybe it’s time for me to get out into the world again.”

  Who would have thought it would be running from a pretty girl that would force him back into the world he didn’t want to face? If it weren’t for his fears around her, he’d be staying right where he was—hiding.

  Instead, he was about to face his greatest fear—getting back into the public eye.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ANTONIO MANAGED TO find a gallery opening for that weekend. He called Olivia, his manager, putting his phone on speaker, and Laura Beth heard the astonishment in her friend’s voice when Antonio told her he would be leaving for Barcelona that evening and would be at the event on Saturday night.

  “I hadn’t planned on going myself,” Olivia said, her voice the kind of astonished happy that made Laura Beth stifle a laugh, since Olivia didn’t know Laura Beth was in the room, or even that she was in Italy, working for Antonio. “But I can be on Tucker’s plane tomorrow morning. In fact, my parents can stay with the kids and Tucker and I will both come. We’ll make a romantic weekend of it.”

  Laura Beth glanced at Antonio, who quickly looked away. “You know I’d love to see you, but I’ll be okay on my own.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t!” Olivia immediately corrected. “You’ll probably start telling people you never want to paint again, and all those great commission offers will be off the table. I’m going.”

  He laughed and Laura Beth watched him, a mixture of curiosity and admiration tumbling around inside her like black and white towels in a dryer. She saw a dark, unhappy side of Antonio when he talked about painting. But with Olivia he could joke about it. So who was he showing the real Antonio? Her or Olivia?

  He disconnected the call and rose from his desk. “I will be gone for the next few days. You have two choices. Enjoy the pool or sightsee.”

  Watching him walk to the door, she swallowed. Had he just used work to get out of work? Maybe to show her she wasn’t needed?

  When she didn’t answer him, Antonio motioned toward the door. “Come on, missy. I don’t have all day.”

  Knowing she had no right to question him, she rose from her chair. “No fair using my own lines against me.”

  He followed her out the door. “All’s fair.”

  In love and war.

  She knew the quote. She just didn’t know if he thought wanting to paint her was love or war.

  * * *

  Sitting alone in the huge, echoing dining room two nights later, Laura Beth felt like an idiot. She gathered her dish and silver and carried them into the kitchen.

  Rosina about had a heart attack. “You are done? You barely ate two bites!”

  “I’m lonely. I thought I’d come in here for company.”

  “Francesca and Carmella are gone.”

  She walked to the table and set down her plate. “But you’re still here.”

  Rosina winced. “Sì.”

  “Then I’ll talk to you.”

  “You are a guest! You shouldn’t be in here and we’re not supposed to talk to you.”

  “Did Antonio tell you that?”

  “No. It’s good manners.”

  “I’m not a guest. I’m an employee, like you. I should be eating in here. I would be eating in here with you if it weren’t for my friend Olivia, who is Antonio’s manager.”

  Rosina eased to the table, slowly took a seat. “Sì, Miss Olivia.”

  “I’m actually an IT person.” At Rosina’s frown, she clarified. “Information technology.” She took a bite of ravioli and groaned. “This is great.”

  “You should eat lots of it.”

  Laura Beth laughed. “And get big as a house?”

  “You’re pregnant. You don’t need to worry about gaining a little weight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They chatted a bit about Rosina’s grandchildren. But the whole time they talked, Rosina looked over her shoulder, as if she was worried Antonio would arrive and scold her for fraternizing with his guests.

  Respecting Rosina’s fear, Laura Beth ate breakfast by herself Friday morning, but by lunch she couldn’t stand being alone another second. She wandered into the kitchen long before noon and actually made her own sandwich, which seemed to scandalize Carmella.

  She tried to eat alone at dinnertime, but the quiet closed in on her, and she took her plate and silver into the kitchen again.

  Rosina sighed but joined her at the table.

  “I’m sorry. I just hate being alone.”

  Rosina shook her head. “This isn’t the way it works in a house with staff.”

  “I know. I know. But I still say we’re both employees and we should be allowed to talk.”

  The sound of the doorbell echoed in the huge kitchen. Rosina’s face
glowed with relief as she bounced off her chair. It almost seemed as if she’d been expecting the interruption. Maybe even waiting for it.

  “I will get it.”

  As Rosina raced away, Laura Beth frowned, unable to figure out who’d be at the door. It was a little late for a delivery, though what did she know? She was in Italy, not the US. The country might be beautiful, but it was unfamiliar. Antonio had run from her. Rosina was afraid to talk to her.

  This wasn’t working out any better than New York would be. Though Italy offered her a way to raise her child in the sunny countryside, rather than being stifled in the kind of run-down New York City apartment she could afford, what good would it do to be raised in a home where people ignored him or her?

  The kitchen door swung open. “Cara!” Constanzo boomed. Dressed in a lightweight suit, he strode over to her. “What are you doing here when your boss is in Spain?”

  She shrugged. “He never asked me to go with him.”

  “You are his assistant. He needs you.” He tapped her chair twice. “Go pack.”

  She gaped at him. “Go pack? No way! Antonio will be really mad at me if I just pop up in Barcelona!”

  “Then you will go as my guest. You can’t sit around here moping for days.”

  She’d actually thought something similar sitting by the pool that afternoon.

  “And since you’re in Europe, why not enjoy the sights? If you don’t want to find your boss, we’ll make a weekend of it. I will show you Barcelona, then take you to the gallery opening myself.”

  Her heart thrummed with interest. She’d never seen Spain. Still, she was in Italy to work, not race around Europe with her boss’s dad. “I can’t. I’m supposed to be working.”

  “And did my son leave you anything to do?”

  She winced.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  The pragmatist in her just wouldn’t give up. “It really sounds like fun, and part of me would love to go, but I didn’t pack for vacation. I packed to work. I shipped most of my fun clothes home to my parents. I don’t think I have anything to wear.”

  “You have...what you call it...a sundress? Something light and airy? Something pretty?”

  “Won’t women be wearing gowns at the gallery opening?” She frowned. “Or at least cocktail dresses?”

  Constanzo waved his hands. “Who cares? You will be with me. No one will dare comment. Besides, you will look lovely no matter what you wear. If they snipe or whisper, it will be out of jealousy.”

  She didn’t believe a word of it, but in desperate need of that kind of encouragement, she laughed. “You’re good for my ego.”

  “And you laugh at my jokes.” He turned her to the door. “We make a good pair. Go pack.”

  She quickly threw two sundresses, jeans and tops, undergarments and toiletries into her shabby bag. Trepidation nipped at her brain, but she stopped it. Antonio had left her alone with nothing to do and a staff that was afraid of her. At least with Constanzo, she’d be doing something.

  With her suitcase packed, she took a quick shower, put on her taupe trousers and a crisp peach-colored blouse and headed downstairs.

  She walked to the foyer, suitcase in hand, and was met by Constanzo’s driver, who took her bag and led her to the limo. When she slid onto the seat, Constanzo was talking on the phone. “Yes. The Barcelona penthouse, Bernice. And don’t forget that other thing I told you.” He disconnected the call. “Ready?”

  She laughed. “Sure. Why not?”

  Traveling with Constanzo, Laura Beth quickly learned that Antonio was right—his dad was a pain in the butt. His plane left on his timing. Cars had to be waiting for him, drivers ready to open the door and speed off, and his favorite bourbon had to be stocked everywhere.

  They arrived in Barcelona late and went directly to the penthouse—a vision of modern art itself with its glass walls, high ceilings and shiny steel beams and trim.

  She gasped as she entered. “Holy cow.”

  Constanzo laughed. “That’s another reason I like you. You remind me not to take my good fortune for granted.”

  The limo driver set Laura Beth’s bag on the marble floor and silently left in the private elevator.

  Constanzo reached for the handle of her bag. “I will take this to your room.”

  “No. No! I’ll do it.” She picked it up. “See? It’s light.”

  “Okay. Normally the gentleman in me wouldn’t let you, but for some reason or another I’m very tired tonight.” He plopped down on a white sofa. “Your room is the second door on the left. I’ll check to see if the cook is here yet. We’ll have a snack.”

  She almost told him she was more sleepy than hungry, but she finally realized he’d invited her along on this jaunt because he liked company too. So she headed for her room, intending to wash her face and comb her hair, then spend some time with him while he snacked.

  Corridors with steel beams, skylights and glass walls took her to the second door on the left. She opened it and stepped inside.

  She loved her room in Antonio’s house, but this room was magnificent. Beiges, grays and whites flowed together to create a soothing space like a spa. She could almost hear the wind chimes and sitar music.

  She put her suitcase on the bed and walked toward the bathroom, desperate to freshen up before her snack with Constanzo.

  With a quick twist of the handle, she opened the door and there stood Antonio, wiping a white terry cloth towel down his chest, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower.

  His eyes widened and he instantly rearranged the towel to cover as much of himself as possible.

  But it was too late. She’d seen the dark swatches of hair covering his muscled chest, and—wrapped around the side of his neck—the black ink of the webbed wing of the rumored dragon tattoo.

  He gaped at her. “What are you doing here!”

  “Me?” Too shocked to monitor her responses, she yelled right back, “What are you doing here!”

  “This is my dad’s penthouse. Why would I not use it when I’m in Barcelona?”

  She couldn’t argue that, so she said, “Fine. Whatever.” Lifting her chin, she began backing out of the marble-and-travertine bathroom, embarrassed not just by the fact that she’d walked in on him naked, but also because her mouth watered for a look at his tattoo. From his muscled arms, broad shoulders and defined pecs, she knew his back was probably every bit as spectacular. The right tattoo would make it sexy as hell. “I’m only here because your dad said this was my room.”

  “I always use this room when I stay here.”

  “Great. Peachy.”

  Her face hot, her mind reeling, she pivoted out of the bathroom and walked to the bed. Grabbing her suitcase, she headed for the main living area. Unfortunately, Antonio was right behind her.

  Not about to be intimidated, she tossed her suitcase on a white sofa and made her way to the kitchen.

  Constanzo sat on a stool at the center island, dipping bread into olive oil. “Come, cara. Eat.”

  Then Antonio walked in behind her and Constanzo’s smile grew. “Antonio!”

  He scowled at his dad. “What are you doing here?”

  Constanzo laughed. “I live here.”

  “You live in a country house in Italy! This is a spare house.”

  He smiled. “It’s still mine.”

  Antonio tossed up his hands in despair and walked to the center island. And there, on his back, was the glorious dragon.

  Prickly heat crawled all over Laura Beth. The man was a god. Not only was the dragon perfect, crafted in reds, greens and blacks, but his shoulders were wide, and behind the ink of the dragon, well-defined muscles linked one to another. Every time he moved his arm, the dragon seemed to shift and shimmer as if alive.

  Of course. What did she e
xpect from an artist but a tattoo that was a work of art itself?

  Oh, this was bad. Every time she learned something new about her boss, she liked him a little bit more. Deciding the best thing to do would be to pretend everything was fine, she strolled to the center island, sat on a stool and took a piece of the crusty bread.

  Constanzo motioned for her to dip the bread in the olive oil. “So you and I, we go to see the sights tomorrow?”

  She nodded as she slid the bread into her mouth. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

  From her peripheral vision, she watched Antonio’s eyes narrow, as she and Constanzo behaved as if nothing was wrong, then he shook his head and stormed out.

  When she was sure he was gone, she caught Constanzo’s gaze. “I hope you have another bedroom for me.”

  He laughed. “There are five bedrooms. Suites, really. You don’t even have to bump into him accidentally if you don’t want to.”

  She sucked in a breath. Considering how much he didn’t want to see her, she imagined Antonio would pack and move to a hotel the next morning, but she wasn’t about to explain that to Constanzo. She sent him a smile. “Good.”

  But the next morning when she entered the dining room, Antonio and Constanzo sat at the long cherrywood table, as if nothing had happened. Both rose. “Good morning!”

  Constanzo’s greeting was a little cheerier than Antonio’s, but at least he wasn’t scowling. What was with these two that they could argue one minute and be best friends the next?

  Was that why she couldn’t get along with Antonio? Because she wanted resolutions to arguments, when he seemed perfectly happy to ignore conflict?

  * * *

  Antonio surreptitiously watched Laura Beth walk to her seat. She looked girl-next-door pretty in a coral-colored T-shirt and jeans that were so worn she was either really, really poor or really, really in fashion.

  He watched her all but devour a plate of French toast as his father rambled off a long list of places he wanted to show her that morning, including the Museum of Modern Art and the Picasso Museum.