When I turn around, Matteo is standing outside the dressing room door.
He looks as sick as I feel.
“You believe him.”
His voice is quiet, level, but an undercurrent of rage runs through it. That and his expression give me hope that everything that happened between us earlier was something more than a clinical business maneuver.
“I don’t want to.” I admit it openly, not trying to hide how upset I am, letting him see all the confusion and hurt I feel.
“But you do.”
I can’t deny it. Nor should I. Whatever’s really happening here, it’s best for everyone involved if we put all our cards on the table right now. “Put yourself in my shoes. How would you feel? What would you think?”
“Dominic has hated my mother for a very long time.”
“Why?”
“She married another man.”
That rocks me back on my heels. “They were together?”
“When they were very young. Before she met my father.”
I have a flashback to the marchesa’s reaction when I mentioned Dominic’s name the afternoon at the house when I first found out Matteo was her son. She was upset but tried to hide it.
Whenever I cried as a child, I’d get a beating, she’d told me the day of my father’s funeral. I was too distracted to think much of it at the time, but now that simple phrase seems to reveal so much about her personality.
Or is he making this up on the fly?
“What happened?”
He exhales a heavy breath. “Honestly, I don’t know the details. The only reason I know at all is because I overheard a discussion between her and your father, shortly before they were married.”
I jerk forward several steps, my heart beating faster. “And? What did they say?”
Matteo’s jaw works. He’s angry, obviously uncomfortable, disheveled from our incredible dressing room interlude, and so handsome it hurts.
It physically, painfully hurts to look at him.
“Your father wanted to lend Dominic money. Apparently it was a regular thing, but my mother insisted he’d been generous enough and should say no. When he asked why she didn’t like Dominic, she said it wasn’t that she didn’t like him, but that she knew his character. After your father pressed her, she admitted they had a brief ‘entanglement,’ as she called it, before she married my father. My grandfather didn’t approve of Dominic, so he intervened and separated them. Dominic never believed that it was her father. He blamed her. From then on he made it his mission to discredit her name whenever he could. He spread awful rumors. He never forgave her for breaking his heart.”
I digest all that for a moment, my mind spinning. Dominic and the marchesa? I try to picture them as young people, in love, but can’t.
“Dominic never married,” I say, thinking hard, sifting through memories. “I remember he used to tell my father he found the only woman in Italy who didn’t care about money.”
“Yes,” says Matteo sourly. “Dominic always makes a big deal about money. Who has it, who doesn’t, why he doesn’t have enough. Personally, I think the man never had feelings for my mother. I think he saw a paycheck. I think my grandfather realized it, too. My mother was his only child, and the light of his life. If he thought Dominic was a good man, he never would’ve separated them, no matter how small Dominic’s fortune.”
I stand staring at Matteo, feeling helpless and overwhelmed, unsure what to believe. “What about Castello di Moretti? Does the government really have a lien on it?”
Matteo doesn’t flinch or break eye contact when he answers. “No.”
I’m not sure if that’s true, either, but I can probably look it up on the internet. There has to be some kind of government property portal where you can research outstanding liens and such.
“Miss Kimber.” Clara stands in the doorway to the back room.
“Yes, Clara?”
“If you have a moment”—she sends Matteo a disgruntled glance—“we need you on look six.” She turns and disappears again, muttering under her breath, leaving Matteo and I gazing at each other in painful silence.
Finally he says, “Well. I tried.”
He crosses the room in a few long strides and winds his arms around me, giving me a hard squeeze. He kisses me on the temple, whispers gruffly, “I meant everything I said in the dressing room. At least believe that.” Then he releases me and walks out the door without looking back.
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting on the stool, staring into space and trying to untangle the knots of my thoughts, when a courier drops off a paper bag from a nearby drug store. Inside are antacids, a travel toothbrush and toothpaste kit, and a big bottle of water, along with a note that reads You didn’t ask Dominic why he called me vicious. Ask.
I groan. “My life is a Shakespearean drama!”
From behind me, Clara says, “Hopefully not the kind where everyone dies at the end. Are you coming, or should we all go home? We’re getting old back here. My husband wants stromboli for dinner tonight, and it’s not going to make itself.”
I turn and look at her. “You know my father’s friend, Dominic, right?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of him?”
She snorts. “He’s a man. What’s there to think? They’re nothing but overgrown babies. If they don’t have a woman around to cook for them and coo at them and tell them what to do, they’re lost. But I don’t think it’s Dominic you need advice about.” She drills me with a look.
I suddenly feel like a kid caught sneaking out of the house at midnight or ditching school.
“You’re a smart girl, and your love life is none of my business. So I’ll say this, then I’ll say no more.” Her gaze grows intense and a little frightening. She says darkly, “The egg does not swim to the sperm. Never chase a man. It goes against nature. If you want him, let him chase you until you catch him.”
She pulls herself up to her full height of four-feet-eleven inches and sniffs. “And no more sex in the dressing rooms. Who do you think has to clean in there?”
She turns on her heel, calling over her shoulder, “If you want to meet a good man, read a book! Now let’s get back to work!”
When I get home that night, the house is eerily dark and quiet. I flick on the light in the kitchen and find a note from Lorenzo on the small white pad near the telephone. It says the marchesa has gone to Milan in advance of Fashion Week as she does every season. There’s a phone number where they can be reached in case of emergency and the name of a swanky hotel.
“The plot thickens,” I mutter. A few weeks in Milan isn’t cheap, especially with a butler and two dogs in tow. She’d need connecting suites in the hotel . . . Unless she and Lorenzo are sharing a room.
I realize with a jolt I never asked where Lorenzo sleeps. Probably because he never seems to. As far as I know, all the second-floor guest rooms are still closed off, as they have been for years. Does he sleep in the attic?
Ten minutes later, I have my answer. The second-floor rooms are still closed off, and no one has slept in the attic for years. There’s a layer of dust on top of the dresser, the bedcovers smell musty, and judging by the droppings on the floor, a family of rodents is the only resident.
I trudge downstairs to my bedroom, lost in thought and aching to talk to Matteo.
Instead, I spend an hour online playing amateur detective. I hit the mother lode when I find a website offering title reports on Italian properties, but the kicker is the cost for the report and the wait: two hundred bucks and two days.
I already maxed out my credit card for the plane ticket I didn’t use to get here, but there is one other option. From my purse, I pull out my shiny new Amex card in the name of Mrs. Bradley Hamilton Wingate III and stare at it.
“It’s stealing,” I say to the empty room. Or is it a small form of payback?
Probably stealing. I text Brad that I’m going to charge two hundred dollars on the card. It isn’t a question. And I don�
��t think it can technically be considered theft if I tell him about it in advance.
He texts me back that there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar credit limit, so I should knock myself out.
That brings a dangerous smile to my face. Fifty thousand. Good to know.
I order the report, then call Dominic. He picks up after the first ring.
“Hello, tesoro. How are you feeling?”
Impatient to get to the point, I bypass a polite greeting. “I have to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me.”
After a short pause, Dominic says, “Of course. Anything.”
“How much money did my father lend you?”
I was going to ask about the marchesa first, but decided at the last second to go with the money angle. I have an idea of what to say if he denies it.
Which he does. Vehemently.
“Your father never lent me money! Where did you get such an idea? Did that horrible woman tell you that?”
He sounds overly outraged and offended, the way guilty people do when charged with the truth. But his tone is proof of nothing. Unfortunately, there’s only one way to get to the bottom of this, and it’s with a white lie.
“I found a ledger my father kept.”
I leave it at that, trusting Dominic’s imagination to fill in the blanks.
I hold my breath, waiting for his answer with my heart in my throat. Finally he says, “I don’t know anything about that.”
Now his tone is flat and unequivocal, but there’s something off about it. Something that makes me want to dig a little more. “That’s very interesting because there’s a lot of information here about dates, loan amounts . . .”
Convince me, Dominic. Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you loved my father, you never took money from him, and I can trust you.
The moment I hear his heavy sigh, I know he’s giving up the ruse of innocence, and my stomach falls.
“There might have been a few times I needed help here and there over the years.”
“How many times?” I demand, my voice too loud. “How much money did he give you?”
“Doesn’t your ledger say?” he asks, hedging.
I hedge back. “I want you to tell me.”
Silence. Then another heavy sigh. Then he names a number so large I almost fall over in shock.
Then the jerk decides it’s time to change tactics. He says sternly, “This was between your father and me, Kimberly. It’s no business of yours. And it’s disrespectful of you to ask me. Your poor father—”
“Don’t you dare talk to me about my ‘poor’ father, or about disrespect! Not even two minutes ago you lied about never getting any money!”
He sniffs. “It’s beneath me to speak of.”
I swear, one of these days one of the men in my life is going to push me too far, and then my name will be in all the newspapers for a very different reason than being left at the altar: “The Cast-off Couturier Goes on a Murder Spree!”
“You’re stonewalling me now? Then I guess you won’t want to talk about your relationship with the marchesa.”
There’s a long icy pause. “She has poisoned you against me.”
“Are you denying it?”
“Whatever she told you is a lie.”
“Okay, then answer me this: Why did you say Matteo was vicious?”
Another pause, but this one is long and cavernous. I sense he’s carefully choosing his words. “He wouldn’t allow me to attend the wedding. I tried to go, but he blocked me at the door. He threatened to rip off my head. He’s an animal.”
An animal who goes into beast mode when someone he cares about is disrespected. I wonder what Dominic said about the marchesa to make Matteo threaten him.
I bet it wasn’t nice.
“At the hospital, you told me you weren’t invited to the wedding. That no one attended. That it was done in secret. This sounds like a much different story.”
Dominic decides he’s had enough of my interrogation and launches into a full-blown rant.
“Your father and I were friends for fifty years! I was the only one who came to the hospital when he was sick! I was the only one who stood by him after your mother died and he fell into the bottom of a bottle for so long you had to be sent away to live with your aunt in the States! I was the one who cared for him during his depression and made sure he ate, and showered, and his business didn’t go under! Me! If anything, I deserved the money he gave me! I earned it!”
My first thought is: you dick.
My next thought is: Matteo.
I already know the title search on Castello di Moretti will show no government lien.
I click end to disconnect with Dominic, then I make one more call, to the number Lorenzo left for the hotel in Milan.
THIRTY-THREE
“Pronto?”
“Lady Moretti.” Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I can’t believe I called her that. “It’s Kimber. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Kimber? Is everything all right? Is it Matteo? What’s happened?”
Her tone is edged with panic. I don’t blame her. If the roles were reversed and she were calling me, I’d assume the worst, too.
“Everything’s okay. Matteo’s fine. It’s not about him. I wondered . . .” I have to clear my throat of the frog stuck in it. “I wondered if I could speak to you for a minute. If we could have a chat.”
I was expecting anything but the soft surprise and warmth in her voice when she answers. “Of course. I’m happy to talk to you.” After a moment of hesitation, she adds, “I’m glad you called.”
Why don’t I have a glass of wine in my hand? What was I thinking? This calls for a huge glass of alcohol!
Attempting to sound like a sane adult, I continue the conversation. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Strike that—I know we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Yes. I believe we did.”
Her voice is quiet, but not hostile. So far, so good.
I start to pace. I think she must sense my agitation because she remains patiently silent until I gather my thoughts.
It takes longer than I thought it would.
“You’re sure I’m not disturbing you?”
“I’ve just finished supper, and Lorenzo left a few minutes ago to walk the dogs. This is a good time.”
Okay, we’ll start there. “Where does Lorenzo sleep?” It comes out more accusatory than I intended. I might as well have called her a big slutty ho.
“I beg your pardon?”
Oh screw it. Let the chips fall where they may. “Are you and Lorenzo a couple?”
Her laugh is unexpected. “If we were, his wife would certainly have something to say about it!”
I stop pacing. “Wife? What wife?”
“His quite lovely wife of almost forty years, Barbara. She’s a darling woman, but if she believed for one moment I had designs on her husband, I’d be missing my teeth. She’s German. You should see her arms. The woman could pass for a professional wrestler. They live close to Il Sogno—it’s the white cottage with the blue door at the bottom of the hill next to the bakery. You’ve seen it?”
I’ve seen it. I’m sure there’s a nice bed for Lorenzo inside.
“Barbara works the night shift, which is why Lorenzo often stays late. Or comes early, depending how you look at it. And to answer your question directly: no. Lorenzo and I are not romantically involved. He is one of my truest friends, however. He’s seen me through many difficult times.”
She pauses to control the small tremor in her voice. “Barbara arrives tomorrow on the train. It’s our annual tradition, a little holiday for all of us. I can get on quite well with the service in the hotel, and Lorenzo and Barbara take in the sights. Milan is so beautiful this time of year.”
That’s more than I’ve heard her say in the entire time I’ve known her. Apparently accusing a woman of sleeping with her butler is a great way to get her to talk.
I have to give her major props for not holler
ing at me and hanging up.
“I hope I get to meet her soon. I’m sorry I had to ask you that. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, it’s just that—”
“It’s just that Dominic has been in your ear,” she finishes, sounding sad but unsurprised.
“Yes.” I feel guilty admitting it. She’s being so nice! Where has this nice lady been all along? Why has she been wearing an iceberg disguise?
“I wondered how long it would take him. Is there anything else you’d like to ask me? Since we’re having such a nice chat.”
The warmth is back in her voice again. Maybe she’s been drinking. She’s on vacation, after all.
“Now that you mention it, I do have a few more questions.”
“I’m listening.”
I take a moment to wrangle open a wine bottle and pour myself a glass. Then I sit down at the kitchen table and fortify myself with a few sips. “Why didn’t you come to the hospital when my father was sick?”
“Oh,” she says faintly. “I see you’ve brought the big guns.”
“I’m terrible with small talk.”
“Evidently.” She inhales a quiet breath. “My first husband suffered for more than two years before the cancer finally killed him. We were constantly in and out of the hospital. Everything in our lives revolved around him being sick. I’m not complaining, you understand, just explaining that was our reality. Waiting for him to die. Watching him get weaker and sicker. The helplessness I felt at not being able to do anything to stop it . . .”
She trails off into silence. I think I hear a faint sniffle, but can’t be sure. Her voice is stronger when she comes back on the line.
“When I married your father, he vowed I’d never go through anything like that with him. He extracted a promise from me that if he were ever to fall sick and have to be hospitalized, I would stay away. I refused at first, but when he said it would be easier on him, not having to watch me watch him waste away, I agreed.”
Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3) Page 25
