One Passionate Night: Her Brooding Italian Boss / The Heiress's Secret Baby / Best Friend to Wife and Mother?

“I told you. It wouldn’t be what you think.”

“Then tell me.” Her eyelids blinked over her incredibly big, incredibly innocent green eyes. “Please.”

Attraction stole through him, reminding him that his desire to paint her and his attraction to her were somehow knitted together, something he’d never felt before, adding to the untrustworthiness of his desire to paint. He refused to embarrass himself by taking her to his studio and freezing. And maybe it was time to be honest with her so she’d know the truth and they wouldn’t have this discussion again.

“Last night, seeing your back, I might have wanted to paint you, but the feelings were different than any other I’d had when I saw something—someone—I wanted to paint.”

Her head tilted. “How?”

He’d always known, even before he’d studied painting, that the eyes were the windows to the soul. With his gaze connected to Laura Beth’s, he could see the naïveté, see that she really didn’t understand a lot about life. How could he explain that the reasons he wanted to paint her were all wrapped up in an appreciation of her beauty that tipped into physical desire, when he wasn’t 100 percent sure he understood it himself?

When he didn’t answer, she stepped back. The innocent joy on her face disappeared. “It’s okay. I get it.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Sure, I do. It’s been two years since you’ve painted and suddenly you’re feeling the urge again. It’s not me. It’s your talent waking up.”

He should have agreed and let it go, but her eyes were just so sad. “It is you.”

“Oh, come on, Antonio. Look at me. I’m a green-eyed brunette. A common combination. I’ve never stood out. Not anywhere. Not because of anything.”

He stifled a laugh, then realized she was serious. “You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

She sniffed and turned away. “Right.”

Pushing off the desk, he headed toward her. He pulled the pencils from her hair, tossed them beside the computer and watched as the smooth brown locks swayed gracefully to her shoulders. He turned her to face the mirror on the wall by the door. “Still don’t think you’re beautiful?”

* * *

Her mouth went dry. Her gaze latched onto his, and the heat she saw in his eyes made her knees wobble. “What are you doing?”

“I want you to see what I see when I look at you.” He watched his finger as it traced along her jaw, down her neck to her collarbone. A thin line of fire sparked along her skin.

“You think you’re common. I see classic beauty.” His dark eyes heated even more. Anticipation trickled through her, tightening her chest, stealing her breath.

“A woman on the verge of life, about to become a mother. With everything in front of her. The painting wouldn’t be simple. It would be as complex as the wonder I see in your eyes every time I look at you. And it would take time. Lots of time.” His gaze met hers. “Still want me to paint you?”

Good God, yes.

The words didn’t come out, but she knew they were in her eyes. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to paint her because he saw something in her eyes, or if he saw something in her eyes because he wanted to paint her. But did it matter? Right at that second, with her attraction to him creating an ache in her chest...did it really freaking matter?

She waited. He waited. The electricity of longing passed between them. He longed to paint. She suddenly, fervently, wished he liked her.

Finally, her voice a mere whisper, she said, “You said this doesn’t happen often?”

He shook his head. “It’s never happened at all.”

She swallowed. “Wow.”

He spun around and stepped away. “Oh, Lord! Don’t be so naive! I have no idea what this feeling is, but it’s powerful.” He met her gaze again. “And it could let me down. We could spend hours in my studio and I could freeze. Or your portrait could be the most exciting, most important of my life.”

“Antonio, if you’re trying to dissuade me, you’re going at it all wrong. What woman in the world wouldn’t want to hear that?”

“You shouldn’t!” The words were hot, clipped. “This feeling could be nothing but my talent tormenting me.” He picked up the stack of letters. “Go freshen up for dinner while I sign these.”

She stayed where she stood, frozen, suddenly understanding. To him she wasn’t an opportunity, but a torment.

“Now!”

She pivoted and raced from the room, but even before she reached the stairs she’d decided Antonio was wrong. He couldn’t know that he would freeze unless he tried to paint her.

She might have lost tonight’s fight, but the next time they had this discussion, she wouldn’t lose.

* * *

They managed to get through dinner by skirting the elephant in the room. He feared picking up a brush and she longed for him to paint her. Or maybe she was just curious. After all, Bruce dumping her had made her feel worthless. She’d spent every moment of every date trying to get Bruce to say something special, something romantic, and she’d failed. But Antonio wanted to paint her. He thought she was classically beautiful. That her painting might become the most important of his life.

She knew he hadn’t meant it as romantic, but she was so starved for affection that it felt romantic. And she was supposed to ignore it? Not want it? Not be curious?

But that night in her bed, she scolded herself for being such a schoolgirl. Yes, she’d never had a man think her beautiful enough to be a work of art. And, yes, she’d never been attracted to anyone the way she was to Antonio...but was that good? Or bad? She was a pregnant woman with responsibilities to think about. She shouldn’t be daydreaming. Fantasizing.

She spent an almost sleepless night, and in the morning groaned when she knew she had to get up. The truth was Antonio would probably like it if she slept in and didn’t do any work. They both knew the job was temporary. She was going home in a few weeks. He didn’t want the feelings that he had around her, and her going home would settle all that for him.

But like it or not, Antonio needed a PA and she had a baby to support. She should have been able to prove herself and keep this job, but that crazy feeling or need he had to paint her had ruined everything.

She pulled a pair of old, worn jeans and a big gray T-shirt from her closet. The staff might wear uniforms, but Antonio wore T-shirts—

An idea came and her eyes narrowed as she thought it through. She dug through her clothes until she found her three skirts, three pairs of dress trousers and a few tops that she typically wore for work. This might be Italy, and Antonio might dress like a beach bum, but she was supposed to be a PA. Maybe if she dressed like one, he’d stop wanting to paint her and see her as the worker she was supposed to be.

She slipped into a gray skirt and white blouse that looked like a man’s shirt, pulled her hair back into a bun at her nape, sans pencils this time, and slid into gray flats. Instead of her contacts, she wore brown-framed glasses.

Antonio wasn’t at breakfast that morning, so she ate quickly and headed for the office. He wasn’t there either. But that was fine. She still had plenty of fan letters to answer. She ate lunch alone, fighting the urge to ask Rosina if she knew where Antonio was. She was a secretary, not his girlfriend. Or even his friend. If she wanted to keep her job, then she couldn’t see herself as his friend anymore. She had to work the job correctly. Not insinuate herself into his life.

Not secretly long for a relationship with him.

But when he wasn’t there at supper time or for breakfast the next morning, she got nervous, antsy. What if his plan was to avoid her for two weeks, tell her the PA thing hadn’t worked out and give her another two weeks of alone time to rest? What if she was working to prove herself when there really was no possibility of her keeping this job?

In the office, she lifted the final three fan letters. In an hour, she’d have nothing to do. She answered the last pieces of fan mail and set the letters on top of the stack she’d generated the day before.

He hadn’t even come in to sign the letters.

Where was he?

Was she going to let him avoid her so he could take the easy way out? Just send her off with a pat on her head?

She straightened her shoulders. She’d be damned if yet another man would send her off with a pat on her head. And if she had to drag him into this office by the scruff of the neck, he would see that one of two things was going to happen here. Either he would let her work for him—really work—or she was going home. She did not take charity.

Still, she needed the job more than her pride. She was not going to let him slide out of giving her a chance to prove herself by avoiding her. He was going to answer the requests for commissioned paintings with her. He was going to do his job, damn it!

All fired up, she marched out of the office and into the kitchen. “Rosina?”

The maid looked up. “Sì?”

“Where is Mr. Bartulocci?”

She frowned. “He say not to tell you.”

She shoved her shoulders back even farther. “Oh, really? Would you like me to tell his father that you stood in the way of him getting the help in his office that he needs?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then let me suggest you tell me where he is.”

Rosina sighed. “Mr. Constanzo might be bossy, but Antonio is my boss.”

She spun on her heel. “Fine. Then I’ll simply find him myself.”

“Okay. Just don’t go into his studio.”

Her hand on the swinging door, Laura Beth paused, turned and faced Rosina. “His studio?”

Rosina went back to kneading her bread. “I said nothing.”

Laura Beth’s lips rose slowly. “I wasn’t even in the kitchen.”

His strong reaction to painting her had led her to believe his studio would be the last place he’d want to be. So it confused her that he’d be in the old, crumbling house that reminded him he couldn’t paint.

But whatever. The plan was to find him, no matter where he was, and force him to see she could be a good employee for him.

It took a few minutes to locate the door that led to the studio. The old stone path had been repaired, but appeared to be the original walkway. The house’s door was so old the bottom looked to have been gnawed by wild animals. She tried the knob and it moved, granting her entrance.

The cluttered front room held everything but canvases and frames. Paint cans—not artist’s paint, but house paint—sat on the floor. Strips of fabric lay haphazardly on metal shelves. She recognized one of the swatches as the fabric for one of the chairs in his dining room.

She glanced around. Most of this stuff corresponded to something in his house. He’d stored leftovers and castoffs here.

He’d said he hadn’t painted since his wife’s death. But if the items in this room were any indicator, it had been longer than that.

She stepped over a small stack of lumber and around some paint cans and walked through a door that took her into the huge back room, empty save for Antonio, who sat on a stool, staring at a blank canvas.

Light poured in from a bank of windows on the back wall and set the entire room aglow. She didn’t know much about painting, but she imagined lots of light was essential.

“Think of the devil and look who appears.”

She walked a little farther into the room. “Are you calling me Satan?”

“I’m telling you I was thinking about you.”

In a room with a blank canvas.

Because he wanted to paint her.

Because he thought she was classically beautiful.

Tingles pirouetted along her skin. She told herself to ignore them. He didn’t want what he felt for her and she did want this job. Acting like a PA had jarred her out of her feelings, so maybe forcing him to see her as a PA would jar him out of his.

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.”