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

She stretched out on the sofa. “I’m fine.”

Her inelegant movement struck a chord in him again and he eagerly grabbed the notebook. That was part of the essence he was trying to grasp. Beautiful yet impish. Troubled but still hopeful. With the image fresh in his mind, he began sketching. But after ten minutes he realized that pose didn’t work either.

Neither surprised nor disappointed—today was all about trying and failing—he gave her a break, then sat her on a chair.

Backing away from her, he said, “Think deep thoughts.”

Her face scrunched. “How deep?”

“I don’t know.” Remembering the feelings he’d had in the gallery and their subsequent conversation, he said, “Think about going home.”

She nodded, and he watched the change come to her eyes. Almost a sadness. Something tweaked inside him. But he didn’t say anything. Though he wanted to comfort her, they weren’t supposed to become friends from this. He wanted to paint her. She wanted to go home.

It made him sad. Almost angry. But he got the best sketches of the day.

After that they stopped for lunch. Rosina had prepared salads and bread, but Laura Beth skipped the bread, insisting she could feel herself getting fat.

He watched her single out and then dig in to her tomatoes with gusto and had to stifle a laugh. Feeling light and airy because he counted that morning as a success, he didn’t want to upset her in any way, shape or form. But the look in her eyes as he’d sketched her haunted him.

Casually, as if it were the most natural question in the world, he asked, “Do you not want to go home?”

Her head popped up. Her gaze swung to his. “I need to go home.”

“There’s a wide gulf between need and want.”

“I need my mother. Aside from Tucker and Olivia’s kids, I’ve never been around a baby. And I can’t really count Tucker and Olivia’s kids because I’ve never changed their diapers, never fed one of them and most certainly never walked the floor.”

“Ah. I get it. You need your mother’s assistance.”

“More her advice...her knowledge. Which means, since I need her so much, I want to go home.”

He laughed. “That’s convoluted at best.”

She shrugged. “It is what it is.”

But the faraway, sad expression came to her eyes again. He should have yearned to grab his pencil. Instead, that odd something tweaked inside him again. Only this time, he recognized it. It wasn’t a worry that they would get close. He hated to see her sad.

“What if you got a nanny?”

She gaped at him for a few seconds, then laughed out loud. “Right. I can’t even afford an apartment. Hell, Tucker hasn’t officially offered me a job yet, and you want me to hire a nanny?”

“But if he does offer you a job with a good enough salary, it would mean you could live where you want. That you wouldn’t have to go back to a small town that clearly makes you sad.”

“The town doesn’t make me sad. I told you before. I want my child to be raised there.”

He frowned. “So what makes you sad?”

* * *

Laura Beth fumbled with her napkin. For fifty cents she’d tell him the truth. She’d look him right in the eye and say, “I like being with you. I like the person I am with you. And I am going to be sad when I leave because I know I’ll only ever see you at parties where we’ll be polite like strangers.”

But then he’d draw back. Then he wouldn’t paint her. He might even put her in Constanzo’s plane and ship her home so he didn’t have to deal with her feelings.

So she’d handle them alone.

“I think it’s just hormones.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “I seem to recall hearing a bit about them from Tucker when Olivia was pregnant.”

And that was it. He totally believed her. He didn’t even like her enough to say, “Are you sure?” He didn’t dig deeper. Proof, again, that he didn’t have the same kinds of feelings for her that she had for him.

In bed that night, she cautioned herself about getting so close to him—wouldn’t let herself pretend there was any chance they’d be together—and the next morning she forced herself to be as chipper and happy as any woman posing for a portrait should be. She couldn’t have him forever, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy what she had now. In fact, a wise woman would accept what she could get and make memories.

After breakfast, Antonio took her outside. She’d asked him a million times if there was anything special he wanted her to wear and every time he’d said, “Your jeans are fine.”

But his attempts at capturing an outside pose failed. When the next day’s poses also resulted in balled-up paper and strings of curses in Italian, Laura Beth had to hide several winces. On Friday, when his temper appeared—a real, live temper that went beyond curses and balled-up paper and resulted in explosions and tablets tossed into the trash—fear trembled through her.

Not fear of Antonio. She knew he would never hurt her. His anger was never directed at her, but always at himself. His lost focus. His inability to capture what he wanted. She also saw his volatility as part of his larger-than-life personality, very much like his dad’s. What scared her was that he might quit trying and ask her to leave.

The very thought caused her chest to tighten. So Saturday after breakfast she suggested she meet him in the studio. He frowned and asked why, but she only smiled and raced off.

She styled her hair as it had been the night of the gallery opening, put on makeup and slipped into the black dress and the high heels Constanzo had bought her.

When she walked into the studio, Antonio had his back to her. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and sashayed over to the wall of windows.

When he saw her, Antonio’s face fell. He gaped at her for a good twenty seconds, then grabbed the tablet. Not knowing if the lighting was good or bad, she simply stood there. She thought deep thoughts, trying to get that faraway look he always talked about catching. She knew that the sooner the painting was done, the sooner she’d be going home, but she didn’t care that dressing in the way that had inspired him would result in her going home. She longed to help him. This wasn’t just about her doing something important with her life anymore. This was about him. About wanting him to get his life back.

And if the way he frantically scribbled was any indication, she was succeeding. Finally giving her man what he needed.

Her man.

She struggled with the urge to close her eyes. He was her man. She could feel it in her bones. And she was his muse. But he would let her go. Because he believed he’d had his woman, the love of his life, and even though Gisella was gone, he didn’t want another love.

What she felt for him was pointless.

* * *

Antonio put down his pencil forty minutes later, belatedly realizing he’d made her stand stiff and silent way beyond her limitations.

“I’m sorry, cara.”

She shook her shoulders loose, then smiled. “It’s fine. Did you get what you wanted?”

“Yes.” The desire to kiss her rose strong and sure. It wasn’t just her pretty face and her bright personality that drew him. Her unselfish gestures never ceased to amaze him. For almost an hour, she’d stood stiff and straight, barely blinking. Even more, though, she’d realized what he needed when he didn’t. The dress, the hair, even the shoes had brought back the feelings he’d had in the gallery, and his artistic instincts hadn’t merely appeared. They’d jumped to full-blown life.

Because she’d made all the connections he couldn’t seem to.

Still, he fought the urge to kiss her by turning away, puttering with his tablets, pretending interest in old sketches that had no value now that he’d found what he wanted. “Thank you for thinking of the dress.”

She displayed her spike heels. “And let’s not forget the shoes and hair.”

She said it lightly, but an undercurrent of melancholy ran through her voice. All of this was about him. Nothing they’d done in the past ten days helped her. She still had her troubles.

He walked over and caught her hands. Fear of getting too close, of longing to kiss her, had to be shoved aside. He owed her. “You look so pretty. Let me take you to lunch.”

She shook her head. “Nah. You don’t have to.”

“I insist. Give me ten minutes to clean up.”

“It’s okay. There’s no need to thank me.”

He smiled. “I’ll let you drive.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you have a Jag?”

“I have a Lamborghini.”

“Oh, dear God.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “How can I turn that down?”

He motioned for her to precede him out of the studio and up the cobblestone path, then headed to his room to change. Considering her attire, he slid into beige slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt, which he left open at the throat.

When she saw his car, she squealed with delight and raced to get behind the wheel. He tossed the keys at her. She caught them like a left fielder for the Yankees. The engine rumbled to life and she shifted into reverse to get them out of the garage, then shoved the pedal to the floor when they reached the road.

The noise from the wind swirling around the open roof prevented conversation, so he pointed to give her directions to the nearest small town. He motioned with his hand to let her know she needed to slow down as they drew closer.

They entered the village and their speed decreased. The noise of the wind diminished. He heard the appreciative sigh that told him she was pleased with his choice of village, with its cobblestone streets, old houses, street vendors and sidewalk cafés.

“Park here.”

She pulled the car into a little space. They both got out and he directed her to walk to the right.

The way she looked at his little town was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Her lips kicked upward into a smile of pure joy, but not like a person surprised by what she saw. More like a woman who’d found a place she loved.

Mesmerized by her excitement, he caught her hand and led her down the street to the outdoor seating of his favorite local restaurant.

They ordered salads and once again she refused bread. He shook his head. “You are supposed to gain weight.”

“Yeah, but I’m not supposed to turn into a tub of lard.”

He laughed. “The way you talk reminds me of my childhood.”

Her gaze rose to meet his. “Really?”

“Yes. Everybody I know either speaks Italian or they’re a bigwig in the art world or in one of Dad’s former companies. You speak like a normal person.”

“I am a normal person.”

“And most of my foster parents were normal.”

Her eyes softened. “Did you have a rough time?”

He shook his head. “Tucker had a rough time. I think that’s because he was actually in New York City. I was in a quiet city in Pennsylvania. I had a bit of trouble with being angry about not knowing my dad, but my foster parents were always simple, normal people with big hearts.”

She said, “Hmm,” then cocked her head. “Pennsylvania’s not so different from Kentucky.”

He chuckled. “You have a twang that Pennsylvanians don’t.”

She frowned. “Hey, I worked really hard to get rid of that twang.”

“And you’ve mostly succeeded.”

* * *

Laughing, Laura Beth glanced across the table at Antonio. The blue sky smiled down on them. A light breeze kept everything cool. The hum of life, of street vendors, cars and chatting passersby, filled the place with life and energy. She totally understood why Tucker and Olivia spent several months a year in Italy. If she could, she would, too. But in a few days she’d be going home. Back to her blue-collar roots. Back where she belonged.

Emotion clogged her throat. She wouldn’t just miss Antonio. She would miss his world. Italy. Art. Interesting people. Sun that warmed everything.

Still, she swallowed back her feelings. She’d already decided her future was in her small town with her parents. Because she loved that world, too. She loved crisp autumns. Sleigh rides and skating in the winter. The love of people she knew. A quiet, humble place to raise a child.

It just seemed so unfair that she had to choose. But, really, she didn’t have a choice. She was broke. Longing to live in two worlds was the last resort of a foolish woman. And she knew it was time to get sensible. The best way to do that would be to take the focus of this conversation off herself and get it back on him.

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