Her Brooding Italian Boss

“Hurry up, Antonio,” his father called from the bar as he poured bourbon into a crystal glass. He wore a simple black suit, a white shirt and yellow striped tie that would be replaced by a tuxedo for the reception later that night. Though he was well into his seventies and a few pounds overweight, Italian billionaire Constanzo Bartulocci was a dashing man. A man whose looks spoke of money and power, who lived not in an ordinary world, but in one he could control. Unlike Antonio’s world, where passion, inspiration and luck ruled.

“I’m right behind you.”

Constanzo jumped and faced his son, his right hand over his heart. “You scare me.”

Antonio laughed. “I’ll bet I do.”

After downing his drink in one long swallow, Constanzo pointed at the door. “Let’s get going. I don’t want to end up in a crush of reporters like we did the last time we went somewhere.”

Antonio straightened his tie one more time. “Hey, you made me the paparazzi monster I am today.”

“You are not a monster.” The lilt of an Italian accent warmed his father’s voice. “You could be one of the most important painters of the twenty-first century. You are a talent.”

He knew that, of course. But having talent wasn’t what most people imagined. He didn’t put his gift away in a shiny box and take it out when he needed it. Talent, the need to paint, the breathtaking yearning to explore life on a canvas, were what drove him. But for the past two years he hadn’t even been able to pick up a brush. Forget about painting, accepting commissions, having a purpose in life. Now, he ate, drank, slept—but didn’t really live. Because he’d made millions on his art in the past few years, and, with his savvy businessman father’s help, he’d parlayed those millions into hundreds of millions through investments, money wasn’t an issue. He had the freedom and the resources to ignore his calling.

The private elevator door silently opened. Antonio and his father stepped inside. Constanzo sighed. “If you had a personal assistant, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Antonio worked to hide a wince. He didn’t have to ask what his father meant. He knew. “I’m sorry.”

“I wanted you to be the artist who did the murals for Tucker’s new building. Those works would have been seen by thousands of people. Ordinary people. You would have brought art to the masses in a concrete way. But you missed the deadline.”

“I don’t have a brain for remembering dates.”

“Which is exactly why you need a personal assistant.”

Antonio fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. What he needed was to be left alone. Or maybe to roll back the clock so far that he hadn’t married the woman who’d betrayed him. But that wasn’t going to happen. He was stuck in a combination of grief and guilt that paralyzed him.

Constanzo’s limousine awaited them on the street. They walked under the building portico without speaking. Antonio motioned for his father to enter first.

When he slid in behind him, soft white leather greeted him. A discreet minibar sat near the media controls. His father hit a few buttons and classical music quietly entered the space.

The driver closed the door and in less than a minute the limo pulled onto the street.

“A PA could also handle some of the Gisella problems that remain.”

Antonio’s jaw twitched.

Constanzo sighed. “Well, you don’t seem to want to handle them.” He sighed again, more deeply this time. “Antonio, it’s been two years. You cannot grieve forever.”

Antonio glanced at his father. He let his lips lift into a small smile. Pretending he was grieving had been the only way he’d survived the years since his wife’s death. Beautiful Gisella had burst into his life like a whirlwind. Twenty-four hours after they’d met they’d been in bed. Twenty-four weeks after that they were married. He’d been so smitten, so hopelessly in love, that days, weeks, months hadn’t mattered. But looking back, he recognized the signs he should have seen. Her modeling career hadn’t tanked, but it had been teetering, and marriage to the newly famous Italian painter had put her in the limelight again. Her sudden interest in international causes hadn’t cropped up until she found a way to use them to keep herself, her name, in the papers and on everybody’s lips. She’d even spoken at the UN. He’d been so proud...so stupid.

“My son, I know adult children don’t like nagging, meddling parents, but this time I am correct. You must move on.”

Without replying, he looked out the window at the hustle and bustle of New York City in the spring. Bumper-to-bumper traffic, most of it taxicabs. Optimistic residents walking up and down the sidewalk in lightweight coats. The sun glittering off the glass of towering buildings. At one time he’d loved this city more than he’d loved the Italian countryside that was his home. But she’d even ruined that for him.

“Please do not spoil Ricky and Eloise’s day with your sadness.”

“I’m not sad, Dad. I’m fine.”

The limo stopped. They exited and headed into the enormous gray stone cathedral.

The ceremony was long and Antonio’s mind wandered to his own wedding, in this same church, to a woman who hadn’t really loved him.

No, he wasn’t sad. He was angry, so furious some days his heart beat slow and heavy with it. But he couldn’t ruin the reputation of a woman who’d used him to become a cultural icon any more than he could pretend she’d been the perfect wife she’d portrayed.

Which meant he couldn’t have a PA digging through papers in his office or documents on his computer.

The ceremony ended. The priest said, “I now introduce Mr. and Mrs. Richard Langley.”

His best friend, Ricky, and his beautiful new wife, Eloise, turned and faced the crowd of friends and relatives sitting in the pews. A round of applause burst through the church and Ricky and Eloise headed down the aisle. Matron of honor Olivia Engle and best man Tucker Engle, also husband and wife, followed them out of the church. Antonio walked to the center aisle to meet his partner, Laura Beth Matthews.

Laura Beth was a sweet young woman he’d met and had gotten to know fairly well over the years when she’d visited Olivia and Tucker at their Italian villa, and every time there was a baptism, birthday or holiday party at the Engle penthouse on Park Avenue. Unfortunately, she had usually been with an annoying boyfriend, someone who didn’t fit into Tucker Engle’s world or Ricky Langley’s, but who desperately tried to.

Laura Beth slid her hand to Antonio’s elbow and he smiled at her before they walked down the aisle and out of the church.

As Ricky and Eloise greeted the long line of guests filing through the vestibule, Antonio turned to Laura Beth. “You look lovely.”

She glanced down at the pale purple dress. “Eloise designs the most beautiful gowns.”

“Ah, so she did this herself.”

Laura Beth nodded. When she brought her gaze back to his, though, her green eyes were dull. Not sad for the change in her life that the marriage of her last roommate would bring, but lifeless.

He caught her forearm to bring her attention to him. “Are you okay?”

She suddenly brightened. “Sure. Yes. I’m fine. Wonderful. It was just a stressful morning.”

“Tell me about it. Have you ever tried traveling with a billionaire who expects everybody and everything to be at his fingertips?”

Laura Beth laughed. “Oh, come on. I love your father! He’s not a prima donna.”

“You’ve only dealt with him when you were on vacation or at a party for one of Tucker and Olivia’s kids. Just try flying across the Atlantic with him.”

She laughed again and something lightened in Antonio’s chest. With her dark brown hair and bright green eyes, Laura Beth was much too pretty to be so—

He paused, not able to put a label on her mood. Nervous didn’t quite hit the mark. Unhappy wasn’t it either. She seemed more like distant. As if she were preoccupied.

Seeing Ricky and Eloise still had a line of guests filing out of the church, he said, “So what’s up?”

Her head snapped in his direction. “Up?”

“You’re here one minute, but your mind is gone the next. You’re obviously mulling something over. Or trying to figure something out.”

“I...um...well, I have to be out of my apartment tomorrow before noon.”

His eyebrows rose. “And you’re not packed?”

“No, I’m packed. I just don’t have anywhere to go.”