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

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Best Friend to Wife and Mother? (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Her Brooding Italian Boss (#uf159c5c3-e277-5e99-be4c-c0c71cd5b6d0)

Susan Meier

CHAPTER ONE (#uf159c5c3-e277-5e99-be4c-c0c71cd5b6d0)

LAURA BETH MATTHEWS sat on the rim of the old porcelain tub in the New York City apartment she had to vacate by the next morning. Her long brown hair had been swirled into a sophisticated French twist. Her lilac organza bridesmaid gown was an original Eloise Vaughn design. A pregnancy test shook in her right hand.

Tears pooled in her eyes. There was no question now. She was going to have a baby.

“Laura Beth! Come on!” Eloise called from the hall as she knocked on the bathroom door. “I’m the bride! I should at least get ten minutes in the bathroom to check my makeup.”

“Sorry!” She swiped at her tears and quickly examined her face in the medicine cabinet mirror. No real mascara smudges yet, but the day was young.

For the first time since she, Eloise and their third original roommate, Olivia Prentiss Engle, had decided to spend the night before Eloise’s wedding together and dress together, Laura Beth regretted it. She was pregnant. The father of her child, one of Olivia’s husband’s vice presidents, had called her a slut when she’d told him she was late and they might be parents. And now she didn’t just have to smile her way through a wedding; she had to hide a pregnancy test in a tiny bathroom.

She glanced around. “I’ll be two more seconds.” Out of time, she wrapped the stick in toilet paper and tossed it in the little wastebasket. Satisfied neither Olivia nor Eloise would rummage through the trash, she sucked in a breath, pasted on a happy smile and opened the door.

Eloise stood before her, glowing, a vision in her original Artie Best gown, designed specifically by her boss, the one and only Artie Best. Smooth silk rode Eloise’s feminine curves. Rhinestones sparkled across the sweetheart neckline. And real diamonds—enough to support the population of a third-world country for a decade—glittered at her throat.

Tears pooled in Laura Beth’s eyes again, but this time they were tears of joy for her friend. Eloise, Olivia and Laura Beth had moved to New York City with stars in their eyes. Now Olivia was a married mom. Eloise would be married in a few hours. And Laura Beth was pregnant, with a deadbeat for her child’s father and twenty-four hours to vacate her apartment.

She was in deep trouble.

* * *

Antonio Bartulocci studied his shoulder-length curly black hair in the mirror. He’d gotten it cut for Ricky and Eloise’s wedding, but he still debated tying it back, out of the way. He looked to the left, then the right, and decided he was worrying over nothing. Eloise and Ricky were his friends because they liked him just as he was. They didn’t care that he was a tad bohemian. Most artists were.

He straightened his silver tie one last time before he walked out of the bedroom of his suite in his father’s Park Avenue penthouse and headed for the main room.

Comfortable aqua sofas faced each other atop a pale gray area rug, flanked by white Queen Anne chairs. A gray stone fireplace took up the back wall, and a dark walnut wet bar sat in the corner. The view of the New York City skyline from the wall of windows in the back had taken Antonio’s breath away when he first saw it. Since his wife’s death, it barely registered.

“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.”