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

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.”

* * *