Ache For You

25

I drop my face into my hands and gnash my teeth.

“Where is your husband?” he asks, agitated. “Didn’t your father tell me you were getting married? You’re not wearing a ring.”

Oh great. Yeah, let’s get all up into this now. I speak into my palms. “There’s no husband.”

When the silence stretches too long, I glance up to find him staring at me with narrowed eyes, like he thinks I’m lying. That pisses me off all over again.

“I pushed him off a cliff,” I say, wishing it were true. “He took something of mine and wouldn’t give it back.” I’m talking about my trust, but I might as well be talking about my sketch pad.

Matteo’s smile could burn a hole through steel it’s so acid. “Ah. So that’s what happened to your dignity.”

Blood creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks, but I refuse to look away. “That’s right. He humiliated me completely. But he did it because he’s immature. You just did it because it made you feel good. Which is worse?”

He’s not happy with my question. He starts to pace again, all flashing eyes and an angry jaw, his perfect hair rumpled from running his hands through it.

I like him better like this. Undone. Imperfect. It makes him seem a little more human.

The heartless bastard.

He says abruptly, “You can’t be serious about keeping the company.”

I c**k a brow at him. “And why is that?”

He sweeps me with a look, up and down, dismissive. Before he can open his mouth, I say, “If you’re about to make a nasty comment about my gender, my brains, or my style, I’m about to neuter your smug ass.”

His eyes are cutting. His lip is curled. Him looking at me is like being assaulted by a volley of flying arrows. “What is it with your hostility?”

“What is it with your arrogance?”

“There’s a big difference between self-confidence and arrogance.”

“Yeah, there is, and any man who propositions a woman in an airport lounge after a thirty-second conversation lands squarely on the arrogance side of that equation.”

“I didn’t proposition you. I said I wanted you.”

“You’re splitting hairs. The intent was clear.”

He studies me for a long moment. “You think I do that all the time, is that it?”

“I honestly don’t care one way or the other.”

“You’ll have to learn to lie better than that if you’re going to succeed in fashion here, bella.”

He smirks, and I want to knock him out. The urge is surprisingly strong. I’m not normally a violent person, but the man brings out the insane-o little cavewoman in me. “I don’t need business advice from you.”

“This isn’t America.” He says America like you’d say Ew, poop. “This is Italy. The fashion capital of the planet—”

“Tell that to the French.”

He waves me off like I’m being ridiculous. “And a girl from San Francisco—not even New York—who owns a sweet little dress shop is in no way prepared to compete here.”

“Wow. I’m not sure which was worse: the sexism in that statement, or the sheer snobbism. I’m insulted on behalf of my gender and my country. And how do you know so much about me, anyway?”

His expression turns grave. “Your father spoke of you often.”

My throat tightens. “You . . . spent time with him?”

“Yes. There were dinners, visits here, or to my home. We became close.”

Hearing that is so painful I have to close my eyes and concentrate on simply breathing for a moment. All the time I was clueless about my father’s new wife and stepson, they were enjoying time together. They ate meals together. Like a family. They “became close.” While I was wasting time planning a wedding that would never happen with a man who didn’t love me.

Why didn’t you tell me, Papa? Why?

I’m gripped by a jealousy so strong it leaves me shaking. For the past two months, this arrogant jerk was spending quality time with my father. Precious time that I’d never be able to spend with him again.

His tone more gentle, Matteo says, “I’ll give you a good price for the company. Better than anyone else would offer.”

“So you can turn around and give all the money to your mother? No thanks.”

“My mother doesn’t need money,” he says flatly, all the gentleness gone.

I glance up at him and can tell I’ve offended him again. Good. “That’s not what I heard.”

He grinds out, “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t make any difference. You’re not getting the business either way. Go back to your castle and holler at your servants. I’m done with this conversation.”

We engage in another round of hate staring.

I break first, because it’s taking too much energy and this entire exchange has exhausted me. I push off the couch and exhale loudly, dying for a drink. And maybe a rock to hurl in his general direction.

“So your plan is to give up your entire life in America just to spite me? And my mother, whom you obviously dislike? You’re going to move here, to a country whose language you don’t even speak—”

I whirl on him. “How do you know I don’t speak Italian?”

“Your father told me. He told me many things about you. He spoke of your kindness. And your strength. And your intelligence. He made you sound like Wonder Woman.” A hard look comes into his eyes. “The only thing to wonder is how well he knew you.”