Esther Helton’s high heels clattered on the terrace stone. Her voice was acid with distaste and displeasure. “Vico.”
“Mrs. Helton.” His tone was dry.
That was what was wrong. Her mother’s presence. Lise gave him a wry smile before the older woman arrived at her side. Finally, a spark of gold lit his eyes.
She sighed with immediate relief. The only thing she had to do was get her mother out of his hair and everything would go back to the way it should be. Once her mother was gone, and Vico was back to his usual self, then she’d do what she should have done weeks ago.
Confess her love for him. Give him the gift of those three simple words.
Then everything would be completely right forever.
* * *
For a moment, on the terrace, breathing had been very difficult.
Vico wrenched his tie off and carelessly tossed it on the carved teak armoire. He glanced into the mirror and stared at his image. His eyes were blank, his mouth sullen. Throughout the interminable dinner he’d managed to put on the charm, still, it had been tough.
Extremely tough. Very difficult.
He’s some kind of thief. I’m sure of it.
Wrenching off his silk shirt, he paced into the bathroom and turned the water to steaming hot. He chucked off his linen pants and stepped beneath the flow. Hands planted on the heated tile, he leaned over, nearly resting his head on the wall.
He took a deep breath in and then, out.
He had no fear of Esther Helton nosing around in his affairs. He had nothing to hide and, eventually, the harridan would be disappointed. The fear building inside him was of an entirely different nature.
The water burned his back, but Vico accepted it. Needed it. Maybe it would melt the ice-cold core inside of him. The core of cold squeezing his beating heart. His breathless lungs. His shivering soul.
Once a scoundrel, always a scoundrel.
Flinging his hair back over his wet shoulders, he thrust his head under the rush of water, trying to wash the accusation away. The steam covered his face and cheeks. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what was really important.
These were Esther Helton’s words. Not his wife’s.
He sucked in another breath. Let it out.
Lise. Lise of the winsome grin that had greeted him hours ago. Lise of the round, lush figure creating the inevitable stir of lust in his body. Lise of the apparent happiness at his return.
Sleazy.
Scandalous.
Squalor.
The words sliced into him like spiked stilettos.
He shut the water off with a yank and stepped from the shower onto the plush green carpet. Ignoring his clothes on the floor, he grabbed a towel and strode back into the bedroom. The empty bedroom.
His wife was still with her mother. After all, Esther had announced at the stilted dinner, this would be her last night and she’d like to have her daughter’s company alone.
Vico had been more than happy to comply.
The fact he’d have some time alone had added to his relief.
Time alone to get a grip.
A bunch of parasites.
Stepping into his dressing room, he tore a robe off its hanger and stuffed his arms through the soft Egyptian cotton, not caring when he ripped one of the shoulder seams.
Lise liked his family. These last two months, she’d come out of her initial shell with them and welcomed them with enthusiastic warmth every time any of them came to the door. She’d laughed with his sisters, teased with his brothers, had long, lazy talks with his momma.
She liked his family.
The thought of that mob of his enjoying such a beautiful place is sinful.
Her mother’s words. Not hers.
Why was this a problem inside him? Why was he feeling this sense of rage?
He’d suffered many slings and arrows. He’d read many slurs, waved off many hurled insults without a second thought. With clear-cut knowledge, he’d known his mother-in-law despised him. He’d thought very little about it, thinking it a mere inconvenience.
Stalking out of the dressing room, he wrenched the first drawer of his armoire open and clicked open the hidden compartment. He reached down, picked up his discarded shirt, and slipped the black Bvlgari box from its pocket. Dropping the shirt on the floor again, he opened the jewelry box.
The diamond earrings flashed in the low light. He’d wanted something elegant, yet also something that made a statement. Something that told her how precious she was to him. During the course of these months at his villa, the words, the admission pounding in his heart every moment, were never far from his tongue. But he hadn’t wanted to push her too far or too fast. He’d wanted to be sure. He didn’t know what he’d do if he spoke and she rejected him once more. He’d feared he might never recover.
So, he’d wanted the Princesse to say the words first.
Contemptible, certamente. He was a man with guts in every circumstance.