No. No. There were no late-night jaunts. No tabloid pictures. She’d been ashamed today when she’d eyed the newspapers on the Milan newsstands with fear. Ashamed at her shaky trust. Her husband wasn’t gallivanting around. He was still at her side. If not literally, figuratively. He was still at the villa and if he left for the office, he came back within hours.
Was it something she’d said?
Her brain clicked. Clicked.
Or something someone else said?
She’d been so sleepy. So happy. But her mother’s words, scattered and half-listened-to, started seeping back into her memory. Name calling. She remembered that. Grouching about various sins. She remembered that, too. Could these simple, stupid labels have turned her husband into a walking zombie?
Maybe. Possibly. Probably?
She grabbed the glass and took a deep swallow.
Really? If this was the reason for his withdrawal, she was going to smack him when she got home. Then kiss him.
Her mobile phone jingled from her purse.
Vico.
“Si?” Irritation edged her word, yet there was also a certain amount of relief. This had to be it. There was nothing else it could be.
“Lise.” His tone was cool and contained. As it had been for the last three interminable days. “Your PA has sent some documents to your email I need to finish a report on HSF.”
“So?”
His voice turned dry. “I’m calling to get your permission to access your email.”
His strict code of honor always amused her. After all the things he’d done to her—the reckless trick of putting her in his bed, the cunning way he’d gone around her to win the company to his side, the ruthlessness of his demands of marriage—he still held to his own code of what was right and what was wrong.
“Lise?”
The pictures. All the photos of him she’d taken during the past months. A flush rose in her cheeks at the embarrassment she’d feel if he saw them. Would he only go to her email? Or would he notice the icon with his name on it and click?
“Lise?”
Perhaps it would be for the best. She wouldn’t have to smooth his ruffled feathers if he saw the loving photos she’d taken. He’d be back to his loving self by the time she got home.
“Lise.” His tone was hard now. Cold.
“Of course,” she rushed out her approval. Let happen what would happen and embrace the embarrassment. Because with it would come healing.
Her joy surged inside.
She’d say the words no matter what man she found when she got home.
“Grazie.” The click off was sharp and crisp.
“I’m going to say those words as soon as I get home,” she muttered to herself as she switched off her own phone.
“Was that Vico?” his mother inquired.
“Si.” She rose, gathering her packages and purse. “I need to get home.”
With loving hugs and effusive goodbyes, it was several minutes before she was able to get to her scarlet Maserati. Her husband had grumbled about how she should be driven everywhere, but she’d convinced him she’d be fine on her own and only needed some old thing to run errands. Two days later, the Maserati greeted her on the front drive with a big red bow around the entire car. What had thrilled her was the car hadn’t been a sedate silver sedan, but a wild, red sport coupe.
Did Vico understand and appreciate the new Lise?
Slamming the door, she gunned the engines and grinned in the rear-view mirror. The new Lise was about to take on her husband’s mistrust and do away with it, along with any trace of the old Lise.
Then she was damn well going to say those words.
The villa was quiet when she let herself in. There were faint noises from the downstairs kitchen. The chef and housekeeper exchanging notes about the night’s dinner, probably. She stood in the foyer, listening. Listening for her husband.
He was here. The limo he usually took into town had sat on the far side of the villa, the driver chattering on his mobile, his hand waving in the air as he made his point.
The villa was quiet, hushed.
Her tummy suddenly went queasy. With determination, she ignored it. She knew what the problem was now. It was merely a matter of making things clear.
His office door was closed. Firmly. He never closed the door to her in all the months they’d lived here at the villa.
She ignored the signal and pushed it open.
“Ah,” he said. “You are home, mia dolce.”
Not once had he called her this nickname in the last three days.
Joy rose inside her.
Maybe he’d seen the pictures. Maybe he knew what she felt.
She plowed into the room, but then something, something stopped her. Some sense of unease, of borderline panic.
Shadows cloaked him as he sat behind his desk. The shutters were closed to the afternoon sun, where usually he had them open, often the windows as well. To let in Italy, he chided her one day with a smile. To let in the smells of Italy.