“Matt?” He didn’t even comment about how she’d interrupted him. “You’d do that for me? Rescue me if I say armadillo?”
“Sure.” His brows wrinkled in confusion as he squeezed her hand. “I said I would. Does that mean you’re going to do the interview?”
Patiently, he waited her out, his silence nothing more than encouragement to go on if she chose. Or not, if she chose, which was usually the path she took. “I don’t know. I’ve had a strict no-interviews policy since the surgery.”
“Do you get stage fright in front of all those cameras or something? Just picture them in their underwear.”
The mental image of cameras wearing a pink, lacy bra-and-panty set made her giggle. “That’s not the problem. I just don’t like the questions.”
“Well, no offense, but that guy doesn’t strike me as a hard-hitting news journalist. If he asks you about anything more strenuous than where you shop, I’ll fall over in a dead shock.” He brushed a thumb across her cheek. “If I was going to jump back in the water, I’d get my feet wet with a small-time Italian talk show first.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She’d think of nothing but. Because his point was valid.
He gave her plenty of space by bounding up immediately to cook dinner. She trailed him to the kitchen to watch him beat the raw ingredients into submission, which she thoroughly enjoyed.
“While you’re sitting there,” Matt said as he pulled covered platters from the refrigerator. “You should start thinking of the proper way to thank me for this fantastic dinner.”
She returned his wicked grin. “Exactly how good of a cook are you?”
“My mama taught me well. Though I believe she intended for me to feed myself. Not use my culinary skills to seduce women.”
“But you’re so good at both. She should be proud.”
They laughed and traded banter, and dinner was everything she’d anticipated when he’d asked her to stay—a low-key, enjoyable evening with a man who liked her.
Matt wasn’t the only one who needed to heal. She got that. But he had a prayer of getting there one day, especially if she truly helped him along. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything he could do in return to fix her vocal cords. She was permanently scarred, and at best, this Venice interlude was a distraction from the rest of her life and what she would do with it.
For ten years, she’d worked hard, so hard, to climb the charts. Nothing had been handed to her. Only by tapping into her emotions and feeding her muse with the next greatest adventure had she found success. Being aimless and idle grated on her almost as much as having no voice. She wanted—needed—meaning again, but what if she invested in something and it kicked her to the curb like music had?
The public’s hostile clamoring for a piece of her just increased the difficulty in answering the questions. But how long could she go on ignoring the fact that the person who really needed that answer was Evangeline?
Milano Sera was a benign compromise, and the addition of Matt’s strength made it somehow seem a lot safer. She should do it, if for no other reason than to gain some progress toward the answers. If Franco put her back against the wall and demanded an explanation of who she was going to be from now on, all she had to do was say armadillo.
* * *
Evangeline’s former publicist agreed to work with Milano Sera’s team to arrange an interview, with two important stipulations—Matt must be given free rein on the set, and Franco had to tape the show remotely from Vincenzo’s house.
No one argued. Two days after Evangeline tucked her belongings into Matt’s dresser, the taping was a go.
She checked her makeup one last time in the framed mirror above the marble double-sink vanity. A remote taping meant limited resources, so she’d handled her own clothes and hair in the ensuite bathroom she’d been sharing with Matt. No change from regular life; the days of stylists and three dedicated makeup artists were long over. She didn’t mind. The activity gave her a chance to calm her nerves.
Eva stared back at her from the mirror. Whatever happened today was happening to Eva. She had to remember that.
When she and Matt entered Vincenzo’s palazzo, the buzz of activity stopped as if a plug had been pulled. A statuesque, authoritative woman in her forties barreled over to pump Evangeline’s hand and escort her to the makeshift set, introducing herself as the show’s producer.
Gingerly, Evangeline perched in the tall, canvas chair the producer had indicated and smoothed her fuchsia skirt as the camera director lined up the shot, fiddled with the lighting and barked orders at the stressed assistants. Matt watched it all without comment from the edge of the camera zone, one hand shoved in his back pocket. It was a deceptively casual stance, but his keen blue eyes missed nothing.