Winter Wedding for the Prince(7)

“So Christina’s Home is more than a memorial to your sister then,” Max said.

“My sister would have been the first person to say we need places like Christina’s Home,” she replied. She also would have been horrified to learn about the truth of Rosa’s marriage. “But yes. If someone like me, with connections to the king, of all people, had trouble working up the courage to leave, I can’t imagine what it is like for a woman who has no one.”

Max’s tight smile said he knew but wasn’t going to talk about it. “At least you left eventually. More power to you.”

Much to Rosa’s relief, he tossed his crumpled paper cup into a nearby trash bin, indicating the conversation was over. “I better go check on Arianna and make sure she’s truly resting. She’s only just over the morning sickness stuff, and I don’t want her pushing herself more than she needs to.”

“If she’s anything like her brother, she will,” Rosa replied. “When the Santoros make a commitment, they do so one hundred and ten percent. It’s ingrained in their DNA.”

“No kidding. I almost lost Arianna because of it,” Max replied. “Wish me luck getting her to put her feet up.”

“Good luck,” She waited until he’d moved away before letting her smile fade. Talking about Fredo had taken the edge off her holiday cheer.

“Is it true?” a familiar voice asked.

Armando stood behind her, still in costume. His eyes were like bright blue glass amid all his fake white hair. “What you told Max about Fredo, is it true?”

Dammit. How much had he heard? Rosa wanted to look anywhere but at him and those eyes filled with questions and...and pity. Exactly what she didn’t want to see. God, looking her reflection in the eye was hard enough. How was she supposed to look at him every day if he saw her as some kind of...of...victim?

“I’m going to get some more cake,” she announced. She didn’t want to talk about Fredo right now, and cake never asked questions.

“Rosa, wait.” He chased after her, catching her hand just as she got to the serving table.

“Armando,” she whispered harshly, “the children.”

* * *

Armando looked around, saw several of the youngest ones watching their interaction, and released her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

“Because...” She didn’t finish. The anguish in her eyes answered for her, and it nearly kicked the legs out from under him. “It’s in the past. What does it matter now?”

It mattered to him. If he had known, he might have done something. Stopped it somehow.

All those nights discussing the shelter... He’d thought Rosa’s passion lay in memorializing her sister, but he’d been wrong. While he had been waxing sympathetic about the women they were helping, Rosa never said a word. How long had she suffered? Why hadn’t he or Christina noticed? Were they so caught up in their own worlds they missed the signs? Or had Rosa been skilled at hiding them? His stomach ached for wondering. The strength it must have taken for her to walk away, the courage.

He took a good long look at the woman he’d been calling his right hand these last three years. She looked the same as always, and yet it was as though he was seeing her for the first time. What else didn’t he know about her?

Suddenly he wanted to be free of the party so the two of them could talk. He had so many questions. Before he realized, he was taking her hand again. The anguish flashed in her eyes again. “Armando...” she pleaded.

Fine. He wouldn’t push her right now. That didn’t mean the conversation was over. He had too many questions—was too angry and ashamed of himself—to let the subject drop. “Just tell me one thing,” he asked. “Did Christina know?”

She shook her head. “No.”

In a weird way, he found himself relieved. He wasn’t sure how he would feel if he’d discovered Christina had known, but apparently Rosa had suffered in silence. If only he’d known...

Someone tugged on his hem of his jacket. “Babbo, Babbo, Babbo!”

Damn this costume. Biting back a sigh, he instead turned to see what his visitor found so urgent.

A pair of blond pigtails and giant brown eyes looked up at him. Armando recognized the girl from earlier, a five-year-old named Daniela who had gotten a circus play set. In fact, she held one of the set’s plastic elephants in her hand. Quickly he cleared his voice. Wasn’t the child’s fault she’d interrupted an important moment. “Ho, ho, ho, Daniela. You’re not trying to get another early present out of me, are you?” he asked, hoping his voice sounded lighthearted.

The little girl shook her head. “You’re standing under the mistletoe.”

What? He looked up and saw the familiar sprig of white berries dangling from a ceiling panel. “And you want a kiss from Babbo, is that it?”

Again, Daniela shook her head. “You have to kiss her,” she said pointing behind him. Slowly, he turned to Rosa, whose hand he still held. Which was the only reason she was still standing there, if the look on her face was any indication.

His eyes dropped to her lips, causing his pulse to skip. He hadn’t kissed a woman since Christina’s death.

Meanwhile, some of the older children who had been standing near the refreshment table figured out what was happening and began chanting in a singsong chorus, “Babbo’s under the mistletoe. Babbo’s under the mistletoe.” The little devils. The lot of them were old enough to know his true identity, too. Probably thought it would be funny to make the prince kiss someone. He looked back at Daniela.

“Aren’t I supposed to kiss the person who caught me under the mistletoe?” he asked. A quick peck on the little girl’s cheek to quiet everyone.

“No. It has to be her. She was the one standing with you.”

“Kiss her. Kiss her,” the other children started chanting. Didn’t they have parents to teach them how to behave?

“Babbo has to leave to go back to his workshop,” Rosa said. In the short time since he’d turned toward her, her expression had transformed from wanting to flee to sheer terror. Armando’s ego winced. Surely the idea of kissing him couldn’t be that terrible?

“Daniela is right, signora,” he said. “Tradition is tradition. You wouldn’t want to break tradition, would you?”

“I—I suppose not.” Her gaze dropped to her feet. She had very long lashes, he realized. Reminded him of tiny black fans.

“Good.” It was only one small kiss. The two of them could argue about its awkwardness tomorrow morning.

Still holding her hand, he slipped his other arm around her waist and pulled her close. It was, he realized, the first time he’d ever put his arms around her, and he discovered her body was as pleasantly soft and curvy as it looked. The swell of her behind rested just beneath his splayed fingers, and it seemed to dare him to slip his hand lower. Instead, he focused on her lips, which were apparently as dry as his mouth had suddenly become, because she was running her tongue across the lower one. Her lips looked pleasantly soft and full, too.

“Kiss her. Kiss her,” the children chanted.

He dipped his head.

The kiss lasted five seconds. When he stepped away, Rosa’s cheeks were bright pink, and he...

His lips were tingling.

He didn’t know what to say. “I—”

“Gelato,” Rosa cut in. “I—I mean, we need to check the gelato.” She turned and hurried toward the kitchen.

“Rosa, wait,” he called after her, but she disappeared behind closed doors without turning around. Apparently the moment hadn’t erased her desire to flee their discussion.

“Are you all right, Babbo?” Daniela asked. The little girl’s eyes were wide with concern.

“That’s a good question, Daniela.” Looking back to the kitchen door, Armando ran his tongue across his lip, which tasted faintly of espresso. Was he?





CHAPTER FOUR

BY TIMING HER comings and goings around Armando’s schedule, Rosa was able to avoid the man for much of the next week. She was being a coward, yes, but she needed the space considering the way she’d reacted to Armando’s kiss.

Hardly a kiss. A peck under the mistletoe. Yet here she was, reliving every detail from the way his lips tasted—like breath mints—to the sensation of his artificial beard against her skin. He was right—it scratched.

She was running her finger across her lips again. Stop it, stop it, stop it. Balling her fingers, she tried hammering her fist against the chair arm in time with her silent chant, only the rhythm was too similar to Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her. Before she could help herself, the chants had switched.

Apparently her increased awareness wasn’t going away any time soon.

It was all so awkward and weird, this sudden realization that Armando was a man. She could only assume his getting married caused her subconscious to wake up as far as dating was concerned. Why else would her chest be filled with a hollow, jealous ache whenever she thought about it? She wanted what Armando would have. Or so she was telling herself. She didn’t want to contemplate the other reason for her reactions.

As for Armando...the kiss obviously hadn’t fazed him. He’d left a note the other morning saying that Mona would be attending the Christina’s Home concert on Friday night. Escorting the woman to his late wife’s memorial concert would certainly let Corinthia know he was ready to move on.