The Amalfi Bride

She’d never experimented with drugs, because addiction hadn’t been part of her plan for success. But now she suddenly understood the concept of mindless addiction at a profound level.

He was lethal.

No. He was just a professional. He knew what he was doing. That was all. He was good at his job. This was what he got paid for. Everything was under control. He wouldn’t do anything unless she decided to hire him. He was after money. Billable hours. Like Bobby. That she understood. Too well.

It wasn’t as if he felt what she felt. She was in no danger. She was in control.

She felt hot, and the cool breezes gusting up from the sparkling gulf did little to cool her.

“I’m Nico. Nico Romano,” he whispered against her ear, stroking her hand with that seductive fingertip.

The way he said his name warmed her blood almost as much as his touch.

But was it his real name? Did gigolos have stage names as actors did or pseudonyms as writers did?

“But then you probably know who I am…or at least what I am,” he said, his expression almost apologetic.

So she was right—he was a gigolo.

She blushed, liking his discretion about avoiding the G-word.

“Yes.” She glanced away.

“There’s no reason to let it bother you. I’m a man, just an ordinary man.”

“If you say so.” She felt shy, unsure, out of her depth.

“And you are?” he continued.

“Carina,” she said in a rush, choosing her middle name for protection, to put distance between them. “My mother calls me Cara. Everybody else calls me—” She stopped, realizing she was about to start babbling, something she did when she was nervous.

“Cara,” he breathed. “In our country your name means beloved. It suits you.”

The air between them seemed to grow even hotter, if that were possible. Or maybe it was only she who was ablaze.

He was good. But how much did someone of his caliber cost? Not in the mood to ask and discover his price excessive, she put the all-important question off.

“Are you hungry?” he murmured. “Or would you prefer to go straight to your hotel?”

Did having dinner with him cost more? And what would the staff of her palazzo think when they saw her with him in the restaurant? Did he go there often?

“I ate a late lunch,” she said.

“So did I,” he murmured.

He leaned closer. He slid one hand around her waist. His other hand lifted her fingertips to his sensually curved mouth, and he kissed each long nail and fingertip, lingering a little on the tips of her nails. Then he stared into her eyes. Everything he did was infinitely gentle. Somehow, nothing he did seemed faked or practiced, and long after he’d let her fingers go, the pit of her stomach felt hollow.

When she lowered her hand to the ceramic table again, she sighed. Good. She wasn’t ready for the serious kissing to start. Not in public, anyway.

He leaned closer and traced her mouth with his fingertip, flooding her with more erotic heat. His eyes followed the path of his finger. He swallowed hard. So did she. The girls, who were watching, giggled again.

“Che bella,” he whispered, scooting his chair back a little.

He wasn’t subtle. But what had she expected? He was a gigolo. Not to mention Italian. This was a business relationship. She should applaud his talent and his professionalism. Instead, she was so caught up in what he was doing it was hard to remember this wasn’t real.

He held up his hand for the check. Before she could rummage in her purse, he threw a wad of euros on the table, cupped her elbow and escorted her out of the bar. She was acutely aware that, when he’d stood up, everybody stopped talking. Even the music stopped. When he turned at the door to wave to the bartender, a final burst of girlish giggles saluted them.

He’d paid, no doubt, for appearances’ sake.

He was one classy gigolo.

Remembering the Maserati, and the Ferrari and the yacht, Simonetta, where he’d spent the night, she began to wonder if she had enough cash in her purse.

If she didn’t, would he take a credit card or at least escort her to the nearest ATM if they finished at a late hour?

Then she remembered he was one classy gigolo.

Of course, he would!

Two

Regina stepped out of the shower, dried herself with a warm towel and put on the hotel’s thick, white fluffy robe as Nico had suggested. Her damp hair felt heavy and soft about her shoulders as she left the bathroom. Picking up her cell phone, she padded through the bedroom and then out onto her private belvedere to wait for Nico, who had left her suite to take a phone call.

Nico. She gulped in a breath of warm humid air. Trying not to think about him and what they were about to do, she looked down at the quaint town and its lush gardens. Nevertheless, her hands were shaking as she punched in her friend Lucy’s number back in Austin.

Surely, heaven couldn’t best Ravello. The jewel-like, medieval village seemed to hang suspended from its mountainside over the Amalfi Coast. The views from Regina’s hotel, formerly a fourteenth-century palazzo with crumbling, vine-covered walls and Moorish arches, were breathtaking even now when the shadows were lengthening.

Flowers perfumed the balmy sea breezes. The bees were gone, and the church bells were ringing. Cliffs and villas alike seemed to tumble to a dark, turquoise sea.

Not that she was all that interested in the white yachts or Simonetta or the sparkling water or even the palazzos. She was too consumed with excitement and fear.

“Pick up, Lucy,” she whispered, tapping a bare foot with impatience on the sun-warmed stones. She could hardly stand feeling so alone and uncertain.

“Pick up!”

Pacing while she waited, she spotted Nico four floors beneath her. He was also striding back and forth on a terrace near the aqua pool, looking just as impatient and upset as she felt.

Did he want to be with her, or did he hate his work and dread the time he’d be spending with her? Or was it his conversation that had him on edge?

She wished his phone hadn’t rung. She wished he’d look up and wave reassuringly, but his dark head was bent over the phone, and he seemed so absorbed she wondered if he’d forgotten her existence.

His cell phone had buzzed just after he’d ordered champagne, strawberries and an assortment of cheeses, and had suggested they get into the hotel’s white, fluffy bathrobes and enjoy a drink on her balcony. When he’d recognized the caller’s name in the little blue window on his phone, he’d frowned. Then he’d cupped Regina’s chin, kissed her on the forehead, and apologized because the call was too important to ignore. He’d answered the phone with a smile and endearments in Italian and had excused himself, which had made Regina curious about the caller’s identity, and a little jealous.

Was it a woman? A client? Whoever it was, the call was very important to him.

Just as Regina was worrying that her attraction to Nico might be heading toward an obsession—something she’d never experienced before in her orderly, controlled life—Lucy finally answered, her voice breathless.

“Hi!”

Lucy was pregnant by the sperm donor who she and her partner Beth had agreed was a perfect fit for them. They had pictures of him and his children, future half siblings to their own much-wanted child, posted all over their apartment.

“You’ll never believe where I am,” Regina began.

She went to the closet, pulled out the painting of the little boy playing in the sand, then returned with it to her balcony.

“Italy!” Lucy answered.

“I mean—” Regina stared down at Nico again “—where in Italy? And you’ll never guess what I’m doing….”

The little boy’s painted hair shone like black satin, exactly as Nico’s did.

“You probably just got through jogging and are about to treat yourself to some tomatoes and fat-free mozzarella while you make long lists of must-see tourist attractions for tomorrow.”

“Ravello! Which is the best place ever. I don’t think anybody has ever heard of fat-free cheese over here, either. Are you familiar with Maxfield Parrish’s paintings?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Ravello is like those paintings.” Regina lowered her voice. “I’ve met a man.”

“Those are the four most dangerous words any other woman could say…especially if he’s an Italian. But then you’re you, so he’s probably smart, ambitious…”

“He’s not! But don’t worry, this isn’t serious. He’s absolutely gorgeous, the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. But…”

“But what? With you, when it comes to your men, there always has to be a but.”

For a long moment, Regina hesitated. She almost regretted calling Lucy.

“But? I’m waiting!”

“I—I think he might be a gigolo.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Regina remained silent.

“That is such a cliché. And not a good one. Not for you! You’ve got to come home now! You’ve definitely been over there too long. You were supposed to relax, enjoy good food, art, pretty scenery, visit your grandmother in Tuscany….”

“I think the art may be part of the problem. The sculptures here are so erotic.”

“Pay him and then drive straight to the airport,” Lucy ordered.

“But he’s so hot. I feel like I’m burning up.”

“Did he slip something in your drink?”

“No!”

“Don’t do it! This is all because Bobby said you were uptight and frigid and because you were pushing yourself at work way too hard. You don’t have to prove you’re a hottie in disguise. You don’t! Now you know you called me because you wanted to hear the voice of reason.”

No, Regina had called Lucy because she’d wanted to share something that felt important.

“I think I’ve been having doubts about E-321. I think Italy has made insemination just seem way too impersonal. I’m not you, you know. I can…be with a man.”

“We talked about this, girlfriend. E-321 has gone through numerous screenings…. Use a condom with this Italian fellow if you don’t come to your senses! What do you know about him except he’s hot and that he charges gullible women like you a bundle for the pleasure of his body? I would think there would be plenty of free, horny Italians over there.”

“Not like him.”

Even three stories below her, Nico’s tall, dark figure in jeans and a white shirt radiated power, assurance and masculinity. And something more.

When he looked up and smiled warmly, her breath caught in her throat.

She waved, as thrilled as a high-school girl with her first crush.

“I—I feel this weird, totally powerful connection to him.”

“And you haven’t even had your first orgasm! Not good. Run for your life! This is not a good thing.”

“But it feels like a good thing.”

“This is very, very bad.”

Regina’s cell phone began to beep. She saw Susana’s name. Her flaky baby sister, who didn’t have a digital gene in her body, never called her.

The name Susana flashed in bold blue.

“Oh, my God! Today’s the day the twins are being christened. Susana’s calling me! She’s actually calling me—in Italy! I’ve gotta go! I totally forgot to call Susana!”

“One word! Airplane!”

“I’ll call you right back.”

“That sounds like a plan!”

Regina punched a button and took Susana’s call. There was a loud wail on Susana’s end, which meant either Regina’s niece, Gina, who’d been named after her, or one of her twin nephews was unhappy.

“Hi, there,” Regina said, feeling guilty. “How was the christening?”

“It’s you! It’s really you! Gina, she answered! I can’t believe I really got you…on my fourth try even! All the way to Italy. Not that you know where that is, Gina, sweetie!”

“How’s the christening going?”

“Everybody’s here…except you.”

Regina’s guilt deepened.

“We’re all out in the backyard. It’s so hot. But you know Daddy. He had to grill. Mama’s hovering to make sure he doesn’t burn the steaks like he did last time. She keeps saying maybe you’ll meet a man in Italy. She’s still upset that you dumped Bobby. She hasn’t given up on you meeting an Italian even though we all know that’s not why you went. Don’t tell her I told you, but she made me call you. She even dialed. She wants to know if the love bug has bitten.”

Regina stared down at the extraordinarily good-looking man on the terrace and then swallowed. “Right.”

“It has?”

“No!”

“She’ll be so disappointed. She was sure Italy would do the trick.”

Regina swallowed, her throat feeling extremely dry all of a sudden.

“Gosh, I miss you,” Susana said. “Gina asks about you every single day. When are you coming home?”

“Three days.”

“Gina’s crying her head off. She wants you here. We all do. Especially since Daddy just said the most awful thing to her.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know what gets into him. I quote, ‘Now that we’ve got two new cute baby boys, we don’t need you anymore.’”

Oh! “He didn’t! Not again!”

“Again?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing…only…

Time whirled backward. Instantly, Regina was transported to the day when a darling, bald Susana had been brought home from the hospital in a flurry of parental excitement. Flushed with pride at being a big sister at last, three-year-old Regina had run to the baby carrier.

Her father had knelt, and she’d climbed into his lap and had thrown her arms around him.

They say you don’t remember things when you’re three, but they’re wrong. His words had been like poisoned darts wounding her soul.

Now that I’ve got a new, cute daughter, I don’t need you anymore.

Regina had backed away from him, and he’d picked up Susana.

“Why don’t we sing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’?”

Regina had raced to her own room and had hidden in her closet. Ever since, she’d been jealous of her sister and had doubted her father’s love. Instead of abating with maturity, her dark feelings had grown more intense since Susana had married Joe and had given birth to her precious trio.

Her father didn’t care about any of Regina’s accomplishments. All he could talk about was Susana and the grandchildren. Not that Regina wasn’t smitten by the children herself. Not that she didn’t hate herself sometimes for feeling the way she did.

The green monster, especially when it involved a sister, had to be one of the most hatefully twisted feelings ever.

“Put Gina on,” Regina whispered, biting her lips.

Gina’s racking sobs got so loud Regina had to hold the phone away from her ear.

The poor, poor darling.

“Gina. It’s Aunt Reggie. Listen to me, sweetheart. Papaw loves you. He was just teasing.”

“I hate the baby brothers!”

Regina remembered all the times she’d felt as though she’d hated Susana just for being cute and petite and blond and adored, when Regina had been beanpole skinny in middle school. Not to mention flat-chested and too tall for all the boys.

“No, you’re a good big sister. You love your little brothers. Dino and David need a good big sister. Papaw is being a bad Papaw! He does that sometimes. Everybody has a weak moment once in a while.”

“Bad Papaw!”

“You’re beautiful and adorable! Everybody loves you, darling. Especially me.”

“And Pawpa?”

“And Pawpa,” Regina said, even though she’d always secretly believed that once Susana had been born, he hadn’t really needed his oldest daughter anymore.

“I love you, Aunt Reggie! Chocolate cake! Bye!”

“They’re about to cut the cake,” Susana said. “She’s just like you when it comes to chocolate. Just like you in so many ways.”

“You know I’m her biggest fan.”

“I’m just glad I caught you.”

“Me, too. Kiss all your darling children for me. I’ve missed them so much. I’ve bought two suitcases full of clothes and toys for them.”

“Joe says hi.”

Joe. Regina chewed on her bottom lip. What if Joe had married her? And she’d had children?

Susana hung up.

Her eyes misting, Regina couldn’t stop thinking about her father and the hole he’d carved in her heart.

Now that I’ve got a new, cute daughter, I don’t need you anymore.

For a long time, she stared at the dark gulf and the huge white yacht in the harbor.

Before Susana, her father had adored her. Regina had worked hard in an attempt to regain her number-one position in paradise. Always, always, she’d had to be a high-achiever, hoping against hope. But it hadn’t worked.

Susana had been charming and flaky, intuitive as she put it, and so adorable that nobody minded her bad grades or lateness. They hadn’t cared when she’d dropped out of college to marry Joe Hunt. Or even noticed that she’d stolen Joe from Regina, and Regina had been brokenhearted.

He’d been gifted, too. Law Review. Killer work ethic. He’d been her beloved boyfriend, but the moment he’d set eyes on Susana, the numerous things he’d had in common with Regina hadn’t mattered anymore.

Too bad for Regina that Joe had been the only man she’d ever really loved.

Everybody in the family thought she was over him.

And she’d told herself constantly that she was. Just as she’d told herself that all her orgasms with Bobby had been real, too.

She didn’t want to think about the fact that Nico was tall and dark and looked a little like Joe.

“Did you call Viola?”

Nico frowned. His mother, Principessa Donna Gloriana Lucia Romano—to mention only a few of her illustrious names and only one of her numerous titles—whose close friends called her Glory, was speaking Italian to him over his cell phone and quite rapidly, of course. Not that she liked Italian.

She’d been educated in Paris because her mother, Nico’s grandmother, with whom Princess Gloriana was bitterly estranged, had had a French mother and had preferred all things French.

Both Nico’s grandmother and mother loved the French language more than any other, but he preferred Italian or English, so his mother was humoring him. Because, as always, unlike Grand-mère, who wanted only his happiness, his ambitious mother wanted something from him.

“Not yet,” he said.

“Nico, tesorino, why do you keep putting this off?”

“Maybe it’s my gypsy blood.”

She ignored his comment. She never liked being reminded that their original ancestor had been a gypsy king.

“You did promise to call the Principessa Donna Viola Eugenia di Frezano today when we lunched,” she said. “You did say that you’d court her and that you’d ask for her hand in marriage as soon as possible.”

“I did. And I will. You have instructed me as to my duty for my entire life. Have I ever failed in my duty?”

The silence between them was suddenly filled with tension.

“You know that the two families have already talked, that the marriage is practically arranged.”

Of course, he knew. It would have already happened if he hadn’t been dragging his feet—grieving. His heart was in the grave, as the saying went.

“You know that today marks…”

“I know,” she said, trying to sound sympathetic. “But it’s been two years.”

His family and the family of his intended, Viola, were modern aristocrats with lineages dating back nearly a thousand years. Both families valued influence, power and money above all. Next, they counted culture, pedigree and tradition, not to mention titles—the grander and more illustrious, the better.

Nico’s parents, who’d left much of his upbringing in the hands of countless nannies, tutors and chauffeurs, had taken the time to teach him and his sister that what really mattered was money, power and luxury, in that order. Personal wishes were to be sacrificed to strengthen the family.

A young man’s dalliances with different types of women, even actresses, were regarded as necessary, perhaps even a healthy diversion. Even after marriage, such playing around was tolerated, although not advisable.

But one did not marry just anyone.

“You’re thirty-five,” his mother reminded him again, just as she had this morning when they’d driven along the narrow roads high above the coastline. “It’s time you settled down…again.”

“I did settle down.”

“She’s dead. You’re alive.”

Was he? Every time the paparazzi caught him with another beautiful actress, the tabloids referred to him as the merry widower. But they didn’t know about the guilt that tore at him over his treatment of Simonetta. How could they, when he’d been blind to what was in his heart until a month before Simonetta had died? At her death, love had overflowed inside him until he’d felt as though he were drowning.

“The principessa is very beautiful,” his mother said.

“Like a jewel with icy fire.”

“Without power and money, Nico, titles are meaningless. She has much to recommend her.”

“So you’ve told me—countless times.”

“You are a prince.”

“A lamentable fact that overly complicates my life.”

“With great privilege comes responsibility. You must marry well and behave responsibly to remain a prince. You must think of your children, of future generations. Our position has never been more fragile than it is in these modern times. Love, if one is lucky, comes after marriage. You loved Simonetta, didn’t you?”

“I was lucky. Lightning will not strike twice in the same place.” Annoyed by his mother, he drew a long breath. Somehow, he resisted the impulse to snap the phone shut. “Please, let’s not talk about Simonetta.”

“My poor tesorino.”

His mother believed grief and all emotions were luxuries for people like them. After World War II, the Romanos had lost ten castles and nearly a million acres to the Russians. The family had prospered since the war by marrying well and diversifying their business interests. They had vast holdings in the Americas, many of which Nico managed.

Still, Viola’s family had fared better in the past century and was much richer than his. His mother had begun courting Viola’s parents at Simonetta’s funeral.

“I understand that the match with Viola would be an exceedingly advantageous one for the family,” he said. “But does everything really have to be about money?”

“Of course not, tesorino. But Viola is very beautiful, is she not? She is not an ogre. You will fall in love with her.”

Nico frowned. As always, his mother had the worst possible timing. Because of Cara, he wished now he’d been more evasive on the subject of Viola when they’d lunched today at the family’s summer palazzo.

He had no taste for marriage. It was too soon. Two hellish years ago he’d lost not only Simonetta but their unborn son, as well, when the brakes of her car had failed, and she and her chauffeur had plunged off the side of a cliff on the French Riviera.

His and Simonetta’s marriage had been arranged, also, and because Nico had resented having to marry her, he hadn’t realized he’d come to love her in the last months of her life.

Because of his willful stubbornness, their happiness had been too brief.

This time of year filled him with memories and regrets. He’d made her unhappy far longer than he’d made her happy. If only he could go back and make it up to her. But it was too late. His mother was right, in a way. Somehow, he had to find a way to move on.

Inadvertently, his gaze shot to the tall brunette standing high above him on her belvedere.

Guarda, che bella!

She was nothing like his shy, innocent Simonetta. Still, Cara was incredibly exciting. When Grand-mère, naughty Grand-mère, had dropped him off at the beach yesterday afternoon so he could take the tender out to his yacht, Simonetta, to brood, she’d pointed out the girl reading on the bench under the lemon trees. The instant Nico had seen Cara in that short sundress, she’d made him forget his grief. He’d changed his mind about going straight to his yacht.

Simonetta had been small and blond. Cara was tall, dark, more mature and self-assured. Or, at least, he’d thought so at first when she’d set down her book and taken off her glasses to study him.