The Italian's Bold Reckoning (Hot Italian Nights Book 4) Page 6

  She met his eyes directly, her own a blaze of…what? Challenge? Or something else? Whatever it was it made his toes curl.

  He needed time alone with his wife to talk. And more. So much more.

  After a year without her, his patience was frayed to a single thread.

  It would be a miracle if he got through tonight’s party without causing a sensation in front of all the VIPs and paparazzi by carrying his wife off to ravish her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Angela’s pulse galloped at the intensity of Matteo’s scrutiny as he strode towards her across the foyer. She felt that indigo stare from her scalp to her soles and in every inch between.

  His touch as he escorted her and Gina across the Grand Canal by private launch seemed to linger at her waist. Possessively? Was that wishful thinking or did he, too, feel that powerful connection between them? As if they were linked by invisible bonds.

  Fear vied with excitement as Angela realised she’d have her answer tonight. There was an air of determination about Matteo that told her he’d come to a decision.

  Which meant she’d be on tenterhooks all evening since tonight’s party couldn’t be avoided. It was specifically to promote the film’s connection to Venice and they had to do their bit.

  The event was every bit as sophisticated as Angela had feared. The grand old hotel was lavish, with no expense spared on furnishings, catering or the huge, formal arrangements of exotic flowers. Most of the frighteningly chic female guests wore black, making her and Gina stand out in their vibrantly-coloured gowns, and the sheer volume of jewels glinting under the chandeliers dazzled the eyes.

  Bling was in and Angela would have felt woefully out of place, even in her stunning dress and silver stilettos, if not for the jewellery her sister, Sonia had given her.

  Usually Angela wore only her wedding ring and the beautiful yellow sapphire solitaire Matteo had presented on their engagement. But tonight, to match the wide strip of exquisite silver embroidery at her waist, she wore long, sparkling earrings and a glittering ring on her index finger. She had no diamonds but the faux gems shone brilliantly, giving her much needed confidence.

  A year ago an event like this, full of wealthy, opinionated people, eager to assess and find her wanting, would have been hell.

  Tonight Angela didn’t care. The guests faded into insignificance. She was on the verge of losing her husband and perversely, though that was what she’d told herself she wanted when she came to Venice, the idea put everything else into perspective.

  What could these people do to her that could possibly be worse than Matteo dismissing her from his life?

  No amount of arch looks or snide remarks could hurt the way she did when she contemplated a life without him.

  Besides, far from looking down on her, the glamorous crowd seemed friendly. Was it reflected glory from being Matteo’s wife?

  Or perhaps they really are interested in talking to the screenwriter about the film that’s already getting such buzz.

  It was time she focused on the encouraging self-talk she’d learned at her positivity and assertiveness course in Australia, rather than fall into old habits of doubt and retreat. That was the old Angela, the one whose confidence bowed under the weight of pressure. That wasn’t the woman she was determined to be.

  So, while Gina drifted from group to group and Matteo got tied up in a cluster of serious-looking men, Angela was left to mingle.

  Clearly Matteo wondered how she’d cope in this crowd. He’d kept her close as they entered, giving her hope that she might breach the barrier between them. She hadn’t been able to read his expression, but she did register his tension.

  Then, as more and more people had approached to talk business, that tension had increased, making Angela wonder if everything was okay with the investment for the film. So she’d urged him to go with them, almost had to push him away.

  Because he thought she couldn’t cope on her own?

  That thought had sliced through her pleasure at the fledgling hope he wanted to be with her. She didn’t need him hovering, no matter how much she preferred having him near.

  Since then she’d intercepted several glances her way, Matteo’s brow furrowed in concern. That, more than anything, strengthened her resolve not to play the wallflower.

  The dress helped. Strapless, with cunningly draped folds and a full length skirt, it was of such an outrageously eye-catching red that when Sonia had first shown her, Angela had been adamant she could never wear it. That never had goaded her determined older sister into action. Despite the years they’d spent apart the bond between them had proved strong. She’d reminded Angela it was past time she stopped hiding in the shadows, blaming their father for flattening her self-esteem. It had been Sonia who’d urged her to try the training that had helped her to get a new perspective on her life.

  Wearing this provocative dress tested her nerve, since she’d always tried to blend into the background. But she owed her sister and besides, she discovered she liked looking good.

  Several women stopped to ask about the designer and Angela forgot her reserve as she raved about the up-and-coming Australian designer Sonia Rossi. Sonia would be thrilled when she messaged her later.

  Angela even found herself laughing with a formidably fashionable woman over exactly what shade of red her dress was. The other woman’s knowledge of the infinite varieties of colours astounded her. Angela hadn’t realised there were so many distinctive shades.

  ‘Will you share the joke?’ A deep voice made her spin round. It wasn’t Matteo, yet the man before her made her catch her breath. Niccolo Marchesi, the hottest race driver on the international circuit and certified heartthrob, stared down at her from fathomless dark eyes.

  It wasn’t his good looks or high public profile that stopped the air in her lungs. It was the fact that she’d last seen him at her wedding, when he’d been Matteo’s best man.

  ‘We’re just trying to pinpoint the exact colour of Angela’s dress,’ the older woman said.

  Niccolo nodded. ‘Passion red. Obviously.’ He paused. ‘Matteo is a lucky man.’

  He didn’t say any more, just kept his gaze on Angela, and the other woman drifted away, saying something about finding her husband.

  Angela lifted her chin. ‘How are you, Niccolo? You’re looking…good.’ He looked good enough to eat, or he would, if she weren’t a one man woman.

  ‘Fine. And you? Again, my condolences on the loss of your mother.’

  Angela nodded, recalling the flowers and message of sympathy she’d received from him while in Australia. Now she thought of it, Matteo’s siblings had all sent similar greetings. There had been an abundance of support, even from across the globe at that distressing time. But she’d been too caught up in misery over her mother’s death and her husband’s apparent betrayal to really appreciate that.

  ‘Thank you, Niccolo. I’m feeling…better now.’

  One eyebrow lifted. ‘And you’re back in Italy to stay?’

  ‘I am.’ Angela refused to think of the possibility Matteo would reject her. She was determined to fight to get him back, no matter what it took.

  Suddenly her inquisitor smiled, a flash of blinding white that transformed his face from broodingly handsome to charming in a second. ‘Matteo will be pleased.’

  ‘I hope so—’

  ‘Did I hear my name mentioned?’

  Heat feathered Angela’s bare neck as Matteo moved in to stand on her other side. Instantly her pulse skittered and wildfire ignited to spread through her veins. Her knees trembled so she had to lock them rather than grab at one of the men beside her.

  ‘Do you always assume you’re the centre of conversation?’ Niccolo’s grin widened. ‘It must be the actor in you, Matteo. They say performers are narcissistic.’

  ‘At least we have real talent,’ her husband said, a laugh in that husky voice that made the bare skin across her shoulders tingle and grow taut. ‘As opposed to those who simply
drive a machine around a circuit.’

  He clasped a hand on his friend’s shoulder as his smile broke free.

  The sight of that smile up close, after a year without it, made Angela stifle a gasp. Her heart did a silly little jig and sparks of heat ignited all across her body.

  It had been so long since he smiled at her. Seeing that grin up close reminded Angela sharply of all she’d thrown away.

  How she missed the joy they’d once shared! The enormity of her loss ripped a jagged, gaping hollow in her belly.

  Matteo swung his head around, his smile fading to something else as he looked at her. Something she couldn’t place.

  ‘Maybe the conversation should be about someone who has the talent and imagination to create a whole world in their head then bring it to life with their writing.’ His words stroked her and his eyes were warm.

  It was too much.

  Angela’s throat constricted as she stared up at him.

  Since arriving in Venice, perfunctory smiles of thanks had been the most she’d received from Matteo when she submitted revised lines. Most of the time he seemed so…contained around her, on guard. If you didn’t count that day when he’d been absolutely furious with her.

  ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in…’ Her sandpaper-lined throat finally stopped her words and she had to look away. She felt the prickle of heat at the back of her eyes and refused to let him see.

  A silent moment passed. And another. A hot shiver raced down her backbone as she blinked, looking down at the fall of vivid red fabric, trying to compose herself.

  Of all the times to fall apart! At a simple compliment! She’d been doing so well too, mixing with so many elegant strangers.

  ‘That’s shameful. Your husband should compliment you regularly.’ To her surprise Niccolo’s firm hand slid around her waist, making her head snap up so she met his gleaming dark eyes. ‘Come with me, cara,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll ply you with champagne and tell you your eyes are as bright as the stars. Then we can—’

  ‘Enough, Marchesi.’ Matteo’s voice, though soft, held a rare note that sliced through Niccolo’s banter like honed steel through butter. ‘If anyone is going to drink champagne with my wife and compliment her, it will be me.’

  Angela turned to her husband. There was a fierceness about his features as he watched her that might have frightened her once. But she welcomed it. For she read in it a naked need that matched her own. A physical hunger, and more, at least she hoped it was more. At the moment she’d take whatever she could get from him.

  Her pulse raced as hope rose.

  ‘Surely that’s for the lady to decide.’

  What was Niccolo doing? Being deliberately provoking?

  ‘The lady has decided,’ she said as she turned to Niccolo, drawing his arm from her waist. ‘Thank you for the offer, Niccolo, but it’s my husband I want.’

  That was when she understood. When she saw the flicker of triumph in his eyes. First he’d probed her intention to stay in the country, after she’d been separated from Matteo for a year. Now Matteo’s best friend had made her admit she wanted her husband.

  Instead of being annoyed, she found herself smiling at the handsome man before her. ‘I hope one day some woman leads you a merry dance, Niccolo.’ Something she’d noticed last year gave her an inkling his days as a fancy free bachelor were numbered.

  ‘So do I,’ Matteo said as he hauled her close to his side, up against a wall of bone and lean, hot muscle. ‘Now make yourself scarce. There are lots of single women here who for some strange reason are dying to meet you. Leave the married ones alone.’

  A frisson of delight rippled through Angela at Matteo’s possessive hold, and his words.

  Married. Matteo still regarded himself as married. Despite her earlier mention of a divorce and the revelation of her distrust. Despite his fury.

  Surely that, and his firm hold, meant he was willing to try again?

  Angela was so wrapped up in her thoughts she barely heard Niccolo’s farewell before he peeled away to join the party throng.

  ‘Did you mean that, Matteo?’

  ‘Mean what?’ His eyes, a rich, velvety dark blue like the last colour in the evening sky before darkness descended, meshed with hers. Angela’s breathing turned shallow and swift.

  ‘About my writing.’ Not that it was her writing she really wanted to discuss. But his compliment had sideswiped her, taking her by surprise and revealing the true depth of her longing.

  For answer Matteo secured one of her hands and lifted it to his lips. ‘You’re the most talented writer I know.’ His kiss shot darts of fire up her arm then down, arrowing sharp and hard straight to her womb, making her tremble.

  His thumb toyed with the solitaire he’d given her, his lips curling in a tight smile that looked proprietorial.

  ‘That scene you’ve just written…’ He shook his head. ‘It’s amazing stuff.’ Suddenly his eyes lifted, his gaze meshing with hers and pinioning her to the spot. She couldn’t have moved even if the grand old palazzo began to slide into the sea. ‘It’s courageous.’

  ‘You and Gina are up to it.’

  He tilted his head as if to view her better. ‘Courageous for you too, Angela. There’s a lot of you in that script. Others might not recognise that, but I do. You’ve laid yourself bare in your writing.’

  Angela shrugged, the movement tight. Because he was right. She’d delved to the core of her doubts and fears to create this. Trust Matteo to recognise that.

  ‘I want the film to be as good as it could be.’ Her voice was a raspy whisper.

  ‘You were only thinking of the film?’ Matteo’s expression was impenetrable, as if he wore a mask. Only those vibrant eyes hinted at something else going on within.

  Angela shook her head, her hair sliding around her bare shoulders. ‘No. I was thinking of us.’

  Slowly he nodded, the gleam in his eyes pinioning her to the spot. ‘It will take real trust for you to watch me film this with another woman and not feel threatened.’

  He was right. Angela hadn’t added sex scenes, though the characters did become lovers. But the screenplay would require a level of emotional intimacy between the actors that had to be real on some level.

  ‘I can cope.’ She lifted her chin to meet his gaze. ‘I want to do this.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  Matteo stared down into soft, toffee-brown eyes, and felt his heart turn over in his chest.

  Here was the woman he’d fallen for, the passionate, strong woman who loved her work…and him.

  Others had been fooled by the drab clothes Angela often wore, and her habit of melding into the background when part of a large, noisy group. But Matteo had always been drawn to the fire within her, all the more tantalising as he seemed the only one who knew it was there.

  He wanted to believe Angela was that woman again. The one who trusted him enough to marry after a short, whirlwind romance. Who believed in him. Or did that other Angela still lurk there, the one who’d believed the worst of him, turned her back and deserted him?

  Around them the chatter and laughter of the party filled the air. Someone walked by, jostling Matteo, pushing him closer to her. But he and Angela seemed caught in a web that bound them close, separate from the rest even while in their midst.

  ‘I believe in you, Matteo.’ Her words were soft but he felt them pierce his stubborn soul. ‘I believe in us.’

  She swallowed hard. Mesmerised, he watched the convulsive movement of her slim throat, pale gold like her bare shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts. That expanse of delicious skin had driven him crazy all evening, even while trying to concentrate on business.

  No, it was more. Angela had driven him crazy and not just because she looked stunning. The woman who’d written that amazing text had made him begin to hope again.

  ‘I’d like to try again. If you can forgive me.’

  ‘It’s not about forgiveness,’ he growled, simply bec
ause his throat had turned rusty. It was true. His pride had taken a beating and he’d been furious. But he’d had time to realise what really mattered. ‘It’s about trust, about sharing and belief.’

  If the moment weren’t so serious Matteo would have grimaced at himself. He sounded like some soppy agony aunt giving advice to the lovelorn. But as an actor he spent a lot of time delving into emotion and motivation. He might be as macho as the next Italian male, but he knew what he felt.

  Angela pressed closer, so close he felt her slim form against him from the lush cushion of her breasts to the cradle of her hips and down to her thighs.

  ‘I know, but I’m sorry. I really am.’

  Matteo caught one slim hand as it rose to her throat. His thumb stroked the once familiar profile of the snug-fitting wedding band and the unique solitaire he’d found for her.

  He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it. ‘Apology accepted.’

  The sharp hitch in her breathing spoke of relief. He felt her fingers tremble.

  ‘And us?’

  Matteo let his lips curve against her skin. ‘I never want to be separated from you again.’

  The terrible burden that had weighed on his shoulders so long slid away as Angela’s smile broke free, dazzling him. She’d never looked as lovely as in this moment.

  Lovely and sexy and his.

  Urgency filled him and Matteo released her hand, instead sliding his arm round her narrow waist and propelling her across the room. It was tough going with the crowd so thick. He worked on autopilot, smiling, apologising, promising to catch up later. But with every step he headed straight for the enormous, gilded entry doors.

  ‘Matteo, stop.’ Her sibilant whisper, her hand on his chest, made him pause.

  He looked down and saw Angela frown. Cold lead dropped through his gut. Had she changed her mind?

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? We can’t just up and leave. The reception is for you, us, for the film. You’re the guest of honour.’