A loneliness he’d never noticed before permeated the air of his home. Her energy pulsed through the rooms but he craved direct contact, a real conversation. He missed her laughter and enthusiasm and wit. He missed everything about her. Rocky got more time with her than he did.
He never should have pushed. When she’d come so naturally into his arms, her scent wrapped around him and he’d been drugged. The softness of her curves pressed against his chest. The silky brush of her curls. He had ached to pull her into the bedroom and claim her all over again. Now, he realized it was the epitome of bad timing.
Max groaned. So stupid. Instead of being rational and giving her the time she needed, he had threatened her. Yeah, the blood had definitely gone to his other head, and he had no excuse. Her heartfelt statement about her own happily-ever-after seared into his brain and broke his heart. Was that what he’d done to her? Ripped away her illusions and dreams?
He always worried he’d break her heart one day. Sure, he was forced into marrying her, but why didn’t it feel like such a chore? Why did he look forward to coming home and catching a glimpse? She deserved so much more. Instead, she got him.
Depression settled over him. The hell with it. He’d cook dinner and force her to interact. Max headed toward the bedroom, stripped off his suit, and changed into jeans and a black T-shirt. He poured two glasses of Merlot and settled on a chicken salsa dish she’d like. The meditative motions of preparing a meal soothed him. The culinary kitchen had been custom-built, with cream granite countertops, a Sub-Zero fridge, a brick oven for pizza, and a Viking stove. The island cut through the main area with a sink and separate work area, a breakfast bar, and cushioned leather stools. He grabbed a few copper pots, drizzled in the olive oil, and began chopping tomatoes and onions. Ten minutes later, she clattered down the stairs and stood framed in the kitchen. “I’m going. Don’t wait up.”
He threw down the knife and leaned one hip against the counter. “I’m cooking dinner. Where are you going?”
“Bookstore.”
“Stay for a bite. You need food before your long shift.”
She shifted on her feet, obviously tempted. “Can’t. I’ll grab something at the café.”
“They only have snacks, you need protein. For God’s sake, I promise you don’t have to stay long in my company. Sit.”
“I don’t—”
“Sit.”
She pulled out a chair and sat. Her immediate response reminded him of her obedience in the bedroom and gave him an instant hard-on. He slid the chicken onto a plate, topped it with salsa, and plopped it on the counter with a fork. She dove in with her usual relish, making those yummy sounds of pleasure. He shifted with discomfort and tried to adjust. “Did you find anything out about our dove?”
“Yes. I tracked the tag to an owner about fifty miles from here. She’s a homing pigeon, known as a rock dove. Name’s Gabby. She’s not a regular racer, but he sends her out on occasional missions to keep her sharp. A few of his friends belong to a club, and I guess all their doves returned except Gabby. He’s been frantic.”
Max filled his own plate and slid into the stool across from her. “I didn’t realize racing pigeons even existed. Is he coming to pick her up?”
She took a sip of her wine. “No, I explained what we did and the damage to Gabby’s wing, and he agreed to let me take care of her here until she’s healed. Then I can let her fly home. If there are any problems with her recovery, he’ll drive over to pick her up, but I think she’s doing better already. She’s alert and seems to know what’s going on.”
“How long before she can be released?”
“Two to three weeks, depending.” A smile broke over her face. “The owner said she was used to carry letters back and forth between separated couples. Isn’t that cool?”
He smiled back. “Extremely. Just be careful, sweetheart. You always get attached.”
Her nose scrunched up. “I know. She’s only a bird, so I should be okay.”
“Oh, yeah. What about the chipmunk?”
A laugh escaped her lips. “I forgot about that! But I was young.”
He snorted and forked another piece of chicken. “You named him Dale from the Disney cartoons. I think he faked that hurt leg. You set him up in the shed with his own man cave. No wonder the rodent didn’t want to leave.”
“Don’t call him a rodent. He was sweet. He didn’t stay long.”
“He was damn mean. Bit me and Michael all the time when we tried to play with him. Then he brought all his rodent friends to party and we were afraid to even go in and get our bikes.”
Her dark eyes glowed and the lines in her beautiful face softened. “Papa got so mad. They chewed holes in the wall and stored towers of nuts. He forced me to get rid of Dale.”
“You cried for days.”
“I have trouble letting go of those I love.”
The startling confession burst through the room. She jerked back, obviously regretting her words, and concentrated on her plate. Max spoke softly. “I know. They always seem to come back to you, though. “
Carina refused to look up. He fought the urge to caress her cheek and kiss the sadness away. Instead, he poured more wine and changed the subject. “How’s your work coming? Are you still doing portraits?”
A strange expression flickered over her face. “Kind of. I’m trying something new.”
“I have a lot of contacts in the art world, Carina. I’d love to set you up with a consultant. If they like it, maybe a show can be arranged?”
She shook her head in between bites. “No, thanks. I’m handling this on my own.”
He bit back his frustration and reminded himself she needed to prove her own success. He already believed in her. She just needed to believe in herself. “Fine, I respect that. You don’t have to work such long hours at BookCrazy, you know. Alexa told Michael you were amazing, but you take double shifts all the time. I never see you anymore.”
“I need the money.”
He cocked his head. “You’re from one of the richest families in Italy. I don’t do too poorly myself, and you’re my wife. Why the hell would you need to work for money?”
She lifted her chin in that stubborn tilt that drove him crazy. “Michael’s rich. You’re rich. I’m not rich. I may have a fat trust fund, but I’m going to make my own way, just like everyone else. If that means working extra shifts, I’m not complaining.”
He bit back a curse. “Family takes care of their own. What’s theirs is yours. Why can’t you understand that?”
She gave an unladylike snort. “Same way you can’t understand how it feels to have failed at everything you’ve done.”
His mouth dropped open. “Failed? You succeed at everything you touch.”
Her voice turned to ice. “I’m not stupid, Max. You may want to get me back in bed, but lying doesn’t cut it. I sucked at being a chef like Mama. I wasn’t good at business like Julietta and Michael. And I sucked at anything to do with personal fashion, beauty, or looks like Venezia. Don’t insult me.”
His heart broke. This beautiful, spirited, giving woman believed she wasn’t worthy. The urge to strangle her or kiss her warred inside him. Instead, he swallowed past the tightness in his throat and told the truth.
“You succeeded at everything precious in this world, Carina. People. Animals. Love. Nothing else matters, you know. But you just don’t see it.”
She stilled. Those soulful dark eyes grew wide with astonishment. A connection blazed between them, hot and bright, and the air grew clogged with emotion. He put down his fork to reach for her.
Carina jumped off the seat and took a few steps back. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for dinner.”
She flew out of the kitchen and left him alone and empty.
• • •
A few days later, Carina studied the paintings in front of her with a critical eye. The class had helped with form and taught her a few techniques that took her to the next level. Her teacher even commented on getting in contact with someone for representation, especially if she completed a cohesive series. A tiny trickle of alarm slid down her spine. A public showing would mean more than coming out of the closet as a hopeful artist. It would mean stripping naked and screaming “Look at me!” in the middle of Times Square.
The real problem, of course, was her family. Her supportive, well-meaning core group who believed she had talent but painted as a hobby. Not once had she expressed her soul screaming for the opportunity to be a professional artist. Art was well respected in Bergamo, but business was revered, especially with the famous La Dolce Famiglia bakeries in the Conte name.
Carina nibbled at her bottom lip and scrawled her name at the bottom.
Her first official piece completed. And if anyone saw it, they’d believe she was a slut.
The lines were blurred in a hazy gray black that cast the couple in shadow. The woman’s hard nipple revealed her arousal, and her face caught the onlooker’s eye with a naked ecstasy as if she was fighting orgasm. The man’s back was turned and blocked the rest of her bare body. Lean muscles bunched and a tattoo claimed the top left shoulder in that of a serpent. The window sketched toward the right-hand side of the painting gave the impression of a sense of voyeurism peeking into their sensual world, while the bright light of day and sanity remained through the glass.
She fisted her hands, then slowly worked out her fingers. The cramp in her wrist told her she’d been at it for hours. Excitement nibbled on her nerve endings. It was good. She felt it deep inside her gut, a sense of satisfaction she rarely experienced anymore. Not since she started college. She’d fought the pull of her instinct for a while now, but only created flat, two-dimensional portraits that left her cold.
The raw erotic nature shocked her. Who would’ve known Max ripped open the gates of her soul and tore off the locks? No going back to sensible, clean creations. The moment she lay eyes on the portraits in Sawyer’s office, she knew she needed to dig deep and paint nudity. No matter what happened with her work, at least she was telling the truth. About her nature. Her wants. Needs. Fantasies.
About time.
She cleaned her brushes, tucked away her acrylics, and stripped off her smock. Time to give Rocky a treat and check on Gabby. She’d invited her family for dinner, and hoped she’d have time for a quick nap in the sun first.
Gabby greeted her with the normal coo she’d begun to love. Already, she dreaded the time she needed to let Gabby fly away. The bird’s bright, knowing eyes told a deeper story with an exotic past Carina would love to know more about. Maybe she’d have a chat with her owner before releasing her.
She checked the dressing and bandage, fed her, and carried the converted fish tank outside to the back patio. The Olympic-sized pool was surrounded by lush foliage, imported palm trees, and vivid red and purple irises to surround swimmers in a tropical lagoon. Rocky padded outside, not giving Gabby a second thought, and plopped beside her on a lounge chair. Carina slid into the Adirondack chair with her pets flanking her, a glass of Merlot on the table, and the sound of gushing water and wind in the background.