A Debt Paid In The Marriage Bed. Jennifer Hayward
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have to fill in that part from memory.
“Drink?” he asked, walking to the bar.
“Mineral water, please.”
“It’s Friday night.”
“I’d still like mineral water.”
And the battle lines were drawn... He poured it for her, added a slice of lime and carried it out onto the terrace, where Angie had drifted. Strategically placed lanterns lit up a thirty-five-million-dollar view of the park.
He handed her the drink. Noted she wore her sapphire engagement ring and wedding band. “Which show?”
She blinked. “Sorry?”
“Which show are you designing for?”
“Oh.” She wrapped her fingers around the glass. “Alexander Faggini’s Fashion Week show.”
“That’s impressive.”
She lifted a shoulder. “A friend of mine introduced us. He thought my designs worked well with his. It’s an honor for me.”
“I’d like to see the collection.”
“Would you?” She turned those beautiful blue eyes on him. “Or are you just making an effort to appear interested?”
“Angelina,” he growled.
“It’s a fair question.” Her chin set at a belligerent angle. “I am, after all, playing at a start-up business that has somehow, magically, found success.”
He rested his gaze on hers. “Three-quarters of new businesses fail in this city. They don’t even last until their second year. You have done something extraordinary with yours. I’m proud of you. But at the time, it seemed like a long shot.”
“You didn’t think I had the talent? Not even with you nurturing me?”
There was a distinctly wounded edge to her eyes now. He blew out a breath. “I could see you were talented. But you knew I wanted my wife at home. We were having a baby.”
“You were like that after we lost the baby. When I desperately needed something to occupy my brain.”
His mouth flattened. “I could have supported you better, there’s no question about it. I should have. But someone had to run our life. I needed the sanity of you at home.”
“And I needed the sanity my work provided me.” She turned her gaze to the lush canvas of green spread out before them, Central Park in full, glorious bloom.
He studied the delicate line of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth, silhouetted in the lamplight. Defensive. Protective. It made him wonder about all the pieces of his wife he hadn’t known. Didn’t know. Had never attempted to know.
“Sanity from what?”
She shrugged. “My life. All of it.”
He frowned. He understood what being the offspring of a dynasty meant, because his family was as much Italian aristocracy as the Carmichaels were American royalty. Understood how the pressure of the relentless press coverage, the high expectations, the rules in their world could weigh a person down. What he had never understood was what about it his wife reacted so violently to.
“Why do you hate it so much,” he asked, sweeping a hand through the air. “This world? Why has being a Carmichael been so difficult for you? I could never figure it out. I know you have a combative relationship with your father and that having his affairs plastered across the media couldn’t be easy for you...but it always seemed like it was more.”
A cynical light shone in her gaze as she turned toward him. “Did it need to be more? Those affairs devastated my mother, cut her so deeply she never recovered.”
“No,” he agreed, “it doesn’t. My father worships the ground my mother walks on and rightly so. I can’t imagine how painful it must have been to watch your father disrespect your mother like that when she has stood by his side the entire time.”
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