One Passionate Night: Her Brooding Italian Boss / The Heiress's Secret Baby / Best Friend to Wife and Mother?. SUSAN MEIER
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“It is a bummer, but we can come back to this tomorrow morning. Right now...” He glanced around. “Let’s try one with you sitting on the chaise.”
She walked over and sat down. Without waiting for instructions, she angled herself on the chair with her back to him, then looked over her shoulder at him.
The vivid image of her lying wrapped in the towel on her bed popped into his head, quickly followed by the pose he’d so desperately wanted to paint. Her wrapped in silk, one shoulder and her entire back bare, the swell of her hip peeking out at him, her face a study of innocence.
His finger itched to capture that. But he was sure the urge was a leftover of an aberration. Watching her at the gallery, he’d envisioned several compelling poses, expressions, little bits of humanity that would result in a painting every bit as compelling. He did not need to go there.
“That’s not how I want you.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s try this.” He wasn’t entirely sure how to position her. He had facial expressions in his mind. Images of her hair falling just the right way. And he couldn’t seem to get it right as he shifted her from one side to another, one pose to another.
“Okay. How about this? Lie down and pretend you’re daydreaming.”
“Oh! I get to lie down!”
He stopped in midstep toward the metal desk and faced her. “If you’re tired or anything, I don’t want you to overdo.”
She stretched out on the sofa. “I’m fine.”
Her inelegant movement struck a chord in him again and he eagerly grabbed the notebook. That was part of the essence he was trying to grasp. Beautiful yet impish. Troubled but still hopeful. With the image fresh in his mind, he began sketching. But after ten minutes he realized that pose didn’t work either.
Neither surprised nor disappointed—today was all about trying and failing—he gave her a break, then sat her on a chair.
Backing away from her, he said, “Think deep thoughts.”
Her face scrunched. “How deep?”
“I don’t know.” Remembering the feelings he’d had in the gallery and their subsequent conversation, he said, “Think about going home.”
She nodded, and he watched the change come to her eyes. Almost a sadness. Something tweaked inside him. But he didn’t say anything. Though he wanted to comfort her, they weren’t supposed to become friends from this. He wanted to paint her. She wanted to go home.
It made him sad. Almost angry. But he got the best sketches of the day.
After that they stopped for lunch. Rosina had prepared salads and bread, but Laura Beth skipped the bread, insisting she could feel herself getting fat.
He watched her single out and then dig in to her tomatoes with gusto and had to stifle a laugh. Feeling light and airy because he counted that morning as a success, he didn’t want to upset her in any way, shape or form. But the look in her eyes as he’d sketched her haunted him.
Casually, as if it were the most natural question in the world, he asked, “Do you not want to go home?”
Her head popped up. Her gaze swung to his. “I need to go home.”
“There’s a wide gulf between need and want.”
“I need my mother. Aside from Tucker and Olivia’s kids, I’ve never been around a baby. And I can’t really count Tucker and Olivia’s kids because I’ve never changed their diapers, never fed one of them and most certainly never walked the floor.”
“Ah. I get it. You need your mother’s assistance.”
“More her advice...her knowledge. Which means, since I need her so much, I want to go home.”
He laughed. “That’s convoluted at best.”
She shrugged. “It is what it is.”
But the faraway, sad expression came to her eyes again. He should have yearned to grab his pencil. Instead, that odd something tweaked inside him again. Only this time, he recognized it. It wasn’t a worry that they would get close. He hated to see her sad.
“What if you got a nanny?”
She gaped at him for a few seconds, then laughed out loud. “Right. I can’t even afford an apartment. Hell, Tucker hasn’t officially offered me a job yet, and you want me to hire a nanny?”
“But if he does offer you a job with a good enough salary, it would mean you could live where you want. That you wouldn’t have to go back to a small town that clearly makes you sad.”
“The town doesn’t make me sad. I told you before. I want my child to be raised there.”
He frowned. “So what makes you sad?”
* * *
Laura Beth fumbled with her napkin. For fifty cents she’d tell him the truth. She’d look him right in the eye and say, “I like being with you. I like the person I am with you. And I am going to be sad when I leave because I know I’ll only ever see you at parties where we’ll be polite like strangers.”
But then he’d draw back. Then he wouldn’t paint her. He might even put her in Constanzo’s plane and ship her home so he didn’t have to deal with her feelings.
So she’d handle them alone.
“I think it’s just hormones.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I seem to recall hearing a bit about them from Tucker when Olivia was pregnant.”
And that was it. He totally believed her. He didn’t even like her enough to say, “Are you sure?” He didn’t dig deeper. Proof, again, that he didn’t have the same kinds of feelings for her that she had for him.
In bed that night, she cautioned herself about getting so close to him—wouldn’t let herself pretend there was any chance they’d be together—and the next morning she forced herself to be as chipper and happy as any woman posing for a portrait should be. She couldn’t have him forever, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy what she had now. In fact, a wise woman would accept what she could get and make memories.
After breakfast, Antonio took her outside. She’d asked him a million times if there was anything special he wanted her to wear and every time he’d said, “Your jeans are fine.”
But his attempts at capturing an outside pose failed. When the next day’s poses also resulted in balled-up paper and strings of curses in Italian, Laura Beth had to hide several winces. On Friday, when his temper appeared—a real, live temper that went beyond curses and balled-up paper and resulted in explosions and tablets tossed into the trash—fear trembled through her.
Not fear of Antonio. She knew he would never hurt her. His anger was never directed at her, but always at himself. His lost focus. His inability to capture what he wanted. She also saw his volatility as part of his larger-than-life personality, very much like his dad’s. What scared her was that he might quit trying and ask her to leave.
The very thought caused her chest to tighten. So Saturday after breakfast she suggested she meet him in the studio. He frowned and asked why, but she only smiled and raced off.
She styled her hair as it had been the night of the gallery opening, put on makeup and slipped into the black dress and the high heels Constanzo had bought her.
When she walked into the studio, Antonio had his back to her. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and sashayed over to the wall of windows.
When he saw her, Antonio’s face fell. He gaped at her for a good twenty seconds, then grabbed the tablet. Not knowing if the lighting was good or bad, she simply stood there. She thought deep thoughts, trying to get that faraway look he always talked about catching. She knew that the sooner the painting