CHAPTER EIGHT

      THE NEXT MORNING, THE FULL idiocy of what she had said—and done, she couldn’t forget she’d run from the patio—hit her, and when she went downstairs for breakfast she had to steady herself outside the dining room door.

      She ran her damp palms down the skirt of her second sundress, grateful to have her favorite dress to wear for confidence. But that didn’t help much now that she was two seconds away from seeing the man she’d kissed last night, the man she was growing to like, even though it was wrong.

      She didn’t know how to stop any of this. Her fears after being attacked had robbed her of the normal dating experiences most women had. Though those fears were subsiding and Tucker was making her long for things most women took for granted, she knew—absolutely knew—she was going to get hurt.

      Still, she had to go in. If she didn’t, it would only make things worse. With a deep breath, she held her head high and stepped into the dining room to find Constanzo and Tucker reading the paper.

      Constanzo rose. “Sweet Vivi, good morning.”

      He pulled out her chair and helped her sit. When he returned to his seat, Tucker looked up from the newspaper.

      “Good morning...Olivia.”

      Her blood rushed hot through her veins again, but she refused to be embarrassed or even think through what it might mean. Had he taken her request to heart that she liked to be called by her first name? Or was he taunting her? Reminding her of a kiss that had warmed her blood and made her feel like a woman just as he’d suggested the night before.

      Constanzo’s maid brought a woman who looked to be about thirty into the dining room. Wearing a suit that had to be handmade and carrying a Gucci bag, she could have given Maria Bartulocci a run for her money.

      Constanzo jumped up again. “Patrice!” He caught her hands and kissed both of her cheeks. “Tucker, Vivi, this is Patrice Russo.”

      After shaking both their hands, she said something to Constanzo in Italian. Constanzo smiled. “Tucker speaks Italian. Vivi, no.”

      “Then we speak English.”

      Constanzo pulled out a chair for Patrice. “Would you like breakfast?”

      “Just coffee.” She smiled at Vivi. “So you are my contact.”

      “Actually, Mr. Engle is in charge of the project.” She glanced at him briefly, long enough to see his eyes narrow as she spoke. Embarrassment flared. Why couldn’t she have thought of something suave, something sophisticated to say before she’d ran from him and his earth-shattering kiss? Why couldn’t she have sashayed into the house as if the kiss had meant nothing?

      Taking his seat, Constanzo laughed. “She is modest, our Vivi. This is her plan.”

      Vivi’s gaze shot to Tucker again. He turned his attention to his breakfast. “It is her plan. And Antonio seems to respond to her. She should be your contact.”

      A serving girl poured coffee for Patrice, and Vivi explained her idea. Patrice very quickly outlined the process of bringing an artist’s work to a gallery for a showing.

      “The very least amount of time we’d need would be two weeks. But I’d suggest a month. We’ll spend the first week ironing out the details of our agreement and then I’ll take three weeks to choose paintings and get things set up.”

      “Sounds great.”

      After finishing breakfast, they wasted no time. Constanzo called for a limo to be brought out front. Vivi and Patrice entered first. Constanzo slid in and sat beside Patrice. Tucker automatically sat beside Vivi. No hesitation. No comment. No complaint.

      Knowing it would look childish to slide as far away from him as she could, she stayed where she was, but it was torture. The vague scent of him brought back memories of that kiss. Worse, she had no idea what he was thinking. Had he even liked kissing her? Did he think she was an idiot?

      Probably.

      When Antonio answered the door, Patrice took over, stepping forward and shaking his hand. “Antonio! It’s wonderful to meet you. Mr. Engle and his assistant, Miss Prentiss, raved about your work and we knew we had our artist for the showing Mr. Bartulocci wants to do.” She stopped talking, turned to Constanzo and brought him forward. “This is Constanzo Bartulocci. He is your benefactor for the show we’d like to put together.”

      Tears filled Constanzo’s eyes and Vivi blinked back a few of her own. He was meeting his child, his son, the person who should be heir to everything he owned. The person who should be filling his quiet life with noise and love and laughter.

      Antonio held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

      Composing himself, Constanzo shook his hand. “It’s good to meet you, too.” He pulled in a quick breath and smiled. “So where are these remarkable paintings?”

      Antonio laughed. “I don’t know about remarkable.”

      Tucker said, “Antonio, this is no time for modesty. Hundreds of people will come to your showing expecting a man confident about what he’s done. Confident that he’s made a statement. You need to be that guy.”

      Antonio laughed again and Vivi, Tucker, Constanzo and Patrice followed him into the room he referred to as his painting room.

      Patrice looked at the pictures then glanced at Tucker. “You’re right. They’re splendid.”

      Relief wove through her voice, but Vivi’s nerve endings crackled anyway. Maria Bartulocci definitely wasn’t Tucker’s type but pretty, stylish, educated blonde and beautiful Patrice? Tucker belonged with somebody like her.

      She drew in a quiet breath and told herself not to care as she walked over to Antonio. Tucker and Patrice lost themselves in discussions about his paintings and Antonio looked a bit like he was going to throw up.

      “First time having anybody see your work?”

      “No. I had a lot of interest in New York, but nothing ever panned out.”

      Constanzo