Dreaming Of… Italy. Alison Roberts
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pressed in on him. Something about her appealed to him on an elemental level he’d never experienced before. And maybe it was time he stopped denying it?
Patrice began examining paintings, setting two side by side, and a minute later sending one to a group on the right and the other to a group on the left. A process that Tucker would have thought would take days seemed to be taking minutes.
Finally, she sighed. “Here’s the deal. I like them all. I can put almost half of these in the downstairs of my gallery, but if I open the second floor I could double that number.”
Though Tucker thought that was wonderful news, anxiety flitted through Antonio’s eyes.
Constanzo apparently didn’t notice. His face beamed with pride. “And we will invite everybody. I have ordered my personal assistant to begin a list. I’ll have a thousand people at that showing.”
This time Antonio looked like he would faint. Olivia caught his arm. “Hey, this is your showing. If you don’t want a thousand people, just tell us what you do want.”
Tucker frowned. Interesting that she wasn’t nervous around Antonio. Only around him. No. Strike that. She wasn’t nervous around him either. Except when they were close. Or getting personal. Then she got antsy.
He knew the feeling. Once he’d gotten through puberty no woman had made him nervous or confused. Yet with her everything was weird. Different. Confusing.
Antonio took a breath. “I’d like the doors to be opened and people to come in off the street.” He glanced at Vivi. “Because they want to come in. Not because they’re invited.”
Patrice smiled patiently. “But you also need to advertise. Send out invitations at least for the opening night.”
Olivia said, “How about this? We’ll send out invitations for the opening. That will let Mr. Bartulocci’s friends know he’s sponsoring a showing. We’ll get RSVPs for the actual opening night and invite the rest to stop by while your pieces are on display.”
Pride stirred within Tucker. Once again she saw what everybody else seemed to miss. While Patrice thought about making money and Constanzo had found a way to introduce his son to the world, Olivia watched the star and knew he was falling.
Antonio sucked in a breath. “That sounds a little more doable.”
“The goal of your show is to sell your paintings,” Patrice reminded him.
“And our goal,” Constanzo quietly countered, finally seeing what Vivi had noticed all along, “wasn’t to make money but to introduce a wonderful new talent. That’s why I’m paying for everything. There’s no chance of a loss for you.”
Patrice smiled woodenly. “Of course.”
Antonio hugged Vivi. “Thanks.”
Her face reddened, but her eyes danced with pleasure. Still, she didn’t get the look—the look she’d gotten when she’d asked him to call her Olivia. The look that still filled his blood with lust every time he thought of it.
She might like Antonio but she wasn’t interested in him. Not the way she was interested in Tucker.
Constanzo chatted through the entire limo ride. But when they got to his house, his maid approached him with a message. He read it then excused himself to make a call. Olivia went to her room. Tucker ambled back to the den, poured himself a draft and threw a few darts before Constanzo joined him.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Tucker turned from the dart board. “Bad news?”
“The call I had to return was to Maria.” He winced. “She’s managed to get herself into a bit of trouble with her mother. It’s nothing that a visit from me won’t cure but it’s also not something I’d expect my guests to endure.”
Tucker laughed.
“So you and Vivi have the whole house to yourselves tonight. I’ve instructed the cook to make spaghetti Bolognese for dinner. Serve it with the Sangiovese. Make yourselves at home.”
“Thanks.” Anticipation pricked his nerve endings. He and Olivia would be alone? They hadn’t had two minutes alone since that kiss...
Maybe it was time they did?
Knowing Olivia was already nervous around him, he decided not to tell her. When she went to the pool, he returned to his room to read emails and make calls.
He checked on dinner before showering and changing into trousers and a white shirt, which he left open at the throat. No tie. No sport coat. Nothing to make her feel—what had she said? Less than?
When she arrived in the dining room he had the Sangiovese breathing. She immediately noticed only two places had been set at the table and she stopped a few feet away from her seat.
Her gaze swung to his. “Just you and me?”
Downplaying the significance of that, since he didn’t want her running before they had a chance to talk about that kiss, he walked over and pulled out her chair. “It seems Maria’s gotten herself into some trouble with her mother. Constanzo has to smooth ruffled feathers.”
She laughed lightly as she sat. “It’s kind of funny to think of Maria as being in trouble with her mom. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who answers to anyone.”
“Everybody answers to someone.”
She laughed again. “Yeah. With my parents I think I know that better than anyone.” She paused until he sat at the place across from her. “You do know they came to check up on you the day they visited New York?”
This time he laughed. “I’m sure I made a stellar impression.” But even as he said that, an odd realization came to him. He’d never met a girlfriend’s parents. Not one. Because he didn’t really have girlfriends. He had dates—lovers.
“Good enough that my parents trusted me to go to Italy with you.” She winced. “Of course, I had to do some persuading, but in the end they trusted you.”
He sucked in a breath. Strange feelings tumbled around in his gut. No parents in their right minds should trust their beautiful, naive daughter to him—
Unless they expected him to behave like a gentleman? To them, Olivia wasn’t a “date” or a “lover”. She was their daughter. Their little girl and they would expect him to treat her as such.
The maid brought their salads and garlic bread. After she was gone, Olivia tasted her salad and groaned. “That is fantastic. I’m going to have to diet when we get home.”
“Then you probably don’t want to know that our main course is spaghetti Bolognese.”
She groaned again and set down the garlic bread. “I’ll focus on the salad so I have room for the spaghetti.”
They ate in silence for a few seconds, then she glanced around. “My mother would probably love Italy.”
More talk of her parents, more of those uncomfortable feelings. “Really?”
“My mom likes things with roots. Family recipes. Older houses. She researched our house after she and Dad bought it. Found relatives of the woman who had owned it, and got some of the family recipes.” She took a bite of salad, chewed and swallowed. “She said preparing those dishes was like keeping that family alive, too. She respects the sense of continuity.”
He smiled, but discomfort graduated to awkwardness. He didn’t even know who his parents were. He’d tried to find them a few years back, but there were no clues. He was a baby left alone in a church. Generic blanket. Department-store bottle and diapers. There was no way to find them. He had no parents, no pictures. No old family recipes. No sense of continuity.
“That—” He paused. Not having a normal family had always bothered him from the perspective of not having a support system. But from the way Olivia talked about her mother it was