Her Brooding Italian Boss. Susan Meier
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too creative for that. But she also hadn’t expected to be so charmed by paintings and sculptures that added life and energy to brightly colored sofas, or the eclectic dining room that had a long wood table and sixteen different-styled chairs around it.
Eventually she found herself at the door of a room with a desk and a tall-backed chair, which fronted a huge office with an enormous window through which she could see the pool and the field of flowers behind it.
His office?
With an office in front? For an assistant?
Had he had an assistant before? Could Constanzo be right? Was he ready for someone again?
She entered hesitantly. Stacks of papers littered the first desk, the desk she believed would belong to an assistant. But his room was empty, his desk dusty though free of clutter.
She walked in slowly, ran her fingers through the dust on his desk, curious again. From the coating of dust alone, she’d swear he hadn’t been in this room since his wife died.
At the wall of glass, she stopped. The window was actually a series of doors, which she slid aside. A warm breeze fluttered in, bringing the scent of the pool not more than twenty feet away. When forced to do paperwork, Antonio could be poolside.
Sheesh. The rich really knew how to live.
With a sigh, she closed the doors. But as she walked into the outer office, she saw all those papers piled high on the assistant’s desk. A film of dust dulled the white of envelopes. Dust covered the arms of the desk chair. But that was nothing compared to the sheer volume of untouched paperwork, unopened mail.
Glancing around, she combed her fingers through her hair. It was no wonder Constanzo wanted his son to hire a PA. He clearly needed some assistance.
And, technically, helping him straighten this mess was her job—
If she kept it.
She walked to the desk, lifted a piece of paper and realized it was a thank-you from a fan. Reading it, she lowered herself to the chair. Obviously, Antonio didn’t know the letter’s author. So a simple note to express appreciation for his kindness in writing would suffice as a reply.
She leaned back. A box of fancy letterhead caught her eye. A beautiful script A on Antonio linked with the B in Bartulocci. What fan wouldn’t want to get a thank-you on the actual letterhead of the artist he admired?
The desire to turn on the computer and write a quick thank-you tempted her. She faced the monitor that sat on the side arm of the desk. She could press the button that would turn it on...
No. She couldn’t. It wasn’t right.
Still, somebody had to help him, and she needed a way to prove herself.
She lifted her hand to the start button again, but paused halfway and bit her lip. The computer software would probably be in Italian—
Though Antonio had been raised in the US—
She shook her head. It was one thing to look at a few pieces of mail, quite another to actually write letters for him without his permission.
But how else would she prove herself?
* * *
Antonio stopped his motorcycle at the front door of his father’s country house. He didn’t knock. He just entered the foyer and walked back to his father’s game room. Sure enough, there he was, playing pool.
“I see the nap you had on the plane gave you energy too.”
He set down his cue stick. “Antonio! Why aren’t you home?”
“With the PA you hired for me?” He shook his head. “Because I don’t want a PA and because your meddling in my life has to stop.”
“I don’t meddle. I anticipate.”
Antonio groaned. “You meddle, Dad. And I can’t have it anymore. Not just because it infuriates me, but because this time you’re hurting an innocent woman. She’s going to be devastated when I send her home.”
“So if you’re the one sending her home, how can you say that I’m the one hurting her?”
“Because you’re the one who brought her here under false pretenses!”
“I did no such thing. You need her.”
Antonio groaned again. “There’s no reasoning with you. You always see what you want to see.”
“True. But that’s also why I win so much.” He walked to the wall of pool sticks, chose one and offered it to Antonio. “Here is a place you sometimes beat me.”
Antonio snatched the stick away from his dad. “If you win, I keep her. If I win, she goes home after a few weeks of rest. But you pay her severance and you let her stay in your penthouse in New York.”
Constanzo grinned. “You’re on.”
They decided on best out of three. Constanzo played pool constantly in his spare time, and was very, very good. But Antonio needed to prove a point, to get it across to his dad that he couldn’t take every matter into his own hands. He didn’t just want to win. He had to win. In the end, he beat his dad by one shot.
Constanzo sighed. “This is a big mistake. You need her. And she needs a break.”
Antonio headed for the door. “That’s why I’m going to let her stay a few weeks. It’ll give her time to relax enough that she can think through her problems.” He turned and faced his dad. “And you pay her a big enough severance that she can get a decent apartment.”
Constanzo sighed. “It is wrong to send her home. But I lost the bet and I agree. If she must go, I’m the one who owes her severance.”
Antonio got back on his bike feeling only slightly better. He didn’t want to hurt Laura Beth, and he didn’t like the fact that he’d had to gamble to get his way in a situation that his father shouldn’t have interfered with. But he’d won.
Revving the bike’s engine, he shot along the hills, past the green fields to his house, the wind blowing his hair and teasing his face. By the time he got home, darkness had fully descended and he noticed a light coming from his office. Confused, he parked in the garage and entered through the series of doors that took him from the garage, through the butler’s pantry and kitchen to the main living area.
Because there were no lights in the pool area, he thought Laura Beth must have been more tired than she’d thought and retired to her room. Glad he didn’t have to face her until the next day, he headed back to the office to turn off the light.
But when he stepped inside, he stopped dead in his tracks. There, behind the stacks of unopened mail and the wide computer monitor, was Laura Beth.
He raced to the desk. “What are you doing?”
She looked up at him. “I’ve been sitting here fighting the temptation to read your mail.” She pointed at one open fan letter. “I know you well enough that I could answer that for you. And any letter like it.”
Fear collided with anger. But the stacks appeared to be untouched. The computer hadn’t been turned on. She couldn’t have seen anything.
His head began to pound anyway. Still, he calmed his voice before he said, “You went into my office without permission.”
“I didn’t touch anything but this one letter that was already open.” She met his gaze. “Plus, it’s my job to get you organized.”
He sucked in a breath. Memories of finding his wife’s itineraries and the matching itineraries of her lovers swam through him, making him shake with anger. Not at Laura Beth, but at his wife. At her shameless audacity. And his just plain stupidity. Add to that the abortion information. The appointment on the calendar. The payment in her check registry. The way she hadn’t even tried to hide the fact that she’d taken his child from him.
How