Chapter Nine
After lunch, when Alberto suggested a tour of the house to see his collection, Everly had to fight not to let out a sigh of relief. The meal had been awkward to put it mildly. Judging by the stilted conversation, everyone—with the exception of Carlo, who was on another business call—had noticed the negative undercurrent of what was supposed to be a fun, casual meal among friends and family. Never had baked ziti tasted so much like cardboard paper.
Of course, her relief had been short-lived.
“Oh, I’d love to join you,” Irena said, her eyes sparkling with fake sincerity. “It’s such a marvelous collection, and I’m dying to hear the stories behind your favorite pieces.”
Next to her, Helene mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “That can be arranged,” but Everly must have misunderstood. The older woman hadn’t been anything but gracious, if a few degrees colder than normal, since they’d sat down, continually drawing Irena into conversation. Of course, that could have been just so the woman kept her claws sheathed. Everly gave Helene a covert once-over and caught the other woman’s nearly silent groan of frustration. Yep, Helene hadn’t been acting nice, she’d been acting as distractor-in-chief.
“Don’t you want to spend more time with Carlo?” Alberto asked, obviously wanting to soften the edges building up around their little party and keep her with his son when he returned.
“We have the rest of our lives for that.” Irena flashed a beauty-queen smile at her future father-in-law and stood up. “Shall we?”
A flash of annoyance tightened Alberto’s features, but he recovered quickly and ushered everyone out of the dining room and through the house on a sort of art appreciation scavenger hunt before ending the tour in front of a Rembrandt in the sitting room. It was fantastic. Irena gazed up at the painting, everything about her screaming “art lover” except for the bored, slightly glazed look in her eyes. Alberto and Helene stood nearly shoulder to shoulder, discussing the painting, while Tyler stood a few feet away, thumbs flying as he texted on his phone. The rush of protective fury that had filled her when Irena unleashed her poisoned claws evaporated. How in the world could anyone be so close to something as amazing as this Rembrandt and not be in awe? Irritation pinched her nerves and a flush of frustration heated her cheeks. There was something seriously wrong with that man when he couldn’t take even a few minutes to turn his attention from whatever plot for world domination he was hatching to a painting that had brought tears to people’s eyes. Turning, she caught Alberto staring at her, an indulgent expression on his face.
“I know you disapprove of breaking up the collection,” he said, standing with his hands clasped behind his back as he admired the painting. “But art is like love; you never really own it, you can only enjoy it with an open heart while you have it. Anyway, beauty should be shared with the world, not hoarded indefinitely.”
It was hard to argue with his logic even if it broke her heart a little—the leftover nicks and scrapes of growing up watching everyone leave, no doubt. Getting maudlin about someone else’s art collection wasn’t going to patch up those hurts, and it sure wasn’t going to end in a commission that helped to keep her gallery afloat.
“If your mind’s made up, then I know several people who would be interested in this Rembrandt and the others you have,” she said. “We could host an invite-only show or make it an exclusive one-on-one sale so you can find the right buyer for your paintings.”
“All I ask is to find someone who will love them as much as I do, but I’ll do what you think best,” Alberto said. “However, I do have several more pieces that I’m not sure about parting with. Irena, I know you have wedding arrangements to make, but why don’t the rest of us go down to my house in Key West next weekend, and you can argue with me to keep them.”
“What makes you say I’d argue?” she asked with a chuckle.
He laughed. “Because I know you, tesoro.”
She could argue about a lot of things, but not that. The Italian had her number.
“So I’ll arrange for the jet to take all of us to Key West,” he said.
Helene’s eyes widened, but she recovered quickly. “I don’t think my schedule will allow it.”
“Bellisima,” he said, beaming at Helene. “We both know you could will the world to your liking. Something like a calendar with activities penciled onto its pages can’t stop you.”
“You’re a horrible flirt. It’s most unbecoming,” she responded, the beginning of a smile curling her lips. “But I’ll see what I can move around.”
Seemingly satisfied—for the moment—with her answer, Alberto turned his big brown puppy-dog eyes on her. Oh, that was so not fair. She traveled for clients on a regular basis to appraise or advise, but a trip to the Keys when winter was just starting to think about slamming into Harbor City seemed more fun than work. She rolled options in her head as Alberto watched her expectantly. Even Tyler had looked up from his phone and was watching her.
“Oh, say yes,” Irena said, sauntering closer to the rest of them, an evil little glint in her eye. “I’m sure Alberto will cover everything so you don’t have to worry about cost.”
Everly didn’t think of herself as a violent person. Argumentative? Okay, she’d cop to it. A pain in the ass? Sometimes. But actually fist-to-face violent? No way. Then she met Irena the bitch ex-fiancée who’d gotten her talons into totally too trusting Carlo, and Everly had a sudden urge to smack the other woman stupid—or, more correctly, stupider.
Oblivious to the risks she was taking with her life, Irena went on. “I remember, Tyler, how you used to worry about how much to spend on things. This one time we were at dinner and he saw the wine list and he had to ask…”
The rest of what the hag was saying faded into static as red ate away at Everly’s vision. Oh, that was it. What a classist bitch. Pulling back from the hold-my-earrings edge, she strutted over to Tyler with an extra bit of aggression in the sway of her hips. The muscles in his jaw were getting a workout with the effort it was obviously taking him not to lash out at the future daughter of the man whose business he was so determined to land. Everly had been there, done that, and it sucked. She wasn’t about to stand by and watch someone else get humiliated in the snide little rich bitch fashion.
“Alberto,” she said, cutting off Irena’s passive-aggressive verbal attack and taking Tyler’s hand in hers. “Of course we’ll come. And no need to worry about cost. Tyler’s become incredibly successful since his days with his ex-fiancée.”
One of Tyler’s black eyebrows went up in question. “We will?”
“Wonderful,” Alberto answered before Everly had a chance to respond. “So it’s decided. Let’s celebrate with a glass of champagne and then we can look at our schedules, Tyler, because I believe we have some ideas of yours to discuss about bringing my hotels to America.”
Irena, Helene, and Alberto headed back into the dining room, but Everly lingered in front of the Rembrandt, trying to unravel what she’d just done. Spending time on a tropical island with Tyler was the last thing she wanted. The man was one of the most exasperating people she’d ever met, but her passion had gotten the better of her—something that seemed to happen all too frequently around him.
Tyler squeezed her hand, making her realize she was still holding his. A blush creeped up her chest, and she tried to unwind her fingers from his, but his strong grip held her close.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, something that looked like a mix of confusion and gratitude swirling in his eyes. “Our agreement was just for the introduction. You did your part.”
“I know,” she said, her gaze falling to their hands again before she forced her attention back to his face. “I just couldn’t help myself when she was acting like that. It was either say yes on your behalf or punch her in the face.”
He didn’t laugh, but one side of his mouth went up in a crooked smile that did funny things to her stomach. “You are the epitome of restraint.”
Hoping to cover the shakiness jumbling her insides because of the uncharacteristic easy camaraderie flowing between them, she laid her accent on thick. “Don’t you fuckin’ know it.”
They laughed, just two people from the wrong side of the tracks, trying to make it in a foreign land. They might be unlikely allies, but for the moment that’s exactly what they were—and it felt good…right. This wasn’t the time to unpack what that might mean, though, so she started to walk toward the dining room where the others were waiting—or at least tried to. Tyler hadn’t taken a step, and he hadn’t let go of her hand.
She glanced back at him. He stood there, staring at her—the look on his face all but screaming that he was plotting all sorts of devious schemes that would leave her naked, sweaty, and satisfied. Her stomach did the flippity-flop thing again with the addition of her thighs going quivery and a rush of electricity going straight to her core. Fuck. What in the hell had she been thinking? She hadn’t been. And that was the problem.
Tyler stepped closer, his eyes stormy with a predatory want that made her breath catch. Her lips parted of their own volition and her nipples puckered in anticipation. But all he did was look at her. Not that it mattered. She was still on the edge of falling over into pure unadulterated trouble of the naked kind.
“We’d better catch up,” Tyler said as he tucked a hair behind her ear that had fallen from her French knot.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice barely audible over the thundering in her chest.
Neither of them moved for a second as the world skittered to a stop around them. Anticipation thick as a cotton ball encased them, and her core clenched. Then, just when she was ready to kiss him or pass out, he shook his head, mumbled something under his breath that she couldn’t catch, and let go of her hand.
The tightness was back in his jaw. “Come on, before they send a search party back for us.”
Nodding her agreement, she fell into step beside him as they walked toward the dining room, passing the portrait of a woman in Regency garb looking out very judgmentally as if she couldn’t believe Everly’s life choices.
You and me both, sister.
…
The next day, guilt was messing with Everly’s ability to down her regular pot of morning coffee. There was no way she could let Carlo marry Irena without letting him know about what the woman had done to Tyler. She didn’t want to. Really, who wanted to have that conversation, but she and Carlo had been friends for too many years for her to wimp out on him because she had to spill information that was not going to go over well.
If she said nothing, she’d be no better than how Sawyer had treated his best friend. And she knew firsthand how that kind of betrayal could hurt someone far worse than the person in question.
After pouring one more cup of java for good luck, she picked up the phone and hit Carlo’s name on her contact list.
“Ciao, Everly,” he answered on the first ring.
Of course he couldn’t have been underwater basket weaving or something else that made having his phone on him an impossibility. “Do you live with your phone attached to your ear?”
“Will you be mad if I say yes?” he asked, his accent giving the question a roguish charm.
What she wouldn’t give to just play along, but she couldn’t. Squeezing her eyes shut, she stood in the middle of her living room, the soft Ikea rug tickling her bare toes, and pressed forward. “You might be mad at me after this call.”
There was a beat of silence in which every single horrible possibility of how this conversation could end played through her head.
“What’s wrong?” Carlo asked.
“It’s about Irena.” There you go. Suck it up, girl.
“Is this about how she tried to sleep with Tyler’s best friend the night she was supposed to marry Tyler?” Carlo asked with an easy chuckle.
Her eyes popped open in surprise. “You knew?”
“My father and I share more than just our genes. We have the same private investigator, too.”
Needing to get out the stored-up adrenaline that built while she was giving herself a mental pep talk to make this call, she started pacing from one corner of the rug diagonally across the middle and back again. “And you’re okay with all this?”
Carlo made a noncommittal sound. “Considering that this marriage is more of a business deal than anything else, yes, I’m okay with it.”
Just when she thought it couldn’t get weirder. “What are you talking about?”
“In Italy, things go smoother in the business world if you’re married. It’s old-fashioned but it’s true.”
“So you’re doing it for work?” That sounded about as romantic as a handful of unsalted pistachios, but at least it helped explain why in the hell he’d asked Irena of all people to marry him. His chances of actually falling for the she-devil were next to nil. “That’s crazy.”
“It’s the complete opposite of that. It’s business. Speaking of which, I need your help with some family business. You remember my nonna?”
She nodded while she took a sip of coffee as if he could see her. “Of course.”
“She is coming to the wedding,” Carlo said, his voice warming while talking about his hilariously grouchy grandma. “Would you mind being with her during the ceremony to translate? Normally, my father or I would do it, but I’ve asked him to stand up with me during the ceremony as a…what’s the word? Best man?”
“I’d be happy to sit with your nonna.” The woman was hysterical, all whispered snide remarks in Italian helpfully muffled by the black lace handkerchief she often held up to her mouth.
“Fantastico!”
Despite Carlo’s enthusiasm, she couldn’t help but worry that he was thinking only with his head and ignoring his heart and his conscience. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this?”
He grunted in what had to be the Italian verbal equivalent of rolling his eyes. “Unlike a certain secret romantic I know, I’m not waiting for true love.”
“Are you calling me a romantic?” That was so not her. She was a Riverside woman through and through. She grew up knowing that happily ever afters were bullshit.
He laughed. “If the high heel fits.”
“Well this one most definitely does not.”
And it didn’t. Really.