Though Dominic keeps trying to engage me in conversation on the drive to Papa’s shop after I collect my luggage from the hotel, I’m silent. Seething. My hands balled into fists on my legs, I can’t stop thinking about Brad and his visit to Jenner, no matter how hard I try.
By the time we pull up in front of the shop, I’ve got a headache from gritting my teeth so hard.
“You’re quiet today,” says Dominic gently, unlocking the door.
It’s an invitation to talk, but talking is the last thing I want to do. Right now, I need to work.
Dominic hits the switch on the wall beside the door, flooding the room with light. The front of the shop is a small retail space, with racks of elegant dresses in all colors of the rainbow, two small fitting rooms behind hanging curtains, and a counter with an old-fashioned cash register. Lead-paned windows overlook the cobblestone street outside. It smells of new fabric and old wood. The spicy aftershave Papa always wore lingers faintly in the air, like a ghost.
“It’s exactly the same as I remember,” I say, looking around. How did he manage to do all this alone?
As if he can read my thoughts, Dominic says, “Your father recently hired helpers, three ladies he trained to take orders and measurements, cut the cloth. The sewing he always did himself, of course.” He crosses to the counter with the register, jingling the keys in his hand. “Still no answering machine, though.” He catches my eye and smiles. “Or computer.”
“Or website. It’s like he didn’t believe the twenty-first century was a thing.”
Dominic chuckles. “He only got an email address so he could communicate with you. If they didn’t have computers for public use at the library, he would’ve kept sending letters.”
I drift over to a headless mannequin situated on a dais between the two single dressing rooms. She wears a gown of palest pink, cinched at the waist and cut generously through the hips, with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves. It’s feminine to the extreme, exquisitely chic. When I look at the tag, I sigh in exasperation.
“No wonder he was broke.”
An examination of several more dresses reveals a truth I’ve known all my life: My father should’ve had a business partner. Some artists can successfully create and deal with money, but he wasn’t one of them.
“I offered many times to assist, but you know how stubborn he was.” Dominic shakes his head at the price of a gorgeous silk scarf draped on a stand next to the counter. It’s probably missing a few digits, like everything else.
I look around for a moment, taking stock of the situation. “Okay. First I’ve got to go through the inventory and reprice everything. Then we need to look at the advertising budget—”
“Advertising?” Dominic snorts.
“Don’t tell me he was still relying only on word of mouth?”
Dominic lifts a shoulder. “Old dog. No new tricks.”
I drag my hands through my hair, knowing it’s gonna be a long night. “Can you drop my luggage off at the house for me? I’m not sure how late I’ll get back, and it’ll be easier for me to come in without all my stuff.”
Dominic hesitates, looking confused. “You’re not moving to another hotel?”
“Nope. I’m moving in with the marchesa.” His expression is so horrified I have to laugh. “It’s a long story. The bottom line is that I’ve decided I’m not selling Papa’s business. I’m going to stay here and run it.”
Dominic blinks slowly, standing stock-still behind the counter. “Is your husband moving here, too?”
God. How many times am I going to have to tell this story? “We broke up.”
He’s stunned. Apparently he also feels the need to ward away any evil I might be carrying because he makes the sign of the cross over his chest.
Annoyed, I walk past him and through the door leading to the production area in the back of the shop. It’s much messier back here, with bolts of cloth and color sketches strewn across work tables, dozens of mannequins in various stages of undress standing around like headless party guests, and sewing stations, file cabinets, and boxes waiting to be unpacked.
Pinned to a corkboard on the wall above a workstation hang photographs of me at various stages of my life. The latest one is a Polaroid from the last time I visited, five years ago. Papa had me laughing at some terrible joke he’d made and took the picture before I could stop him. My head is thrown back. My eyes are closed. My mouth is wide open. I look happy.
I’m seized by a terrible feeling of guilt. Five years. I spent that time trying to build my business and going gaga over Brad, and what was my father doing?
Slowly going broke and falling in love with a vulture.
So, samesies.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Dominic sounds rattled. He’s followed me in from the other room and stands in the doorway, looking disturbed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head and leave it at that.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but we’re interrupted by loud knocking from the front room. Someone’s at the door.
Not just anyone, I see as I move past Dominic into the front room.
Him.
I jerk open the door and glare at Matteo. “What’re you doing here?”
He smiles, looking me over with hungry eyes like I’m a cupcake on display in a bakery case and he’d like to lick off all my icing. “I was in the neighborhood and saw the lights on.”
“Liar.”
His smile deepens, dimpling his cheeks. “You know what they say. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“They also say you don’t have to be a cactus expert to know a prick when you see one.”
His eyes flash. “Is it just my dick you’re obsessed with, or dicks in general?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. And while you’re busy not flattering yourself, leave.”
He purses his lips, as if he’s considering it. Then he says casually, “No,” and strolls past me into the shop.
I slam the door and turn to him with my arms crossed over my chest. “Oh, I get it. On the lookout for more designs to steal, is that it?” I smile sweetly at his withering look.
“You seem to have a mental block about the facts, so let me remind you that you gave me that sketch pad, bella.”
I hate the way goose bumps form over my arms when he calls me that. There’s something so intimate about it. A note of secret knowledge hums in it, an undertone of sensuality, as if he knows how I sound when I come.
“I’m not going over this with you again. Get out.”
“Oh. Ciao.” Ignoring my request, Matteo addresses Dominic, standing in the doorway to the back room.
Dominic looks back and forth between us with his brows drawn together. I can’t tell exactly what his expression is, but I’m sure it’s not happiness.
“Ciao.” Dominic’s tone is curt. I guess he likes my ex-stepbrother as much as he likes my ex-stepmother.
The two men size each other up for a beat, until Matteo says darkly, “A pleasure to see you again.”
It’s both a lie and a dismissal. Dominic can tell, too, because he bristles like a cat. He says something sharply in Italian. Matteo snaps a response. Then they stand there glaring at each other like two pistoleros about to whip out their guns and shoot.
“Well, this has been fun. Glad to see I’m not the only person you annoy. Bye!”
Matteo’s eyes cut to me. They’re brilliant, blistering blue, two lightsabers slicing the air with a whiz. It’s all I can do not to step back from the electric force of their impact.
He says stiffly, “You really should learn to speak Italian.”
Intrigued, I glance at Dominic, who’s scowling. “I will. I mean, I am. Soon.” Shut up, Kimber! I straighten my shoulders and pretend nonchalance, while Matteo watches me with his crackling light-beam eyes. After only a moment under his scrutiny, I want to jump out of my skin.
Making a show of solidarity with Dominic, I walk over to him, then stand shoulder to shoulder with him as I coolly regard Matteo. “Was there something in particular you wanted? Because I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Matteo roasts me with his look. I’m a pig turning over hot coals, getting a nice crackly crunch to my skin. “Yes,” he says, holding my gaze. “There is something I want. And you know exactly what it is.”
Quivering, I think the word is. Yes, that’s what my vagina is doing right now. Quivering.
When I swallow, heat scorching my cheeks, Matteo’s gaze turns ruthlessly satisfied. He lifts a hand, indicating all the dresses around us. “You know this shop should be mine.”
I hate him. I hate him with the heat of a thousand suns. I hate him with the force of gravity on—what’s that planet that has all the crushing gravity? Jupiter. Yes. I hate him with the gravity of Jupiter.
“This shop will never be yours,” I say, enunciating each word. Just to get back at him for making my lady bits resemble Jell-O, I add, “Neither will anything else of mine.”
Oh so softly, Matteo answers, “We’ll see.” Then he smiles.
The smug SOB smiles.
As if he can sense I’m about to rip the cash register off the counter and commit murder with it, Dominic drapes his arm over my shoulder and lightly squeezes me closer. Drawing strength from his support, I draw a breath through my nose, then point at the door. “Out.”
I should’ve known Matteo isn’t one to take direction. He strolls over to the mannequin in the pink dress on the dais and touches the skirt. He traces his finger along a seam and muses to no one in particular, “I wonder what Luca would think to hear the way his daughter speaks to me.”
He couldn’t have found a more tender spot if he searched with a bloodhound. I’m stabbed in the chest by a knife of pain, not only because Matteo used my father’s first name so casually, indicating how close they were, but also because I know he’s right.
My father would be appalled at my hostility. He raised me to be considerate of others, even if I didn’t like them.
But that was before I was publicly humiliated and decided to hate all men under the age of sixty. Especially gorgeous, arrogant, rich ones who treat women like everything they’re good for is between their legs.
I turn to Dominic. “Will you please excuse us? Matteo and I need to talk privately.”
Dominic cuts a stony glare at my archnemesis, then gives me a hug. He murmurs into my ear, “I can tell you don’t like him. Smart girl.” He pulls away, eyes me meaningfully, then turns his back on Matteo and leaves.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I turn to Matteo. “I owe you an apology.”
He inspects my face in narrow-eyed silence, his expression assessing.
I know this crow I’m about to eat is gonna taste really shitty, but it’s what my father would want. He always told me that anything could be forgiven in a person’s character except lack of kindness. So I grit my teeth and get it over with.
“For how I talk to you. I’m normally not this . . . ragey.”
After looking at me for a long moment, he says, “You’re hurting. I’m just a convenient target.”
Shit. I was expecting a snappy comeback, not understanding. And especially not insightfulness. If he’s going to be this observant all the time, I won’t be able to be around him. No one likes to feel as if her soul is hanging out for everyone to see, like an untucked shirt.
I arrange my face into an emotionless mask and focus on a spot on the wall over his shoulder so I don’t have to contend with those soul-piercing eyes. “I suppose you’re right. The sketch pad situation didn’t help, but it was more than a fair trade. That plane ticket is probably the best gift I’ve ever been given.”
I have to stop because my voice cracks and water is welling in my eyes. I turn away before Matteo can see and mock me for my lack of dignity. I refuse to be anyone’s kicking bag.
But he surprises me again.
“I envy you,” he says quietly.
When I jerk around in surprise, I find Matteo staring at me with a strange expression. It’s something like longing, only darker.
“What do you mean?”
He turns his attention back to the pink dress. In profile, he’s even more appealing, all ruler-straight lines and sculpted angles, impossibly long lashes swept downward to a smudge on his golden cheeks.
“My father died when I was very young.”
His voice is hollow, edged with regret. There’s something he’s not saying. Though my curiosity is intense, I won’t ask what it is.
“At least you knew him. My mother died when I was born.”
He turns his head. His gaze locks onto mine and doesn’t let go. I feel exposed and vulnerable and have to fight the strong urge to flee. We stare at each other across the small room while my heartbeat goes haywire and the walls seem to grow closer.
“Your father showed me a picture of her once,” says Matteo in a hesitant voice, as if he’s afraid to spook me, or kick-start another bout of anger. “You look so much like her.”
There’s a bitter taste in my mouth. Must be all the tears I’m swallowing. “I know. I mean, from all the photographs I’ve seen, we’re like twins. As I got older, sometimes I’d catch Papa staring at me with this haunted look, like he was seeing a ghost.”
Matteo moves closer. Slowly, as if drawn by a force he’s fighting against. “Do you think that’s why the only pictures of you in the house are from when you were a child?”
Whoa. The man notices everything. I look at the floor, hiding my eyes, and nod. I think of the Polaroid of me laughing tacked to the corkboard in the back of the shop and wonder how often Papa looked at it and saw someone else in the shape of my face. How often he put it away, only to take it out and tack it up again.
How much pain it must have caused him.
“Hair as black as night. Skin as white as snow. Lips as red as blood.”
When I look up, startled, Matteo says, “That’s how your father described you. Like Snow White, he said, only too smart to take a poison apple from a witch.”
How can someone smell so good? How can someone be so beautiful? Look at him. He’s like a walking piece of art.
Then it’s like a switch gets thrown. Remembering how I let Brad’s good looks and pedigree blind me to reality, my voice hardens. “If there’s one thing fairy tales have taught me, it’s that the most tempting, perfect-looking apples are always the ones that are rotten to the core.”
He stops. We’re feet apart. His tone, so soft only moments ago, turns cutting.
“Question: How much of your dislike of me is actually about me, and how much of it is about your ex-fiancé?”
I feel as if he can see through me, like every thought I have is floating in a bubble over my head and there’s a gauge stuck on my nose that’s broadcasting my temperature. Hot, cold, boiling, freezing, want you, hate you, about to cry. He sees it all, and it drives me crazy.
“My ex has nothing to do with anything.”
“Really?” His eyes do their laser beam thing again. “Because I’m starting to think you decided to hate me before we ever spoke a word to each other. I’m starting to think that look of disgust you gave me at the airport lounge when you first saw me had nothing to do with me and everything to do with you getting dumped at the altar.”
An atomic detonation of fury blasts through me. If I were Wolverine, this is the part where my long steel claws would unsheathe from my knuckles with a violent clang. “I never said I was dumped at the altar.”
Here comes that condescending eyebrow arch. I’d like to slap a blob of wax on that thing and rip it clean off.
“You didn’t have to. There are plenty of stories about it on the internet.”
My mouth drops open. I stare at Matteo in horror. “You googled me?”
His lips curve into his signature ruthless smile. “I like to know all there is to know about my business rivals. ‘The Lovelorn Seamstress’? ‘The Cast-Away Couturier’? So many clever headlines. Maybe you can use one of them for the name of your new shop.”
I’m so embarrassed I can’t talk. I stand there staring at him, my cheeks blazing with heat. I’m living that awful moment all over again. I can’t escape it, even thousands of miles away. In another country halfway around the world, I’m still the girl who wasn’t good enough.
I think I’m going to be sick.
“Maybe I did decide to hate you before we spoke a word to each other, and maybe I had good reasons. The way you walk around like the world should throw itself at your feet. The way you smirk at everyone, so superior. The way you look at women—”
“You,” he interrupts, his voice gruff. “The way I look at you, you mean.”
“You’re splitting hairs again. I’m sure I’m just one of millions of women you’ve given that look to.”
“Which look?”
He steps closer. Now we’re inches apart. Breathing each other’s air. Feeling each other’s body heat.
This guy has serious space issues.
I moisten my lips. His eyes follow the motion of my tongue. The smug smile is gone. All that’s left on his face is blistering intensity.
“You know which look. And step back. You’re crowding me.”
“No. I want to talk about this look you’re so upset by. I want you to tell me what you think it means.”
I become mesmerized by the pulse beating in the hollow of his throat. It’s hard and fast, and shocking. Is his heart pounding as hard as mine is?
“I don’t know what it means,” I say primly.
That makes him laugh, low and throaty, a sound that for some strange reason sends a flood of heat between my legs.
“Such a terrible liar,” he murmurs. He takes a lock of my hair between two fingers and tugs on it.
It’s a tease, like a schoolboy pulling a ponytail, but the heat in his eyes is anything but boyish.
I’ve never been looked at like this by a man. Never. I think he wants to devour me. I think he wants to do really bad things to me.
I think my ex-stepbrother wants to fuck my brains out.
When my uterus starts doing cartwheels, I have to remind her that not only is it gross to have sex with a relative, it’s probably illegal. She shoots back that we’re no longer relatives, so all bets are off, and all signs point to Go.
The cheeky bitch.
Matteo murmurs, “I’d love to be part of whatever conversation you’re having in your head right now, bella.”
My uterus sighs and melts into a pool of liquid. At least she shut up.
“I was thinking I have a lot of work to do. I was thinking you should leave now.”
He brushes the ends of my hair over my cheek and jaw, trails it slowly down my neck as his gaze follows. My pulse kicks up a few thousand notches.
“I don’t accept your apology.” He leans closer, fogging my brain like a humid car window. “I don’t think it was sincere. I think you should show me how sorry you are for the way you talk to me, bella. And I think you should do it like this.”
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me.