Dreaming Of… Italy. Alison Roberts
poured more wine. “What about your dad?”
“Oh, he’s our big teddy bear. He doesn’t say a lot but we always know he loves us, you know?”
He didn’t. He’d never known anyone loved him. In fact, in spite of the declarations of a few lovers, he didn’t think anyone had actually loved him.
“He’s also a card player. When we lose electricity in an ice storm, he always starts a candlelight game of Texas Hold’em or rummy.”
Which explained why she had been so comfortable playing rummy with Constanzo the day she’d met him.
“Your dad gambled with you?”
“We’d play for candy.”
“Sounds nice.” Again. He could envision her family huddled around a table, playing a game by candlelight. Laughing. Just enjoying each other’s company. The thought twisted his heart but teased his imagination.
“What about holidays?” He really shouldn’t ask. Hearing her stories only reminded him of what he didn’t have, but he couldn’t resist. In the same way she tempted him, so did thoughts of a family. He’d longed for one as a child, considered the possibility of having one when he tried to track down his parents, then closed the door when he couldn’t find them.
Now here he was longing again, just like a little boy with his nose pressed up against a candy-store window.
“My mom’s favorite is Easter. She loves pastel colors. Hiding Easter eggs. Going to the Easter-egg hunt sponsored by the volunteer firemen. And though most Americans don’t wear hats anymore, she still gets a new one every year for church on Easter Sunday.”
He laughed and took a sip of wine.
“But even though she likes Easter the best, my dad’s the Christmas freak. Have you ever seen those movies where people try to outdo each other with outdoor lights?”
“I’ve seen a few.”
The spaghetti came. The aroma filled the room and she inhaled deeply. “Wow. That smells fantastic.”
“Constanzo promised you some really good food in return for sharing that leftover Chinese food. So far he’s made good on his promise.”
She winced. “He probably thought I was such a dork. I didn’t even have a plate for him. He had to eat out of the box.”
“I think he was too hungry to care. Besides, a lot of people like eating food out of boxes. It reminds them of their childhood.”
“Does eating food out of boxes remind you of your childhood?”
His chest tightened. He should have realized that she’d turn this discussion to him. She was too polite to monopolize a conversation.
“I don’t remember a lot of my childhood.”
“I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have brought that up.”
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. He’d convinced himself to believe his lonely childhood had strengthened him, made him into the strong man he was today, but strength wasn’t the only quality a person wanted to have. Knowing her had resurrected his longing for a connection, a place, a real place where he wasn’t just wanted and respected, but where he could be himself.
“I’m sure growing up in foster care had to have been difficult.”
“It was.”
“I shouldn’t have brought up Christmas.”
“It’s fine. Really.” He cleared his throat. To salvage his pride, he couldn’t let her feel sorry for him. “Some foster families really tried. But they don’t get a lot of money from the government to care for the kids they take in so they can’t do everything. As a foster child, you adjust.”
The room fell silent again. He toyed with his spaghetti. Worried that she still felt bad, he caught her gaze. “But I had some nice Christmases.”
Her face brightened. “Did you?”
“Yes. Two. One year when I was about six I really wanted a certain video game. My foster parents already had the game box in the family room that could play the game, so I asked for it knowing I probably wouldn’t get it, but they got it for me.”
Her eyes warmed. “That’s nice.”
He thought back to that day. The one day in his childhood when he actually thought life could be wonderful. “It was nice. But because my foster parents had spent so much on the toy, I didn’t get the usual clothes I would have gotten as gifts and my jeans wore thin. I spent the rest of the winter wearing shoes with a hole in the bottom.”
“Oh.”
He cursed himself in his head. Now he knew why he shied away from honesty. It hurt. And not just him. He could actually feel sorrow pouring from her.
And that was why he’d always be alone. Or with women who didn’t care to know him. No man wanted a woman he lusted after feeling sorry for him.
“You have to be proud of yourself for how far you’ve come.”
“Yes. Of course, I am.” He sat straighter on his chair, closed his heart. Forgot about all those longings for the things she’d had and could tell him about. “But it should also make you realize that if you really want to become successful, you shouldn’t let anything stand in your way.”
He turned the conversation to a discussion of focus and discipline as they finished dinner then excused himself.
The empty, lonely feeling that followed him to his room was an echo of what he’d sensed with Constanzo, and he realized he and the reclusive old billionaire had a lot in common. His refusal to be vulnerable might be the right choice, but at sixty-five or seventy, he was going to wake up one day and find himself every bit as alone as Constanzo was now.
But in some lives there was no choice. Opening up and being honest simply couldn’t be done.
* * *
Two days later, with Antonio settled and Constanzo thinking he might like to be the one to tell Antonio he was his father, Vivi and Tucker left Italy. After their dinner alone, he’d become quiet. So she wasn’t surprised when he handed her work to do on the long flight to New York City.
Hours later they landed at the private airstrip and transferred to his limo. He instructed the driver to take her home first. After a quick, impersonal goodbye, she climbed the three flights of stairs.
When she stepped into her apartment, she was bombarded by hugs and questions from Laura Beth and Eloise. She managed to sidestep the more personal aspects of her trip by focusing on Antonio, her work with a gallery owner and an artist, and her pool games with a billionaire who really would have taken her money if she’d been foolish enough to bet with him.
She told them about the beautiful Italian countryside and then spilled over into a gushing report on Bordighera, which, she told them, they would have to visit—if they ever got enough money to go on a vacation.
She slept like a log, woke groggy, but capable of working, and headed to the office dressed in the gray trousers and pink shirt. No blazer this time. June had turned into July and it was getting hot.
When she arrived at the office, Tucker was already there, head bent over papers on his desk.
She stood by her chair, confused. In a little over a week she and Tucker Engle had gone from being something like adversaries to—
She didn’t know what. Almost friends? He’d apologized for pushing her into talking about something that was none of his business. Hell, she’d told him about something that was none of his business. They’d sat by a swimming pool and talked like normal people.
He’d kissed her.
Then they’d had that wonderful private conversation over the spaghetti Bolognese. He’d told her things about