Modern Romance March 2017 Books 5 -8. Natalie Anderson
Bay, the high waves and white foam a perfect mirror for her churning insides. She adored the peace and tranquility of this exclusive enclave, the ability to escape a tourist-infested, muggy Manhattan and enjoy the cool breezes that tempered the island. What she didn’t enjoy was the microcosm of Manhattan society the Hamptons were at this time of year. Taking part in the requisite social circuit, forging the right contacts through her and Lorenzo’s recreational activities, being seen with the right crowd.
“You might as well be at work,” her entrepreneurial friend, Cassidy, had once said, referring to the intense networking that went on here 24/7. “At least in Manhattan, you can disappear into your town house, plead a prior engagement and no one will ever know. In the Hamptons, everyone knows.”
Her mouth twisted. And the cliquishness? The competitiveness? The feckless alliances that changed with the wind? She had seen the devastation they could wreak, had watched her mother shredded by their vicious bite and yet Bella Carmichael had, unfathomably, always gone back for more because headlining an American dynasty wasn’t something you just walked away from.
Her mother had learned to grit her teeth and smile as all Carmichaels did, even when her world was falling apart, pretending the gossip chasing through the room about Alistair Carmichael’s infidelities, which of his “assistants” he was sleeping with now, didn’t faze her in the least. That her husband’s predilection for twenty-five-year-old blondes and the power that came along with his ability to command them was par for the course in the world they lived in.
She smoothed clammy palms over her cranberry-red silk dress, praying her father’s indiscretions would not come up tonight. She’d already briefed the waitstaff her mother was not to be served alcohol under any circumstance. Watching her go off the rails in front of the upper echelons of Manhattan society was the last thing she needed.
“I like this dress.” Lorenzo materialized behind her, his hands settling on her hips. “Although,” he drawled, turning her around, his inspection dipping to the plunging neckline of the dress, “I’m not sure I’m going to appreciate every other man in attendance tonight enjoying the same view.”
Her pulse fluttered in her throat. Heat radiated from the light spread of his fingers to forbidden places, dangerous places, warming her insides. She took a step back, putting some distance between them.
The dress was provocative—the flesh revealed by the low neckline leaving a hint of the rounded curves of her breasts bare. It was more than she would normally put on display.
“It’s one of Alexander’s designs. He insisted I wear it tonight.”
“I’m not surprised. It was made for you.”
The sensual glitter in his eyes sent a skittering up her spine. Or maybe it was how good he looked in a silver-gray shirt and dark trousers that set off his spectacular dark coloring and beautiful eyes.
Her gaze dropped away from his. He curved his fingers around her jaw and brought it back up to his. The appraising look he subjected her to made her feel like glass—utterly transparent and far too vulnerable. “You’ve been off all day. What’s wrong?”
She pulled free. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“No, you aren’t.” Irritation clouded his expression. “There’s this thing that happens when we socialize, Angie. You turn into a plastic version of yourself. Aloof. Unreadable. Why?”
“That’s hardly true.”
“Every time, cara.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the sill. “You can tell me or we can keep your parents waiting. It’s all good with me.”
Heat sizzled her blood. “Perhaps because it’s always about a goal, a business transaction, rather than us enjoying ourselves. I was graded on my ability to accomplish those goals. Romance a partner of yours, flatter his wife, impress a potential target with my impeccable lineage...” She waved a hand at him. “Tonight it’s Marc Bavaro—what’s the goal with him? What would you like me to be, Lorenzo? Amusing? Intellectual? Cultured? Flirtatious?”
His gaze narrowed. “Not in that dress, no. And here we are getting somewhere, bella mia. Communicating. Because I had no idea you felt that pressure. I enjoy the thrill of the chase, accomplishing something by the end of the evening. To me it’s us being a team. But I would prefer for you to be yourself...for you to be the woman I have always appreciated that never seems to show up on these occasions.”
She leaned back against the sill, fingers curling around the edge. “And which woman is that? I’m intrigued despite myself, since I never seemed to get it right.”
“The vibrant, spirited woman I met that night in Nassau who didn’t seem to care what anyone else thought of her. Where has she gone, Angie? Where has that light gone?”
She blinked. Who did he think had snuffed out that spirit by asking her to be something she wasn’t? By shutting her out when she displeased him? By constantly making her aware she wasn’t measuring up?
She lifted her chin. “Why this sudden obsession with what makes me tick? It never seemed to concern you before.”
“Perhaps because I’m realizing the woman I thought I knew has all these vulnerabilities lurking beneath the surface, vulnerabilities I think might be the key to why she is the way she is, and yet she won’t let me near them.”
“I think you’re overthinking it.”
“I think I’m not.” He scowled and pulled his hands from his pockets. “I had some things to work through before, things I have worked on. It has proven illuminating to me. I would like to learn from it.”
Things like Lucia? Her heart beat a jagged rhythm in her chest. To allow herself to believe that, to believe he truly cared, that he wanted to know her, understand her, that he truly wanted this time to be different between them, threatened to poke holes in the composure she desperately needed as she faced her old social set tonight. Not to mention her parents, who were waiting for them downstairs.
“We should go,” she said quietly. “My parents will be waiting.”
He pushed away from the sill. “We’ll continue this later,” he warned, setting a hand to the small of her back to guide her from the room. His warmth, his undeniable strength, bled into her skin. She swallowed hard. Somehow in the midst of all the chaos in her head, among all the conflicted feelings warring inside of her, his touch anchored her as it always had. Perhaps that was why it had hurt so much when he’d taken it away.
The poolside terrace was lit with flaming torches as they joined her parents outside, the lights from the sprawling, Italian-inspired villa reflected in the infinity pool that served as the star attraction of the space. Sleek waitstaff dressed in black hovered at the ready, the marble-and-brick bar stocked with rows of the perquisite champagne on ice.
Della and Alistair Carmichael were already holding drinks, listening to the local band they’d hired to play. Angie gave her mother, who was looking her usual elegant self in a powder-blue cocktail dress, her silver-blond hair a perfect bob to her ears, a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Her gaze slid down to the drink her mother held as she drew back, the tightness in her chest easing when she saw that it was sparkling water.
“You look beautiful, Mother.”
“Thank you.” Her mother gave her a critical once-over. “Faggini?”
“Yes.” A wry smile twisted her lips at their practiced small talk. It was how they’d learned to coexist after their fiery relationship during Angie’s teenage years, when her mother’s alcoholism had emerged and everything between them had been a war of wills. Their practiced détente still didn’t quell the pain of losing the mother she’d once had, before Bella Carmichael’s disease had devastated her, but at least it was a norm she knew how to maneuver within.
“Lorenzo.” Her mother turned her attention to Angie’s husband, the feminine smile she reserved for handsome, powerful men softening her face. “It’s so lovely to see you.” She