Modern Romance March 2017 Books 5 -8. Natalie Anderson
hipster briefs he’d added to his routine in deference to their adjustment period. Not when tomorrow would mean deciding what to do with her mother. Convincing her to go back to the treatment facility in California she swore she wouldn’t return to.
Silent tears slid down her face. She reached up to brush them away, shocked there were any left. Lorenzo muttered an oath. “Don’t,” he murmured, shifting so she lay back against the pillows. “We’re going to solve this—I promise.”
She should have protested when he set his mouth to her jaw. As he kissed and licked away her tears, working his way up one cheek, then down the other. But the erotic, soul-searing comfort he offered eased the ache inside of her. Lit her up in a way only Lorenzo could.
A low sound escaped her throat. Her eyes locked with his in a hot, heated moment that held time suspended. Murmuring her name, he closed his mouth over hers, taking her lips in a slow, sweet kiss that drove everything from her head but him. How much she missed this. How much she missed everything about it.
He captured her jaw in his fingers, held her as he dipped deeper into her mouth, his tongue sliding against hers. The taste of him exploded through her, dark and dangerous as she tangled her legs with his, a tight fist of need forming in her stomach. She twisted closer, seeking, needing the oblivion he could give her because this, this had always been right.
She rocked against him. His obvious arousal, covered only by the thin cotton briefs, sank into her softness, the delicate material of her panties no obstacle. She gasped as he moved against her with possessive intent, the friction turning her insides molten.
“Lorenzo...”
He threaded a hand through her hair, held her still as he lifted his mouth from hers. “Angie,” he murmured softly. “No.”
No? Her eyes flew open.
“You will hate me tomorrow, cara. I guarantee it. You’re emotional. I won’t take advantage of that.”
Her brain right-sided itself with a swiftness that made her dizzy. She pushed a hand against his chest, humiliation and confusion flaming through her. Lorenzo levered himself off of her. She scrambled to the other side of the bed, pressing her hands against her cheeks. “You started it.”
“I wanted to comfort you,” he said softly. “It got out of hand.”
She turned her back on him and curled up in a ball.
“Angie.” He laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Leave me alone.” She took a deep breath as her fractured breathing slowed. She had no idea what she was doing. Thinking. Nothing made sense anymore. Everything she’d thought was true was now a massive gray area she had no idea what to do with.
Pain throbbed at the back of her eyes, her heart a rock in her throat. Lorenzo was just as much of an addiction for her as the alcohol her mother consumed. Just as dangerous. She would do well to remember that before she started making life-changing, potentially disastrous decisions to sleep with him again. Her husband was right in that.
She closed her eyes. This time sleep came swift and hard with the need to escape.
ANGIE WOKE THE next morning heavy-headed and bleary-eyed. Apprehensive about what lay ahead, confused about what had happened between her and Lorenzo last night, she dressed in jeans and a tunic, threw her hair into a ponytail and headed downstairs to the breakfast room, hoping it would be empty so she could spend a few minutes composing herself over coffee.
Her wish was not to be granted. Her husband sat by himself in the sun-filled room that overlooked the bay, the morning’s newspapers spread out in front of him. He looked gorgeous in jeans and a navy T-shirt, his thick, dark hair still wet and slicked back from his shower. It was utterly disconcerting the way her heart quickened at the sight of him, as if it had a mind of its own.
He looked up, gaze sliding over her face. “You slept in. That’s good. You needed it.”
She took a seat beside him at the head of the table, even though her brain was screaming for distance. It would have looked churlish to do otherwise.
“Constanza made your favorite,” he said, waving an elegant, long-fingered hand at the freshly baked banana bread on a plate. “And the coffee’s hot.”
“Thank you.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “Where are my parents?”
“Your father went for a run. Your mother’s still in bed.”
And would be for a while, she figured, taking a sip of the hot, delicious coffee. His brow furrowed. “Your father, he is always this...distant when it comes to dealing with your mother?”
“Always. He thinks she is weak. That she should be able to conquer this addiction. When she slips it infuriates him.”
“That’s no way to get to the heart of the problem. Your mother needs support above all things.”
She eyed him. “You were the king of distancing yourself when I displeased you.”
“Yes,” he agreed, dark gaze flickering. “And we’ve talked about how I’m going to work on that.”
Right. And she was just supposed to take that at surface value? Forget the big stretches of complete alienation that had passed between them when he’d retreated into that utterly unknowable version of himself? How every time they’d made up in bed she’d thought it would be better just like she’d thought it would be better every time her mother promised to stop drinking, only to discover nothing had really changed.
She twisted her cup in its saucer. “It’s always been that way in my family. We are the exact opposite of the Riccis—instead of expressing our emotions we bury them. Instead of talking about things we pretend they don’t exist.”
He frowned. “Ignoring an addiction, continuing to perpetuate an illusion that everything is fine when it isn’t, is inherently damaging to all involved.”
“I told you my family is dysfunctional.”
The furrow in his brow deepened. “You said your mother started drinking when you were fifteen. What do you think precipitated it?”
She lifted a shoulder. “She always had the tendency to drink to cope with all the socializing. But I think it was my father’s affairs that did it. Ask her to represent the family three or four times a week—fine. Ask her to do that when everyone is talking about who my father is screwing that week...to suffer that humiliation? It was too much.”
“Why didn’t she leave him?”
“She’s a Carmichael. Image is everything. A Carmichael never concedes defeat. Ever. If we don’t get her help, she will drink herself into the ground proving she can make this marriage work.”
“That’s nuts.”
She arched a brow. “Didn’t you say there’s never been a Ricci divorce? It’s what our families do.”
He sat back in his chair, a contemplative look on his face. “That’s why you don’t like this world. Why you hate parties like the one we had last night. You hate what they represent.”
“Yes.”
“So you decided to leave me so you would never end up like your mother. You crave independence because you need to have an escape route in case our marriage falls apart like your parents’ did.”
Her mouth twisted. “That’s far too simplistic an analysis.”
“Perhaps, but I think your experiences drove your thinking with us. My withdrawal from you evoked shades of your father. Leaving you alone to cope while I went off to manage an empire. Except my vice wasn’t other women, it was my work.”
Her lashes lowered. “There may be some truth in