Claiming His Christmas Wife. Dani Collins

Imogen heard an excited voice cry, “Papa!”

      As tiny footsteps hurried toward them, Imogen began to disintegrate, each particle of her breaking away and sizzling agonizingly into utter despair.

      She was such a fool. This was rock bottom.

      * * *

      Travis bit back a curse as Imogen pulled away from him, swinging a look on him so betrayed and shattered, it cut like a scalpel directly into his heart.

      He had to look away to his niece, Antonietta, as she appeared from the lounge. She came up short at the sight of them, recovered in the next second and continued her pell-mell run at him, arms up and wearing a wide smile.

       “Zio!”

      He picked up the three-year-old sprite.

      She threw her arms around his neck and made a production of kissing his cheek with a loud, “Mmmwah!”

      Gwyn, his stepsister, appeared with a sleeping Enrico drooped on her shoulder. She faltered as she took in that Travis had a woman with him, one who didn’t exactly look like his usual type. She wasn’t the judgmental sort, though. She quickly recovered with a welcoming smile. “Hi.”

      “I completely forgot what day it was,” Travis told her.

      “No problem. I’m Gwyn.” She came forward with her free hand extended.

      Imogen’s gaze sharpened with recognition, but if she said one wrong word to Gwyn...

      “You’re Travis’s sister.” Imogen unfolded one arm to shake hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Imogen.”

      “Good timing. I’ve just made coffee,” Gwyn said toward Travis. “Let me put Enrico down. I’ll be right back.”

      * * *

      Imogen’s brain was reengaging from its tailspin, where she had briefly been convinced Travis was married with children. She occasionally stalked him online, as one did with an ex. He dated a lot but hadn’t seemed serious about anyone, so, for a moment, she had been struck nearly dead with shock. By a loss so acute, she hadn’t been able to withstand it.

       Shut up, misguided girlish fantasies.

      She and Travis were so over.

      As for his sister, when Gwyn had had a spot of trouble a few years ago with an international bank scandal and a global leak of nude photos, Imogen had followed it for different reasons than the rest of the world’s lurid curiosity. While she and Travis had been married, he hadn’t even mentioned he had a stepsister. It had been a shock to see his name associated with the headlines not long after their split. Imogen had combed every story she could find then, trying to figure out why he’d been so secretive about his family.

      At the same time, she had drawn a line in the sand for herself. She hadn’t told her father that she had an in with that particular story. She and Travis had been firmly on the outs by then, her father’s business failing miserably, but she refused to exploit him. Between her divorce settlement and her mother’s trust fund, Imogen had been sure they were only a few short months from having her father’s company back on its feet.

      The core of her reluctance to use Travis, however, had stemmed from the deep agony of rejection Travis’s letting her go had rent through her. She hadn’t even told her father she’d been married, fearful of his reaction.

      He would have approved of Travis, of course, but there was no way she’d wanted Travis to meet her father. Then, when her marriage fell apart...well, who needed that sort of scathing disappointment added to her pain? Her father’s derision would have expanded exponentially under the news she had failed to hold on to him. It was bad enough she had deluded herself into believing Travis had had real feelings for her.

      The entire thing became so humiliating she had preferred to be as secretive about their marriage as Travis had been.

      He led the way into the lounge. It was tastefully decorated for the season with festive garlands around the windows, fairy lights winking in the potted shrubs from the terrace and a tree that looked and smelled real. The presents beneath were professionally wrapped but with cartoonish paper that would appeal to children.

      “Mama said I have to ask you if those are for me,” the little girl said, one arm still firmly around Travis’s neck as she fixed her gaze on the gifts.

      “And Enrico, yes.”

      “Can I open them? Per favore, Zio?” she asked very sweetly.

      “Not yet.”

      She gave a little pout of disappointment.

      Italian? Imogen sank down on the sofa so she wouldn’t fall down.

      “You never mentioned your sister,” she commented. All he’d told her was that he was close with his father, who lived in Charleston, and didn’t see much of his mother, but she also lived in that city.

      “Gwyn’s mother married my father while I was at university, but passed away soon after. Gwyn and I didn’t grow up together.”

      They seemed close now, if he was giving the woman access to his apartment when he wasn’t even here. He’d been cautious about letting his wife into his personal space, constantly picking up behind her and uptight that the few things she’d brought with her hadn’t fit with his existing decor. At the time, she had put it down to the shift from bachelorhood to living with someone, but she knew now it had been more than a territorial thing. He hadn’t wanted her there at all. It still made her throat raw to think of it.

      “This is Antonietta.” He was still holding her. “We call her Toni.”

      The little girl cupped her hand near his ear and whispered something.

      The corner of his mouth twitched. “Toni Baloney.”

      Toni giggled and hunched her shoulders up to her ears. “What’s your name?”

      “Imogen. My sister used to call me Imogen the Imagination Magician.”

      Toni widened her eyes in excited wonder. “I love that name.”

      He didn’t just have family, but a fun and loving one. Huh. Why would he have felt a need to hide that from her?

      “Come eat your apples and cheese, topolina,” Gwyn said as she returned, waving Toni toward the snack at the elegant glass-topped pedestal dining table.

      Travis set the girl on her feet and she skipped across to climb up and kneel on a velvet-upholstered chair.

      Imogen hadn’t been allowed at the grown-up table until she was twelve.

      “The doorman let us up because you left notice that we would arrive today.” Gwyn came over with coffee, cream and sugar, then seated herself where she could watch Toni. “I thought that meant you remembered we were coming. I was going to text, but I got busy with the kids. If we’re imposing, I’ll ask Vito to move us to a hotel.”

      “It’s one night. I forgot, that’s all.” Travis seemed to blame Imogen for his absentmindedness with the cool glance he flicked her way as he sat.

      Imogen lifted her brows, wondering how he was going to explain her presence now that his worlds had collided.

      He didn’t bother, only sat back with his black coffee. “Vito had meetings?”

      After a beat of surprise, Gwyn nodded. She smiled at Imogen. “We just got in from Italy. My husband often has business in New York, so we make a stop here, adjust to the jet lag, let the kids leave fingerprints all over Zio’s furniture, then head to Charleston.”

      “To see Travis’s father?”

      “Henry, yes. And the bank has offices there. Vito checks in and works on and off while we visit Nonno. For the last few years, Henry has been coming to us for the holidays, but this year is his seventieth birthday. It’s right before Christmas