Modern Romance March 2017 Books 5 -8. Natalie Anderson

work than her cell phone rang—it was her husband’s name on the caller ID.

      “Yes,” she purred, craving a taste of his raspy, delicious voice to ease her jagged emotions. “I thought you had to work late.”

      “Marc Bavaro’s invited us to the opera tonight. I need you to come.”

      No hello. No preamble. No sexy rasp. Cool, rapid-fire words thrown at her with that hint of edge he’d been wearing all week.

      She bit her lip. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I have a bracelet due to an important client in the morning.”

      “It’s a bracelet. Not life or death. Finish it tomorrow.”

      She stiffened. “It’s due tomorrow. I’ve already put her off once because of Marc Bavaro.”

      “A few hours isn’t going to make a difference. Stop being so contrary and get ready. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes to pick you up.”

      The line went dead. She stared at the phone. Had he just called her contrary? Dismissed her like that?

      She put down the phone. Took a couple of deep breaths. Seriously considered calling him back and telling him what he could do with his opera invitation. Except Marc Bavaro was driving him crazy. She could see it on his face when he walked in the door at night...in the dark circles under his eyes he was wearing like a badge. He was under immense pressure to close this deal and the strain was showing.

      She exhaled a long breath. Even though her own work would suffer, she would not be the one to sabotage their relationship this time.

      Juliette’s nearly done bracelet glittered on her desk. She supposed she could send her an email and let her know it would be done in the morning, afternoon at the latest. Surely that would be fine?

      Decision made, she sent the email and gathered up her things, her animosity growing by the minute. By the time Lorenzo pulled up at the sidewalk in front of her studio, her blood was boiling.

      “Ciao.” He leaned toward her to give her a kiss when she got into the car. She gave him her cheek instead. His ebony gaze narrowed. “What?”

      “If you don’t know what, you don’t deserve an answer.”

      He eyed her. “Is it because I called you contrary?”

      She didn’t deign to respond to that.

      A muttered oath. “It’s one night, Angelina.”

      She turned a furious gaze on him. “I have a commission due tomorrow. How would you feel if I insisted you attend a party with me when you had a security filing the next day? I can just see you now—‘Pff, it’s just a security filing...the lawyers have this. Be right with you, honey.’”

      “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

      She turned to look out the window.

      He gave up after that, getting them home in record time. She changed into a cap-sleeved, navy classic sheath dress, adding elegant gold sandals and jewelry to spice it up. Lorenzo looked devastatingly handsome in a dark suit, white shirt and an ice-blue tie he had clearly put on to match her dress, but she was in no mood to acknowledge it.

      They met up with Marc and Penny outside the stunningly beautiful Metropolitan Opera House, with its white travertine stone facade and five massive, graceful arches that, lit up at night, made it a sight to see. It had always been one of Angie’s favorite places to go for its sheer magnificence. Her first trip there, to see a ballet as a little girl, had been full of wide-eyed wonder. But tonight she was too annoyed to register much other than the fact that she was itching to shrug off the hand her husband held at her back, but couldn’t.

      They shared a cocktail with the other couple in one of the bars. Sparkling water, sadly, for Angie, when a glass of wine might have mellowed her out. She focused all her attention on the Belmont CEO and his girlfriend, ignoring her husband completely, to the point where Penny jokingly asked her if Lorenzo was in the doghouse as they settled into their seats in the Belmont box to watch Puccini’s La Bohème.

      She denied it, of course. Made a joking comment that Penny would see what it was like when the honeymoon phase was over. Lorenzo must have heard it with that laser-sharp hearing of his because his face turned dark. A mistake, she recognized, as the whisper of a chill rose up her spine. She had insulted his male pride.

      She focused on the performance. He had earned that one.

      La Bohème was one of her favorites, but tonight it couldn’t have been a worse choice. The story of Mimi and Rodolfo, the fiery, star-crossed lovers, sung to perfection by the visiting Italian soprano and her American tenor—had always moved her. But tonight, given her rocky emotions, her insecurities about her and Lorenzo, it affected her in a way she couldn’t hide. By the time the two lovers decided to stay together in the face of Mimi’s heartbreaking illness at the end of the third act, her imminent death on the horizon, tears were running down her face.

      Lorenzo put a hand on her thigh. She ignored him, kept her eyes focused on the stage. When the act came to a close, she rooted around desperately in her bag for a tissue, a necessity at the opera, and dammit, how could she have forgotten them?

      Lorenzo shoved the handkerchief from his front pocket into her hand. “Excuse us, will you?”

      “What are you doing?” she whispered as he grabbed her arm and propelled her out of the box.

      A tight, intense look back. “We are going somewhere to talk.”

      “I don’t want to talk.”

      “Well, that’s too bad, amore mio, you don’t get to choose.”

      Into the multistoried lobby they went, past the two glorious murals Marc Chagall had painted. Somewhere along the way, Lorenzo dropped the general manager’s name. The next thing she knew, he was directing her down a hallway and into an empty dressing room marked Visiting Performers.

      * * *

      Lorenzo twisted the lock on the door and turned to face his wife. What the hell was wrong with her? Watching her cry like that had made him want to crawl out of his skin, because he didn’t think all of it had to do with the admittedly heartbreaking opera.

      Angie swept her hand around the room, dominated by the sofa that sat along one wall and a dressing table and mirror on the other. “We can’t be in here.”

      “I was just told we could.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain to me why you are so angry, cara. I asked you to do me a favor. You know how important this deal is to me. What’s the problem?”

      She jammed her hands on her hips, eyes flashing. “You ordered me to come. You know how important my career is to me and yet you completely discounted my work. The bracelet I’m creating is for Juliette Baudelaire—a huge commission, particularly if she spreads the word to her friends. It’s not just a bracelet, it’s a stepping stone in my career. And yet here I am, not delivering on time—twice—because of you and your needs.”

      His irritation came to a sudden, sliding halt. “I had no idea it was for her.”

      “How could you? You hung up on me before I had a chance to tell you.”

      He muttered an oath. Pushed a palm over his brow. “Mi dispiace. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I called you. I was behind, annoyed because I had prior commitments I, too, had to cancel.”

      She hugged her arms around herself. Glared at him. He scowled back. “You,” he said, waving a hand at her, “are so emotional tonight. What’s going on? Is it the pregnancy effect?”

      The daggers in her eyes would have sliced him to shreds if they’d been real. “You, Lorenzo Ricci, are so oblivious, so emotionally unaware sometimes it blows my mind.”

      He didn’t think that was fair. He thought he was very emotionally aware at times and had been with her a lot lately. They were talking. Communicating. Being honest with each other. The last couple of weeks