Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

said quietly. Do what he hadn’t done.

      Franco exhaled. “We might adopt. I don’t know…it’s a big step.”

      “It is. Take your time with it.”

      A pause. Franco’s tone was wary when he spoke. “Your reconciliation with Angelina… The timing is…”

      “It’s not because of this. Yes, there is that, but it’s become clear to me Angelina and I have unfinished business between us.”

      “She walked out on you, fratello. How much more finished do you want it to be?”

      Lorenzo winced, pressed a hand to his temple. “I bear responsibility for the demise of my marriage, too. You know I have my ghosts.”

      “Sì. But she changed you, Lorenzo. You shut down after she left. You don’t trust like you used to—you aren’t the same man.”

      No, he wasn’t. His wife had taken a piece of him with her when she’d walked out that door on the heels of the loss of his child, his fledgling trust in life and love, his half-built bond with Angelina vaporizing on a tide of bitterness so thick he’d wondered if he would ever move past it. But with time, as his grief over Lucia had subsided, his own faults had been revealed. It would be delusional of him to lay the blame solely at his wife’s feet.

      “Angie was young. She needed time to grow. I intend for our marriage to work this time.”

      “Or you will take the house down around you as you try.” A wry note stained his brother’s voice.

      Lorenzo asked about his mother’s upcoming birthday celebrations. They chatted about that for a few minutes before his brother signed off. Lorenzo leaned against the bar and nursed his drink while he waited for his wife to deign to appear.

      The thought that he would have to produce the Ricci heir no longer evoked the violent reaction it had when his father had lobbed that grenade at him. Instead of feeling roped and tied, he felt strangely satisfied. As if his father’s directive had been the incentive he had needed to rewrite a piece of history that hadn’t gone down as it should have.

      Two years after the death of Lucia, he had still been without a taste for women the night he’d met Angelina in Nassau. Plagued by demons, if the truth be known, over the wife he hadn’t protected. Until Angie had walked out on the terrace while he’d been talking to one of her father’s associates and he’d felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.

      All it had taken was one dance, his hands taking purchase of her lush curves, before he’d found himself in an isolated part of the gardens taking over the seduction, driven by a need he couldn’t name. His libido had woken up like a five-alarm blaze by the time they’d made it to his luxurious room on the Carmichael estate. Somehow, in the haze of his still ever-present grief, Angie had brought him back to life.

      His mouth twisted as he brought the whiskey to his lips. Little had he known that the passion they shared would devolve into the plot from The War of the Roses. That the only place he and his young wife would be in sync was in the bedroom, where they’d solved every argument with hot, burn-your-clothes-off sex.

      The clock chimed seven thirty. His good mood began to evaporate. The elevator doors swished open a couple of minutes later, his wife breezing in dressed in black capris and a sparkly, peasant-style blouse. Her hair pulled back in a ponytail, face devoid of makeup, she was still the most exquisite woman he’d ever known.

      “Long day?” he drawled, leashing his anger.

      Pink color stained her cheeks. “It was. I had to finish up some pieces for a show. I’m sorry I’m late.”

      No, she wasn’t. But for the sake of their fresh start and given everything he’d thrown at her, he cut her some slack. “Go change.” He cocked his head toward the bedroom. “Constanza unpacked your things. She left dinner in the oven. It’ll keep while we have a drink.”

      Her eyes darkened at the order. Firming her mouth, she dropped her purse on a chair and swept by him.

      “Angie?”

      She swung around.

      “Put your wedding rings on.”

      She lifted her chin. “Is this how it’s going to be, Lorenzo? Just like old times? You firing orders at me? Expecting me to run and do your bidding?”

      “Married people wear wedding rings.” He held up his left hand, the elegant, simple gold band she had given him glittering in the light.

      Her face tightened. Turning on her heel, she disappeared down the hallway. When she returned, she was dressed in the comfortable black leggings she favored and a cream-colored tunic that fell just below her curvaceous derriere. Unfortunate, he decided. He’d have to fill in that part from memory.

      “Drink?” he asked, walking to the bar.

      “Mineral water, please.”

      “It’s Friday night.”

      “I’d still like mineral water.”

      And the battle lines were drawn… He poured it for her, added a slice of lime and carried it out onto the terrace, where Angie had drifted. Strategically placed lanterns lit up a thirty-five-million-dollar view of the park.

      He handed her the drink. Noted she wore her sapphire engagement ring and wedding band. “Which show?”

      She blinked. “Sorry?”

      “Which show are you designing for?”

      “Oh.” She wrapped her fingers around the glass. “Alexander Faggini’s Fashion Week show.”

      “That’s impressive.”

      She lifted a shoulder. “A friend of mine introduced us. He thought my designs worked well with his. It’s an honor for me.”

      “I’d like to see the collection.”

      “Would you?” She turned those beautiful blue eyes on him. “Or are you just making an effort to appear interested?”

      “Angelina,” he growled.

      “It’s a fair question.” Her chin set at a belligerent angle. “I am, after all, playing at a start-up business that has somehow, magically, found success.”

      He rested his gaze on hers. “Three-quarters of new businesses fail in this city. They don’t even last until their second year. You have done something extraordinary with yours. I’m proud of you. But at the time, it seemed like a long shot.”

      “You didn’t think I had the talent? Not even with you nurturing me?”

      There was a distinctly wounded edge to her eyes now. He blew out a breath. “I could see you were talented. But you knew I wanted my wife at home. We were having a baby.”

      “You were like that after we lost the baby. When I desperately needed something to occupy my brain.”

      His mouth flattened. “I could have supported you better, there’s no question about it. I should have. But someone had to run our life. I needed the sanity of you at home.”

      “And I needed the sanity my work provided me.” She turned her gaze to the lush canvas of green spread out before them, Central Park in full, glorious bloom.

      He studied the delicate line of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth, silhouetted in the lamplight. Defensive. Protective. It made him wonder about all the pieces of his wife he hadn’t known. Didn’t know. Had never attempted to know.

      “Sanity from what?”

      She shrugged. “My life. All of it.”

      He frowned. He understood what being the offspring of a dynasty meant, because his family was as much Italian aristocracy as the Carmichaels were American royalty. Understood how the pressure of the relentless press coverage, the high expectations, the