Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

world? Why has being a Carmichael been so difficult for you? I could never figure it out. I know you have a combative relationship with your father and that having his affairs plastered across the media couldn’t be easy for you…but it always seemed like it was more.”

      A cynical light shone in her gaze as she turned toward him. “Did it need to be more? Those affairs devastated my mother, cut her so deeply she never recovered.”

      “No,” he agreed, “it doesn’t. My father worships the ground my mother walks on and rightly so. I can’t imagine how painful it must have been to watch your father disrespect your mother like that when she has stood by his side the entire time.”

      Her dark lashes swept over her cheeks. “You see what everyone else sees. The glittering, perfect world of the Carmichaels. You don’t see the dysfunction on the inside.”

      “So tell me about it,” he countered. “Help me understand.”

      “They are private family issues. I would be betraying confidences if I did.”

      “You are my wife. You can confide in me.”

      Her mouth formed a stubborn, straight line. An oath left his lips. “This is one of those areas we need to fix, Angelina. How can we make this marriage work if there are big pieces of you I don’t know?”

      “Like those big pieces of you I don’t know?” Her eyes flashed, a storm rising in their gray-blue depths. “You can’t press a button and summon emotional intimacy. Trust. It doesn’t work like that. It takes time and effort. If you want that from me, you have to lead by example.”

      Heat seared his belly. He knew she was right. Knew he’d been operating on automatic pilot in the years after Lucia’s death, cauterizing his emotions, refusing to feel. But it wasn’t the easiest thing to admit.

      “Bene,” he conceded harshly, opening his arms wide. “Consider me an open book, then. No subject is off-limits. Anything is fair game. But we are going to learn how to communicate—in ways that do not involve the bedroom.”

      The stare she leveled at him rattled every nerve ending. Made him ache to resort to tried-and-true methods. But he wasn’t going there. He was making good on the promise he’d just given her.

      “I think,” he said evenly, deciding a change of subject was in order, “we should host a party in the Hamptons over the long weekend. Marc Bavaro, the CEO of the Belmont chain, has a place there. I’d like to try and soften him up a bit. Get a few outstanding issues resolved. It would also provide an ideal opportunity to formally announce our reconciliation given the gossip that’s running rampant.”

      She muttered something under her breath. His brow lifted. “Scusa?”

      “I said to put your stamp on me. That’s why you want to have this party.”

      “I already did that,” he murmured, eyes on hers. “Why would I need to make a public display of ownership when we both know the truth?”

      A flush stained her cheeks. “Go to hell, Lorenzo.”

      “I’ve already been there, cara. At least this time there will be a great deal of pleasure along with the pain.”

      Her eyes locked with his. A long, loaded moment passed as they took a step into uncharted territory. Lashes lowered, his wife studied him, as if deciding whether to continue the charge.

      Her chin dropped. “Everyone’s calendars will be full on the Labor Day weekend.”

      “They’ll be doing the rounds. What’s one more stop? Speculation about us alone will pack them in.”

      She gave him a pointed look as if to say that was exactly the issue. “I have to finish the pieces for Alexander so he can match them up with the show. If something doesn’t work, I’ll need to come up with an alternative.”

      “It’s one weekend. There’s nothing pressing between now and then. Work around it.” He pointed his whiskey glass at her. “This is where we learn to compromise, Angie. You give, I give—that’s how it works.”

      Her mouth flattened. “Fine.”

      “Good. Gillian will plan it, you will contribute your guest list and the staff in the Hamptons will execute. All you need to do is show up.”

      Her expression remained frozen. He sought the patience he was not known for. “I expect you to invite your family. Whatever’s going on between you and your parents, you need to fix it. This will be a good opportunity to do so.”

      “No.” The word flew out of her mouth—swift and vehement. He lifted a brow. “I went to see them last week,” she explained. “They aren’t in the Hamptons much anymore in the summer. There’s no point in inviting them.”

      “I’m sure they’ll make the effort to come. It will look strange if they’re not there given I do business with your father.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “Speaking of parents, mine will be visiting the week after the party. They’ll stay at their apartment, but we’ll host them here for dinner. Decide on a date with Gillian that works for you.”

      Her face fell further, if that was possible. “What did you tell them? About us?”

      “That we’ve decided to make this marriage work. That we made a decision in haste at a time when we were both in pain and now we are rectifying it.”

      “So you chose to leave out the part where you’re bullying me into becoming your wife again?”

      “I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement. Motivation for us to make this marriage work.” He leveled his gaze on her combative face. “We made a deal, a commitment to each other, Angelina. I meant it when I said your heart and soul have to be in it, but I’m not so unfeeling that I don’t understand you need time to adjust. After that settling-in period, however, I expect an attitude adjustment, because this is not how it’s going to be.”

      An attitude adjustment? Angie was still fuming after she and Lorenzo had shared a tense, mostly silent dinner on the terrace, where she ate little and talked less. It had been so generous of him to concede she needed time and space after what he’d done to her. Clearly she should be falling into line, looking forward to spending more time with his PA than she did her husband.

      Her mouth twisted. I meant it when I said your heart and soul have to be in it. He didn’t even have a heart…or a soul for that matter. What would he know about it?

      Lorenzo was ensconced in his home office to finish some work, so she elected to have a hot bath and go to bed. Constanza had unpacked all her things in the light, airy master bedroom, with its gorgeous vistas of the park, the housekeeper’s usual ruthless efficiency putting everything back as if she’d never left.

      It was eerie to pull a nightgown from a puddle of silk in a drawer and untangle her hair with the pearl-backed brush that sat on the dresser in the exact same place it used to be. On edge, her nerves in disarray, she headed for a rose-scented bath in the Italian-tiled en suite, immersing herself up to her ears in hot, cathartic bubbles.

      All sarcasm aside, she was relieved with her husband’s acknowledgment they needed time—that he didn’t expect her to jump into bed with him as seamlessly as her brush had landed back on the dresser. But clearly, she thought, stomach knotting, given that her things were where they were, he expected her to share that bed with him. The thought made her search desperately for something else to focus on, like why he had rose-scented bath bubbles in here.

      Either Constanza had been thoughtful, as she was wont to be, or they had belonged to one of his lovers. Because surely, the tabloids couldn’t be right? Surely her highly sexual husband, who’d thought he was divorced, had had other women?

      You haunt me, Angelina, every time I’m