Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

Angelina. “That’s quite a dress.”

      “It is,” Lorenzo agreed, amused. He didn’t doubt the connection he and Angie had. It ruled out any other male as a threat. He was content to play the waiting game when it came to bedding his wife. Figuring out what was going on in her head was another matter entirely.

      He nodded at Marc. “Let’s find a quiet place to talk.”

      By the time Angie had introduced Penny around to anyone the real estate broker might have found interesting or useful, she’d had enough of this party for a lifetime. She hated small talk with a passion, had always dreaded the legendary Carmichael parties she’d been forced to attend, not to mention the fact that all roads seemed to lead back to her and Lorenzo’s unexpected reconciliation in the sly side conversations she was drawn into.

      “I thought maybe there was a baby in the works,” joked their next-door neighbor. “But clearly that can’t be true. That dress is amazing on you.”

      After the last, thinly veiled attempt to pry the story out of her, she returned Penny to Marc. The Belmont CEO asked her to dance in turn, and Penny didn’t seem to mind, so Angie accepted, eager to get away from prying eyes. Marc was a good dancer and conversationalist. He was charming, despite Lorenzo’s depiction of him as a shark.

      They danced two dances before Lorenzo cut in. “I’m not sure if I should lock you up or use you as a weapon,” he murmured as he took her in his arms. “Bavaro is like a puppy salivating after a bone.”

      “Ah, but I don’t have a purpose tonight.” Sarcasm stained her voice. “I’m just supposed to be me in all my glory. The woman you appreciate.”

      His lips curved. Bending his head, he brought his mouth to her ear. “I do appreciate you in that dress. It screams ‘take me,’ mia cara. Too bad we are still learning to communicate verbally. The timing is all off.”

      Fire licked up her spine. He pulled her closer, a possessive hand resting on her hip, his splayed fingers burning into her skin. A slow curl of heat unraveled inside of her. She’d enjoyed her dance with Marc—he was handsome by any woman’s standards and equally charismatic. But being in Lorenzo’s arms was a whole different story. Dancing with her husband was…electrifying.

      Her nerve endings sizzled as her hips brushed against his muscular thighs, erotic tension in every muscle. The masculine warmth of him bled into her, heating her blood, weakening her knees. She took a deep breath to center herself, but it was his dark, delicious scent that filled her head, heightening her confusion.

      She stepped back, putting some distance between them, heart thudding in her chest. His ebony eyes glittered with a banked heat, moving over her face in a silent study. “Thank you for offering to design the piece for Penny. You didn’t have to do that.”

      “It’s fine.” The husky edge to her voice made her wince. You hate him, remember? He had just turned her life upside down.

      “Perhaps we will make that superior team,” he suggested on a speculative note, eyes holding hers. “If you manage to move past that anger you’re holding so tightly to.”

      Her gaze dropped away from his. She focused on the other guests, sticking determinedly to her vow to keep her shields bulletproof when it came to her husband.

      A high-pitched laugh stole her attention. The blood in her veins turned to ice. Whipping her head around, she found her mother in the crowd, talking to a well-known society columnist, a glass of champagne in her hand. Oh, no! She’d found someone to enable her.

      Panicked, she scanned the crowd for her sister. Abigail was all the way across the terrace in a group of people. She looked back at her mother, champagne sloshing from her glass as she laughed at something the columnist had said. It was not her first drink.

      “Your mother is in fine form,” Lorenzo said mildly.

      Her brain frozen, she just stared at him. When the music ended, she slipped out of his arms. “Keep socializing,” she said, nodding at Marc. “Abigail’s just waved for me to go meet someone.”

      He frowned at her. “Are you okay?”

      “Perfect. Back in a minute.” With as blasé a smile as she could manage, she set off through the crowd. Approaching the group her sister was in the middle of, she caught her eye. Abigail disentangled herself and came over. “You okay?”

      “It’s Mother. She has a glass of champagne in her hand. It’s not her first.”

      Abigail frowned. “I’ve been watching her all night. She’s been drinking sparkling water.”

      “She found someone to enable her.” Angie’s stomach lurched. “She’s talking to Courtney Price, Abby.”

      Her sister’s face grayed. Leading the way, Abigail wound her way through the crowd, Angie on her heels. Her mother had drained the champagne and procured another glass by the time they reached her. Her loud voice penetrated the din of the crowd, drawing glances from those around her. Angie’s heart plummeted.

      “You grab her,” Abigail muttered. “Get her out of here. I’ll do damage control.”

      Angie nodded. Heart in her mouth, she headed toward her glassy-eyed mother. Her mother glared at her. “Oh, look!” she declared in that far too loud tone. “My daughters are here to cut me off before I say something I shouldn’t. I haven’t, have I, Courtney? We’re just having a nice conversation.”

      Courtney Price had a half fascinated, half horrified look on her face. Brilliant column fodder. Angie reached for her mother’s arm. “Actually I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

      Her mother yanked back her arm. The force of the movement sent the champagne flying from her glass, splattering the dress of the woman beside her. Paralyzed, Angie stared at the silk dress, then lifted her gaze to the woman’s bemused face. She was the wife of one of Lorenzo’s business acquaintances.

       Oh, hell.

      Gasps rang out around her. The shocked sounds spurred her into action. Grabbing her mother by the arm, she propelled her through the crowd, people gawking at them as they went. Angry and humiliated, her mother kept up a verbal barrage the whole way.

      “It was your fault that happened, hauling me out of there like that.”

      Angie kept her mouth shut. Nodding her thanks at the butler who opened the patio door for them, she marched her mother inside and up the stairs toward her parents’ suite, keeping her mother’s weaving steps on course. Where the hell was her father? Somehow this just never seemed to be his job.

      Guiding her mother inside her suite, she flicked on the light. Her mother stared at her belligerently, hands on her hips. “All I wanted was to have some fun,” she said, her speech slurred. “All I wanted was to be happy tonight, Angelina. But you won’t even give me that.”

      A lump formed in her throat. “You’re an alcoholic, Mother. You can’t drink. Ever.”

      “I am fine.” Her mother put her arms out as she lost her balance and weaved to the side. “I would have been fine. I only had a couple of drinks.”

      A lie. Angie had heard so many of them, about the drinking, about the pills, about every secret her mother had wanted to hide—it had become her normal state of being.

      Her mother headed toward the bar in the lounge. Threw open the door of the fridge. “There’s nothing in there,” Angie said quietly, stomach churning. “You need to go back for treatment, Mother. You know that.”

      Her mother swung around. Fear pierced her hazel eyes. “I told Abigail I won’t go back there. Ever. Never again.”

      “You need help. Professional help.”