Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

able to do it.

      He tilted her chin up with his fingers. “We decide where this goes. But you have to commit. You have to trust. You have to believe we can do this.”

      “I do,” she said quietly. “But we need to take it slow.”

      That wicked gleam in his eyes reappeared. “What do you think I’m doing?”

      She didn’t protest when he slid his palm to the nape of her neck and brought her back to him, his beautiful mouth claiming hers. Delivered on the leisurely, sensual make-out session he’d promised until her toes curled with pleasure. Full of heat and oh, so much promise, sweetness and play devolved into a deeper, fiery need.

      She opened to his demand, his tongue stroking and licking while his hands kept her in place for his delectation. She curled her fingers in his hair, sighed his name and pulled him closer still. It had been too long, far too long since he’d touched her like this. It was like returning to heaven—a most dangerous paradise, she knew, but she couldn’t deny she wanted it…wanted to revel in it.

      Her husband shifted beneath her, his highly aroused body brushing against her thighs. Shock waves coursed through her nerve endings, lighting her on fire.

      He lifted his mouth from hers, a wry smile curving his mouth. “This would be where the make-out session ends and something else entirely begins. Unless,” he drawled, “you’ve changed your mind?”

      Heat claimed her cheeks. All it would take was one more kiss, one sign from her she was ready and she could have him. But unleashing that kind of intimacy with her husband would bring all her walls tumbling down—it always had. And she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

      “I can wait,” he murmured, tracing a knuckle down her cheek. “But be prepared, Angelina. When this does happen, one tame roll in that bed in there will not be enough.”

       Chapter Eight

      ANGIE SPENT THE following week immersed in a flurry of activity leading up to Alexander’s show. Likely a good thing given the confusing mixture of anticipation and apprehension engulfing her at the evolution of her and Lorenzo’s relationship.

      Their sizzling encounter in the hot tub had proven she was still as susceptible as ever to his expertly executed seductions, but had done nothing to illustrate they could make their marriage work. That they were going to have to prove in the days ahead.

      Her husband, true to his word, was giving her the time she’d asked for. Not that he hadn’t kept up a slow and steady campaign to put his hands on her whenever he could find an excuse to do so. She’d been so distracted at yesterday’s rehearsal thinking about it, Alexander had had to ask her a question three times.

      Determined to keep her focus, she’d buried herself in a couple of last-minute fixes to tailor her pieces for a model being substituted into the original lineup, keeping her mind firmly off her husband. Before she knew it, it was 7:00 p.m. on the night of the show, the lights had dimmed in the high-ceilinged Skylight Modern space, one of the premium, architecturally perfect Fashion Week venues, and Alexander’s first model had begun her walk down the spotlit runway.

      Anticipation built as one model after the next, with a few supermodels thrown in for good measure, strutted their stuff, showcasing the collection the critics said would catapult Alexander to the top of the design world this season. The buzz and applause was electric as her friend’s brilliance shone, his pieces the perfect backdrop for her jewelry.

      It seemed like only a few minutes had passed instead of an hour before the show was drawing to an end.

      Her blood fizzled in her veins as Astrid Johansson, the world’s current it girl, stood spotlighted at the end of the runway to wrap the show, Angie’s ruby necklace glittering against her alabaster skin. A shiver chased up her spine. It was perfect, a marriage made in heaven the way the necklace framed the square neckline of the sleek, avant-garde dress.

      Lorenzo leaned down from his position beside her in the front row, bringing his mouth to her ear. “The highest paid model in the world wearing your jewelry. How does it feel?”

      “Amazing.” And her husband looked equally stunning in a charcoal-gray Faggini suit, his swarthy coloring set off perfectly by the light blue shirt he wore beneath it. She’d seen more than one of the models eye him as they’d walked by, eating him up with their confident gazes.

      Astrid made her final pass down the runway, returning hand in hand with Alexander as the music died away and the lights came up, her fellow models falling into place behind them. Cheers and applause greeted the designer, who took it all in with a big smile on his expressive face.

      She was shocked when he beckoned to her, motioning for her to join him. Oh, no, she couldn’t.

      Lorenzo gave her a gentle shove. “Go. Have your moment.”

      She found herself moving forward on legs that felt like jelly. Taking Alexander’s hand, she followed him into the spotlight. The designer turned to her, gave a little bow and clapped his hands. Her chest swelled with happiness, a hot warmth stinging the backs of her eyes as the audience applauded. Her jewelry had been her light in the darkness when everything else had been falling apart. She would never be able to express what it meant to her. She only knew in that moment, it felt as if a piece of her was sliding into place.

      She gave Alexander a kiss on the cheek, stood back and returned the applause. The lights went down. Alexander pulled her backstage for interviews with the media while Lorenzo and his mother went to enjoy a cocktail. She had expected only a smattering of media would be interested in speaking to her in the shadow of Alexander’s presence. She was shocked when a handful of them chose to interview her, too.

      She did a couple of broadcast interviews for television, then something with a leading newspaper’s style section. Surprisingly, the media’s focus remained mostly on her jewelry rather than on her lineage, the critics giving her collection an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

      She was pretty much floating on air by the time Alexander hooked an arm through hers, propelled her into the crowd at the after-party and introduced her to the designers, fashion editors, models and actors starring in his next spring ad campaign, forging so many valuable connections it made her head spin.

      An impenetrable glow filled her. Her career was skyrocketing, her marriage on the mend. It felt as if anything was possible.

      Lorenzo watched his wife shine, her bubbly, animated demeanor taking him back to that night in Nassau when she’d transfixed him like the brightest star in the sky. The haunting, mysterious Northern Lights had had nothing on his wife that night as she’d flashed those baby blues at him, silky long lashes brushing her cheeks in a coquettish look she hadn’t quite mastered, and asked him if he was going to brood all night or dance with her instead.

      But even then, he realized, underneath all that sultry confidence and gutsy bravado, there had been a vulnerability to the woman in his arms, a sadness he hadn’t quite been able to put a finger on—a knowledge beyond her years.

      He had connected to that, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. They had both been looking to escape their pain that night, he from his memories, Angelina from the inexplicably complex relationships that had formed her world. What they had found had been so powerful that for a while they had.

      She caught him staring. Smiled. It was a blindingly bright smile that did something crazy to his heart. He had denied her this, the chance to be this shining light. To prove she was more than the sum of her parts. It was a mistake he refused to let haunt him.

      He saw her say something to Alexander, nod at the woman they were speaking to and slip away, her long strides eating up the distance between them.

      “Did your mother leave?”