The Delicious De Campos: The Divorce Party. Jennifer HaywardЧитать онлайн книгу.
just a very wonderful outcome of this decision.”
But she would. She would do anything it took to make Lisbeth well.
* * *
Riccardo came to pick her up at six. “You still don’t look good,” he said bluntly as she slid into his beast of a car.
She shrugged and pulled her seatbelt on. “You know what my migraines are like. It takes me a few days to get over one.”
He put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic, the low-slung powerful machine reminding her of the man himself. Smooth, dangerous.
He flicked her a glance. “I’d forgotten just how bad they get.”
She wondered if he’d done what she had. Used any method available to wipe her head clean of him—finding it impossible on so many levels.
Don’t fool yourself, Lil. Riccardo wasn’t the type to pine for anyone. Especially the woman who’d walked out on him.
Which begged the question: why hadn’t he had other women over the past year? If she was to believe the highly sexed man she’d married was capable of celibacy, the question was why had he chosen it? Riccardo loved women. He lived for the contrast. Hard versus soft. Rational versus emotional. And with his superstar racing background they were like a feast that had been put on this earth for him to enjoy in endless supply.
She had fooled herself that she could be the only one for him.
She twisted her hands together in her lap and stared sightlessly out the window. They drove in a tense silence until he passed her street.
“What about my apartment? I need to get my stuff.”
“I sent Mrs. Collins over to pick it up.”
Her jaw dropped. He’d had Magda go through her stuff? Sift through the very fiber of her personal life?
“Stop the car.”
He frowned over at her. “Lilly, it was—”
“Stop the car.”
He swore under his breath and pulled to the curb. “It was the efficient way to get it done.”
“Efficient?” she demanded, her voice shaking with anger. “You violated my privacy. My God, how did you even get in to my apartment?”
“I was the one who had the locks installed for you. You’re overreacting, Lilly.”
She clenched her hands in her lap for fear she might slap his handsome face. He’d pretended to be worried about the dismal state of the locks on her front door and had insisted on having them changed and a deadbolt added. She’d been grateful at the time, because in New York a solid set of locks was never a bad idea. But really it had just been another of his attempts to control her.
“You did that so you could spy on me,” she hissed, pressing her head back against the seat. “How could I be so stu—”
“Stop.” His eyes blazed into hers. His bronzed skin was pulled taut across his cheekbones. “You know I have security on you. You are still my wife and, like it or not, there are people out there who itch to get their hands on you. But I have never, ever spied on you.”
“You knew about Harry.”
“I saw you with Harry. You were eating at Nevaros the same night I was.”
“You didn’t introduce yourself.”
“And say what? How do you find my wife in bed? What would you rate her out of ten?”
Her breath caught in her throat. “This is not going to work.”
“You agreed to the bargain. You’re my wife for the next six months. Deal with it.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her palms against her thighs, forcing herself to take deep breaths. If she was to survive the next six months without having to go into emotional rehab she was going to have to learn to control her emotions.
She turned her gaze on him—defiant hazel on arrogant black. “Ground rule number one. You don’t ever go into my apartment again without my permission and you do not enable someone to go through my personal possessions.”
He nodded. “Bene.”
Shocked at how easily he’d acquiesced, she kept going. “I want to go to my apartment now.”
“Why?”
“Because I doubt Mrs. Collins packed my book. Or brought my two violets with her. And there’s a few things I don’t want hanging around.”
“Like the sex toys you use with Harry?” he taunted.
“Why, yes. Harry knows how to keep things interesting.”
He froze.
Her fingers curled around the door handle.
In a lightning-fast movement his hand slammed down on top of hers. “You know what a comment like that does to a guy like me, Lilly. Are you looking for me to up the ante? Because I can assure you Taylor doesn’t make you scream like I do.”
Lilly slunk back in her seat, her heart hammering in her chest.
He lifted his hand away from hers and returned it to the wheel. “Choose your fights carefully, tesoro. You know how many times you’ve won.”
Never. She never won against Riccardo because he was too strong, too smart, and he knew her too well ever to let it happen.
They didn’t speak during their brief stopover at her apartment, nor on the drive to the house.
Magda enveloped her in a warm hug when they walked through the door and told them dinner was ready when they were. Lilly went upstairs to change.
Riccardo was waiting for her in the small, private dining room when she came down. Magda had closed the doors to the terrace as the chill of the early May evening set in, and lit candles on the table in the warm dark-floored room with its elegant white wainscoting and glowing sconces. For a moment she stood standing in the entranceway, a sharp little pain tugging at her insides. She had been so desperate for her husband’s attention in the latter days of their marriage that all she had dreamed about was coming home to a meal like this with him.
She took him in as he opened a bottle of wine, his muscular forearms flexing in the candlelight as he worked the cork out of the bottle. He hadn’t bothered to change, but had taken off his suit jacket and tie and rolled his shirtsleeves up. In charcoal-gray trousers and white shirt he looked better than any man had a right to look. They molded his leanly muscular body into a work of art. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip. Women actually stopped in the street to stare at her husband. He was just that good-looking. In the beginning she hadn’t minded, because she’d known she had him and they didn’t.
In the end it had been crucifying.
Her gaze slid up to his face. He was watching her, the bottle in his hands, his dark eyes seeming to reach inside of her and read her every emotion. She shifted her weight to the other foot and stood her ground. Six-foot-four and broad-shouldered, he made the room seem stiflingly small.
He’d always been vastly intimidating. Except when he’d been naked beneath her. Those times she had been in control—her thighs straddling all that golden muscular flesh, his taut, powerful body beneath her tense, begging her for the release that had always bordered on the spiritual with them.
A glint entered his dark eyes. Her lashes swept down over hers. What in God’s name was she doing?
“Rule number two, cara,” he murmured. “No looking at me like that unless you intend to follow through with it.”
Wildfire raced to her cheeks. Dammit. She walked jerkily across to him and took the glass of wine he’d poured.
Magda came in with their salads, her round face beaming. “How nice to see the two of you sitting down to a meal