The questions came at her fast, nearly knocking her off her feet.
She turned to demand he tell her the truth. And stilled.
He’d shrugged off his shirt, and the light from the overhead chandelier kissed every plane and ridge of his chest.
Even now, Mimi felt that near-manic urge to throw herself at him—to claw her fingers over that olive skin stretched taut over hard sinew, to lose herself in his rough, biting kiss, to urge him to bury himself inside her until all her doubts melted away.
Because when they were tangled up in each other’s arms, there was no doubt that he wanted her in his life. That he wanted her. It was outside of the intimacy that she lost all her footing.
Now that she could see past her own misery, though, she noted the tension clamping his shoulders. “What’s wrong? Is it Massimo? Is he in trouble again?”
A soft smile split his mouth. “No, apparently you were right about him. He apologized for being so…out of control in the last few months. He said he missed Santo. Neither of us realized that we should talk to each other about how much we miss our older brother.”
“You have a thousand responsibilities to shoulder,” she said, instantly coming to his defense. “What’s his excuse?”
“You’re a witch,bella. Because Massimo did have one.” He unbuckled his trousers, pushed them off his tapered hips along with his boxer shorts. Utterly confident in his body. Utterly magnificent in his nakedness.
Then he pulled on gray sweatpants, and Mimi forced herself to focus. “Which is what?”
“Apparently, he has always been intimidated by me.”
“Oh. That’s not…impossible. You are a man with ruthless, exacting standards in every aspect of life, Renzo. Mere mortals could find it hard to please you.”
“You’ve never failed,bella.”
Mimi flushed, her skin nearly vibrating with the need to go to him. “By those exacting standards, you allow me a lot of leeway. And honestly, it’s hard to read you, Renzo.”
“Not for you,” he retorted again.
“Again, only so much as you allow me,” she said, busying herself with opening the new clothes she had ordered for Luca. “You very much control what I or anyone else perceives about you. You’re a damned master at it.”
She didn’t care look at him, but she knew her words had landed. For a while, he didn’t say anything. The expansive closet with its full-length mirrors and pristine marble floors suddenly felt too small and too cold to hold the tension crackling between them.
“So his not even trying to behave like a mature adult is valid because I have high standards?” Renzo sounded so aggravated by this, by her defense of Massimo, that Mimi stared at him. Something about his tone nagged at her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“No. I never said that. Massimo’s good at trying to get out of a fix even when he’s admitting that he’s messed up. He’s a charmer through and through. And honestly, with Santo so wrapped up in his own life and you buried in your business, I don’t blame him for feeling lost.”
“We should have had you there, refereeing our discussion.”
This time, his disgruntlement was as clear as the cold draft of air kissing her skin. Mimi grabbed an old sweatshirt of Renzo’s and pulled it on when he set that dark gaze on her.
“He pays attention to you,” Renzo said. “I think he has a little crush on you.”
Heat crept up her cheeks. “That’s…ridiculous. We share some interests. As much as you mock him, I think he’s serious about photography. You wanted him to change, Renzo. Give him a chance now.”
Gaze thoughtful, Renzo nodded.
“What about Chiara?” she said, knowing he needed to talk about his family. Only then could she address their own relationship. “Your mother has been visiting regularly, but she doesn’t mention Chiara. And neither do I,” Mimi admitted, suddenly feeling guilty. “I mean, I know I should try to make amends with her, but with Luca coming home and everything else, it’s just been a lot, and I…”
Renzo took her hands in his and squeezed. When Mimi thought he would pull her to him and wrap those strong arms around her—her entire being nearly ready to fling herself at him—he let go.
Hurt crashed through her, and suddenly it felt unbearable. Why did he touch her only in a sexual context? What happened to the Renzo who had teased her, made fun of her and provoked her? Why was he spending so much time away from her and Luca when he was the one who insisted on this marriage?
Had it all been to control the situation and her?
“I haven’t spoken to her either. I did pay off her husband’s debt, in case you thought I acted on my threat. Mama said they might be filing for divorce. Chiara has made her bed, though, and she needs to make a decision—whether she wants to lie in it or not.”
He paused and then raised a hand as if to stop her next question. Something like resignation settled into his stark features. “I’ve given up trying to manage their lives. If they get in trouble, I will help. But no more expectations that they will behave, that they will fix their mistakes, or that they will understand me.”
