Page 11 of The Convenient Cosentino Wife

“And I’m a problem?” he asked softly.

She visibly stiffened. “It wasn’t my intention to imply such a thing. It’s that...you know...we had a complicated relationship, and even though we want the best for Adriano, we’re still virtually strangers. We knew of each other, but we didn’t know each other, if that makes sense.”

“It does.”

He joined her on the small balcony and glanced over the railing to the terrace below. His suite of rooms in this wing faced the ocean, but below were gardens, extensive gardens from the look of it. Immediately below was a tidy ornamental garden with fountains and gravel paths, marked with boxwoods in fanciful shapes. There were other gardens beyond, paths curving around the villa walls, leading to secret gardens and a cluster of gnarled olive trees in the distance. “The gardens are so impressive,” he said, “I thought I’d go for a walk, but wasn’t sure what time you serve dinner here.”

“There really isn’t a set dinner hour. With Adriano, I tend to be informal. He eats very early and in summer we’ve been eating outside, alfresco, or if he’s tired, in his nursery. It’s a gorgeous suite of rooms—possibly my favorite in the house.”

“So we’ll eat with him tonight?” Rocco asked.

She hesitated. “Probably not tonight. But you’ll see him in the morning at breakfast, if you’re an early riser, as he is.”

“Why not tonight?”

“He’s in bed usually by seven. He eats at five thirty, has a bath and stories. It’s five now. If you’d like to eat soon I could make arrangements—”

“That is indeed early,” he interrupted with a grimace. “Breakfast would be better.”

He could tell she was fighting a smile. “So what time would you like to eat? Eight, nine, later?”

“What is best for you?”

“I’d prefer eight, as I’ll probably return to my office after dinner.”

“Do you work every night?”

Her eyes narrowed and she looked at him, as if trying to understand if there was an ulterior reason for the question. “Once Adriano is in bed, I will read, or work. I like to keep my mind busy, and I find work very satisfying. But then, I imagine you feel the same way. The Cosentino family has an extensive portfolio of investments.”

“And I am the only Cosentino left. Well, until now.”

“That must be a relief,” she said.

She had no idea. Adriano changed everything, in more ways than one. “Dinner at eight,” he said, content to leave it at that.

“I will alert the kitchen,” Clare answered. “Oh, and dinner will be informal. I suggest you wear something comfortable, that is, if your bag has arrived.”

“It should be here within the hour,” he said.

“Perfect.”

He walked her to the door, and as she joined Gio in the hallway, she paused and glanced back at Rocco, her gaze meeting his. For a long moment she just looked at him, truly looked at him, before turning and walking away.

What had that long look meant?

What had she been trying to see?

Rocco slowly closed the door, but he could still see her lovely face with those lovely lips and haunting violet eyes.

Her eyes did haunt him, as did the memory of the past. She was right when she’d said they had a complicated past. Their history wasn’t pleasant, and he was the one who’d made it impossible, he was the one who’d made it difficult and she didn’t even know why. He knew, but he could never tell her. He wouldn’t. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of the truth, tormented by guilt.

But with her gone, and the heavy door closed, he felt trapped, and angry. He didn’t even know why he was angry only that he suddenly wanted to hit something, break something, even though he never physically lashed out. He always held emotions in. He always bottled them up, reducing those emotions until they could be ignored, forgotten.

But the emotions were bubbling up, just as the past wasn’t sleeping, either. Everything seemed to have broken free, history mocking him for being an ass. Selfish. Destructive.

Rocco paced the length of the room again, as caged as a big cat in a small zoo enclosure. He couldn’t do this, be here in Clare’s home, pretending. Pretending he wasn’t responsible for the rift between them. Pretending she was the problem, or had been the problem. Clare hadn’t been anything but Clare...polite, curious, reserved and hopelessly beautiful.

He stopped pacing and drew a slow breath, trying to get a handle on the anger. He needed fresh air and perspective. He could get both, but he had to walk, move, clear his head.

---