Chapter Thirteen
The sleek black chauffeur-driven Bentley pulled up to the entrance of the Mayfair Grand DiCarlo, its golden lights spilling onto the rain-slicked pavement. London glowed, festive and alive, twinkling in the drizzle.
Inside the car, Mimi sat frozen, her fingers curled around the cold glass of her award.
She had won.
Best Documentary.
She should have been elated. She should have been riding the high of the applause, the champagne toasts, the congratulations. And yet all she could think about was him.
The moment they announced her name, the small banquet hall had erupted.
Thunderous waves of applause had rolled over her, shaking the air, stealing her breath. Strangers had stood for her. Her peers and friends and her parents had cheered.
It was a small achievement in a small career, but she was proud of herself. Because her best work had come when she had persevered through the roughest year of her life.
And yet she wasn’t…happy.
She felt as if she were bodily present but absent in spirit, as if she were playacting in someone else’s life. It had been the same in the last week since she had left Venice.
Because the only person she had wanted to share her achievement and her joy with wasn’t there.
Renzo wasn’t there.
It had been his voice in her ear in those fractious weeks when Luca was still at the hospital.
Asking her to tell him about her latest project.
Then, low and certain, urging her to apply for the award when she’d nearly talked herself out of it.
When she’d sat at her laptop, doubting every word of the essay she’d written for the application, wondering if the documentary she’d worked on during her pregnancy was too bleak, it had been his belief in her passion that had made her press Send.
You’re not just talented, cara, but hold a unique perspective. Let the world see it.
She had ached to turn to him, to see his face in the crowd, to rush into his arms and hear that deep, gravelly voice in her ear again. To hear him call her his clever, competent, sexy-as-sin wife again. To see the glimmer of pride in his eyes.
But he hadn’t been there.
And in the days since she had left, he hadn’t called her even once. Their nanny made sure he chatted with Luca every morning and evening.
Her chest twisted in a tight, painful knot when she heard the deep lilt of his Italian as he greeted their son. Her soul ached to lay eyes on him. She had resisted.
And yet when she’d accepted the award and looked into the glare of flashbulbs and cameras in the crowd, for just a second, she’d thought she’d seen him.
Tall, unmistakably handsome, watching her with that quiet, unreadable intensity that always made her pulse skitter.
She had felt it in how her nape prickled, how her body sang. She had felt him close.
But when she had stepped off the stage, searching, there had been no sign of him. Of course, Renzo wasn’t there.
It was just another trick of her own foolish mind, another cruel mirage her hopeless love offered to soothe her.
God, she was going mad. Seeing him in places he wasn’t, hearing his voice in echoes that didn’t exist.
The driver cleared his throat, and she realized the car had stopped.
Right. The hotel.
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. And while every inch of her wanted to hide under a weighted blanket and not emerge until the New Year’s, this was her son’s first Christmas.
She owed it to him, and herself, to celebrate their togetherness, to start new traditions. She had lost too much recently to not see what she did have. Even if her heart felt like it was dented in a hundred places.
The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp pavement and expensive perfume. Heels clicking against the marble, she stepped into the grand lobby, only to come to a sudden standstill. Her breath danced in her throat, almost choking her.
Was that Massimo stepping out of the grand elevator? Or was her mind creating mirages again?
With that long-limbed stride and easy laughter, his gaze caught on the phone in his hand, he strolled out the other exit, utterly at ease.
If he was here, why hadn’t he contacted her? Why was he in London at all? It wasn’t as though their mother would let him out of her sight during the holiday season. Only Renzo could convince her to let him travel with him…
The realization hit her like a blow to the chest.
That meant Renzo was here in London. It was her husband she’d seen at the awards ceremony. He had been present in the audience, hiding in the shadows, but hadn’t shown himself.
How dare he hide away like a thief? How dare he play with her feelings?
A host of emotions crashed over her, all hot and sharp and unbearable.
Anger. Longing. Heartbreak.
Anger won out, propelling her forward. Her pulse thundered as she pivoted toward the front desk, jaw tight.
“Hi, I have a question,” she said, voice sharp.
The receptionist barely looked up before reaching under the counter.
“Good evening, Mrs. DiCarlo. Did you need a new key card?” His voice was smooth, professional, with the polite indifference of someone who dealt with VIPs daily.
He simply slid a key card across the marble counter as if this was routine.
Mimi’s breath caught.
Mrs. DiCarlo.
Because the poor man assumed that she would know her goddamned husband was already here. At his own hotel.
Her hands trembled as she took the smooth white keycard, her blood boiling now.
The private elevator ride felt both too slow and too fast. Matching the uneven rhythm of her own heartbeats.
She pushed it open, stepping into the darkened expanse. The only light came from the city skyline, gleaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room smelled clean, expensive, undeniably like her arrogant, suave Italian husband.
Her pulse went haywire as she finally spotted him.
Standing by the window, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn’t seem surprised that she was standing there.
“You were at the gala, weren’t you?” she demanded without preamble.
“Buonasera, cara.”
The whiskey-deep timbre of his voice made her knees shake. “Answer my question, Renzo.”
“Yes, I was there.” He didn’t turn to look at her, though. Instead, he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, exhaling slowly. As if he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. “Congratulations, bella. You were glowing up there. That quick speech you gave…everyone could hear your passion for what you do.”
“What the hell kind of a game are you playing, Renzo? How long have you been in London?” Her voice cracked with betrayal. “You’re toying with me, with my feelings.”
Finally, he looked at her. His dark eyes were unreadable, and tension radiated from him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Not today, not before.”
She took a step closer, her heart slamming against her ribs. “So what? You were spying on me?”
“For what reason?” A flash of anger broke through the surface.
Mimi welcomed it. She hated it when he looked…tired. Or burnt out. Or as if he was losing a battle. Which was exactly how he had looked that night in their bedroom.
Ten odd days of distance from him, from her own confused thoughts, gave her crystal-clear clarity.
There had been a kind of resignation when he talked about his family, but there had been acceptance too.
Like setting down a burden that he had carried for so long.
So, his unhappiness had been because of her?
Because of where they stood with each other?
Should she have had more patience, more courage and faith in their relationship? In him and herself?
He’d even taunted that she was running away again. But she hadn’t paid attention, miserable in her love for him. How had she not even told him? How had she failed herself without even trying?
“I didn’t want to ruin your moment,” he said, bringing her to the present. “I didn’t want to make it about us.”
“Ruin it?” Her voice broke. And her self-control lay in shreds at her feet, knowing that it was her own fault for not verbalizing what she needed from him. For failing him and herself both. “Renzo, you being there was the only thing that would have made it feel real.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he said nothing.
She swallowed hard. “Why did you come? Why not tell me that you’re here? Why…”
His eyes flickered, something raw passing through them. The intensity of it stole her anger and her words. “Because I’m a coward who’s still trying to figure out how to tell you that I’m in love with you, bella.”
The breath whooshed from her lungs, and she swayed on her feet, the entire day catching up with her.
Renzo set his glass down with a thud and caught her.
Renzo kicked the door of the bedroom shut behind him with a kick. Not that anyone from the staff would dare disturb them. But with Massimo around, he didn’t want to take any chances.
He gently deposited Mimi on the bed and sat down by her side.
Like a prickly cat, she pushed away from his hold and scooted up to sit against the tufted headboard.
The hem of the pink silk dress she wore bunched up against her knees and higher, exposing long, smooth limbs to his greedy eyes.
The sweetheart neckline fought against the heaving thrust of her breasts, revealing the upper swells.
He gritted his teeth—it was hardly the time for him to drool over her—and met her gaze.
Color dusted her cheeks. Her hair, smooth and silky like a rainfall in the pitch-black of the night, danced around her bare shoulders. She looked…so beautiful that it was an ache to look at her and not touch her.
“Did you…” she licked her lower lip nervously “…say what I thought I heard?”
He nodded.
Tears filled her big brown eyes, overflowing instantly. “You’re not playing with me?”
It cleaved him to see her so hurt, so disbelieving. “I’ve never said anything to you that I didn’t mean, bella.”
“But all those gifts…”