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If my father knew I was even contemplating this, he’d ban me from ever leaving the mansion again.
Antonio captures my hand, reading the distrust on my face. No longer waiting for an invite, he leads me inside. He releases me, slams the door shut, and locks it behind us.
I bump his shoulder while closing the curtains to show my disdain of his rudeness. He takes three long strides across the room to the bed, sitting and spreading his legs wide, hanging his hands between them.
Our gazes instantly collide.
His eyes are a wicked storm.
Laser-sharp.
Pitch-dark.
Piercing me.
Antonio is a hurricane.
And I’m the victim, ignoring every warning.
I abandon our eye contact to drink him in.
He’s swapped his normal business suit for a crisp black shirt and relaxed black trousers. The epitome of an Italian heart-stopper.
I finally break our silence. “Where are you staying?”
“I have family about an hour from here.”
“Did you travel alone?”
“To your aunt’s?”
“To Italy.”
“I brought my daughter, her nanny, and one of my men.”
I backtrack a step, blindsided. “You have a daughter?”
It takes him a moment before he nods, and regret floods his face. His expression mirrors my father’s when someone mentions me. The fewer details others know about their daughters, the better.
I lower my eyes to his hand. No ring. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t married. Plenty of men have no problem slipping off their rings when away from their wives.
Because, we all know, seven out of ten single men are married.
“I’m not married, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Antonio assures.
“That’s what they all say.”
I allowed a married man to go downtown on me.
Let’s just add home-wrecker to my résumé.
My mouth turns dry, making it hard to speak. “If there’re children, there’s always a wife.”
Divorce is practically illegal in this world. A woman leaving her husband is frowned upon. She’s shunned and considered a wife unable to please her husband. Some even choose suicide over divorce, fearing public scorn more than death. It’s sad, honestly.
Antonio rubs his temples with his knuckles. “I was married.”
I rack my brain for recollection of hearing about his marriage, but nothing. “Where is your wife now?”
