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Shocked, Hallie stared at him. With a cold smile, he took a sip of his drink, then looked up as the waiter arrived and, in both Italian and English, listed the five choices on the evening’s menu.
Cristiano ordered the veal, Hallie the spaghetti alla vongole—pasta with clams in a light wine sauce. She added, “And could I get that with lots of Parmesan cheese, please?”
Both Cristiano and the waiter stared at her with identical horrified expressions.
“Clams...seafood...these you should not eat with cheese,” the waiter said patiently, as if explaining to a toddler she shouldn’t run into traffic.
Hallie smiled, but held her ground. “I still like them.”
“But it is not done!” The waiter looked at Cristiano for support, but he just shrugged, as if to say, Americans, what can you do?
When the pasta arrived, Hallie covered it with Parmesan and thought it was delicious. She washed it all down with a glass of red wine, causing another shocked gasp from the waiter, at the thought that she’d drink red wine with seafood, not white. Hallie decided that maybe she enjoyed shocking people, because she didn’t care.
As the evening lengthened, a pleasurable sensation seeped into her bones. Maybe it was the delicious dinner or the sensual wind against her bare skin. Maybe it was the fragrance of the flowers or sitting with Cristiano amid a fifth-century ruin beneath the starry sky. But she felt strangely like she was in a dream.
“When are we going back to New York?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.” Cristiano watched her. “After I’m done in Rome, I’ll need to go to the Amalfi Coast for a few weeks to oversee the
finishing touches on the new hotel opening in Cavello. The grand opening gala is next month.”
She brightened. “I’ve always wanted to see the Amalfi Coast.”
“You and the baby will remain in Rome. I’ll commute via helicopter.”
“What? Why?” she said, dismayed. More weeks spent cooped up in the penthouse, afraid to go out alone on the streets of Rome didn’t sound appealing. A prison was a prison, no matter how luxurious. “That’s not what the rules say. What about our family time?”
“Rules are made to be broken.”
“Not my rules. You gave your word.”
He ground his teeth. “I cannot bring you with me. The Campania Cavello isn’t yet ready for guests, and I can hardly let it be known that Cristiano Moretti’s bride is staying in a rival’s hotel.”
“That would be bad,” she agreed. She looked down at her empty plate. “Still, you must find a way,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t want to be separated from you.”
“You won’t be.” His leg brushed hers beneath the table, and she looked up. The air between them changed.
Sitting across from Cristiano in the sexy black dress, defying the tattooed Italian waiter and even her own husband to enjoy her meal exactly as she pleased, Hallie realized she wasn’t the same shy girl she’d once been. She felt stronger. Braver.
Becoming Cristiano’s wife, living in Rome, wearing this sexy dress, with dark eyeliner and bright red lips, she felt bolder somehow. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt powerful. Like his equal.
Maybe that was what gave her the courage.
“I need to know when we can go back to New York and buy our own house.”
Taking a bite of veal, he frowned at her. “We have twenty-two houses.”
She blinked, taken aback. “You mean your hotels?”
“Yes.” He swirled his wineglass. “The hotels. All of them fully staffed in the most beautiful locations. The perfect way to live. We never need to settle. We’ll never get bored. And I can run my company and build my empire.”
“Your hotels are amazing, but...” How could she say it? “They’re not home.”
“A home, a home,” he repeated irritably. “I’m tired of hearing you ask about it.”
She looked at him in surprise. “I’ve barely mentioned it.”
“For days now, all the lullabies you sing to Jack have been about finding home and losing home and longing for home.”
