Page 12 of Hidden Heir, Italian Wife

After dinner, he watched football with his father, then patiently allowed his mother to brush invisible lint from the lapel of his jacket the following morning.

“Christo will be here tonight. Remind Nico to come for dinner.” She plucked to ensure his sage-green pocket square was exactly one quarter of an inch from the edge of his pocket. Her gaze swept down his black shirt and cream-colored trousers, all the way to his black loafers, ensuring there were no imperfections.

A Visconti was nothing if not well-dressed. Jackson happened to agree with her on that.

“I invited Eve and Dom. They have plans with his sister. Will you take these proofs to her? They’re for the place settings and the reception program. I need to tell the printers today if she wants to go ahead.” She picked up an envelope from the table in the foyer.

“We have this new thing called texting, Mom. You take a photo and send it.”

“We also have couriers, which is how these came to me yesterday. Be mine today since you’ll see her anyway.” She offered the envelope. “This process has been so rushed. I hope when you boys marry, you’ll give me more notice.”

He took the envelope without speaking.

Her smooth expression grew contrite. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“I know.”

She wasn’t deliberately reminding him of his broken engagement. At the time, she and Romeo had thought he was too young to marry anyway, insisting he wait at least a year. None of them had expected a breakup that would turn so ugly.

“You’ll like Tabitha,” she said, mentioning his date for the party. “She’s very bright, educated in Paris, spent time in Tuscany and loves Italy. I’ve known her mother for years. Her parents were already coming, so this works out well. I’ve seated you with them so you can get to know them as well.”

He ignored the twist of resistance in him and the sensation of a rope dragging him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

“I’ll see you tonight.” He kissed her cheek and left.

Twenty minutes later, he entered the Visconti Group building and would have been waved through, but he paused to ask Security, “Do you know if my sister is here yet?”

“She’s on twenty-eight, sir.”

“Thanks.” He was glad for the excuse to check in with Eve away from the rest of the family. Away from her husband.

He would die for any of his siblings, but Eve had always been the one he was closest to. While she’d been at school in Switzerland, she had often stayed with him in Naples, rather than flying home for long weekends. She had never made him talk about what had happened with Paloma, but had always been available if he wanted to.

That’s why her Peter Pan comment had landed so hard on him. He couldn’t have known how badly things would turn out with Paloma, but that was no excuse for making her carry the load where marriage and the family legacy were concerned. If he’d taken action sooner, she wouldn’t be married to Blackwood.

He should have crushed Blackwood when he had the chance, instead of getting his rocks off. God, he hated himself for that negligence.

Nothing like it would happen again. He might have given in to his libido to the detriment of his responsibilities once, but he was past puerile self-indulgence now.

Case in point, the receptionist on this floor offered him a starry-eyed look and sweetly offered to escort him to the boardroom where Eve was conducting a meeting.

“I can see the door,” he said drily.

He ignored the stares as he walked through the bullpen of cubicles and peered over the stripe of frost on the boardroom’s glass walls. Eve was at the far end, circling something on a smart whiteboard. A half dozen people were at the table, faces turned toward her as they listened attentively.

He knocked and entered.

“Jax!” Eve beamed with surprised pleasure. “My brother, Jackson, everyone. He runs Visconti’s Euro division.”

“Excuse the interruption.” He sent a polite nod to the half dozen faces that swiveled to face him. “Our mother—”

Bree.The sight of her punched the breath clean out of him.

She was far more beautiful than he had allowed himself to remember. She wore a navy blazer over a turquoise-colored top that brought out her startling eyes and made her golden complexion glow. Her russet brown hair fell in a silky curtain to her jaw, framing fine-boned features while giving her a chic, businesslike air.

Was she thinner? Or were her cheeks hollow because she was slack-jawed with shock?

He was taken aback himself. By the sight of her and by the weight of desire that landed in his gut like a comet hitting the ground.

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