Page 19 of His Brother's Wife
“And he didn’t mind?”
“No.” Inca looked at her steadily.
“So, you were sleeping with both of them …” Suddenly Ama got it and gave a shocked giggle. “Bothof them? At thesame time?”
Inca grinned. “Guilty. Are you shocked?”
Ama processed this new information. “No,” she said finally, “Not shocked. Definitely not judging you, either, just F.Y.I. Kind of …envious? I’d love to be that uninhibited.”
Inca looked relieved. “Eventually, it had to come to a choice though …and Tommaso knew that, although I did love him, it was Raffaelo who had my heart. And then I got stabbed, which kinda put a little of the wrong kind of kink in the relationship for a while,” she quipped, grinning, and Ama was amazed at her ability to joke about it.
“The thing with Enda and me …I was a virgin before him.”
“You were?”
Ama nodded. “And although the sex is mind blowing, I’m a little scared to …suggest anything more adventurous yet.”
Inca nodded sympathetically. “Before the Winter twins, believe me, I wasn’t nearly asopen, shall we say. I think it’s just the matter of being with that one person who you can entirely trust in.”
Ama smiled at her friend gratefully. “Thank you for sharing your experience with me, Inks. It does help …and, girl, you werewild.”
Inca laughed. “I’m still wild, just with Raff now, as it was meant to be. I also have a great relationship with Tommaso now. I think because he has changed so much and grown more content in himself. He was unsteady emotionally when I met him. Our time together …I think it both messed with him and helped him, too, as strange as that may seem. Anyway, now he’s with Bo and their quadrillion kids. They’re coming over soon …I can’t wait for you to meet them.”
Ama was still thinking about what Inca had said as she drove back to the villa. She felt a pang. She missed her own friends—Lena, Christina, and her sister. She would try to invite them all to Italy, although they had to be careful. Enda had made sure their tracks were covered, so Jackson couldn’t find them. Yes, he probably knew they were in Italy, but where, he wouldn’t be sure.
In the three months since she’d left him, they had only communicated once, through their lawyers. Jackson wasn’t going to give her a divorce or an annulment. She would have to wait for the two years before she could divorce him. She had even tried to say that he could claim she cheated—because, technically, she did—but he just wouldn’t even consider it. She didn’t want his money or anything from him, but her freedom.
That they hadn’t heard from him since was a relief to her, but she knew it made Enda uneasy.
“He’s planning something,” he would fret, but she had told him.
“This is what he wants. He wants us to be nervous, to be constantly looking over our shoulders. No. I refuse to live like that. What will be, will be.”
She walked into the villa now. It was silent, but cool—a relief from the hot sun outside. Enda was still at work, still planning on building music schools with Raffaelo, but currently catching up on the work he’d let slide when he was in the States. Ama dumped her bag, changed into shorts and a halter-neck top, and checked the time. Four p.m.
She hadn’t wanted any staff when they moved here, and Enda had agreed. So, now only a light security team were on the premises, but they worked the perimeter of the grounds and the house was a private sanctuary for Ama and Enda.
She went to the cool, open-plan living area and sat down at the piano. She thought of the beautiful Bösendorfer that Jackson had bought her, trying to curry favor, and realized she preferred this much older, well-loved instrument here. Enda had told her his mother used to play on it and so it felt more like a friend than an object. Ama ran her hands over the keys and played a few bars of various compositions; Mozart, Bach, Copland. She closed her eyes and let her fingers move of their own accord with a new composition, light but sensual …a love song. She hadn’t written anything for months now, it seemed, but as her fingers moved across the keys, she could feel the imperative within her. She switched to modern music—Tori Amos, Sarah McLachlan, Norah Jones—singing along softly with the music.
“I had no idea your singing voice was so beautiful.”
Ama turned and smiled at Enda. “Ha. Thank you. It isn’t, but thank you anyway.” She started to stand, but he waved her down and joined.
“Stay, and play some more for me.”
So, she did. With Enda’s arms locked around her waist, she played through some of her own compositions for him. Neither of them noticed it had gotten dark by the time she had finished. Enda pressed his mouth to hers.
“That was glorious. Grazie, cara mia.”
Ama leaned into his embrace. “You, music, and this beautiful place. I’m in heaven.”
She felt his arms tighten around her. “I’m glad you feel that way,piccolo.”
Ama stayed in his embrace for a moment, then her stomach growled and they both laughed. “I hadn’t realized it was so late. I was going to make us some supper.”
“Let’s cook together.”
They went into the kitchen that Ama had grown to love. Exposed brickwork and old-fashioned fixtures belied the state-of-art kitchen equipment. She opened the vast fridge. “It’s too hot for curry,” she said, grinning at his disappointment. Since meeting her, Enda had become addicted to spicy meals. “Well, I suppose I could do a light vegetable one, and we could have it with salad and roti?”
