The Marriage Trap

Chapter Nine

Maggie sipped the strong, steaming brew and stared at the magnificent view before her. The sunlight washed over the green hills, highlighting the vast expanse of mighty, snow-tipped mountains. Terra-cotta sloping roofs spotted the horizon. The scent of olive and lemon wafted in the warm breeze, and she breathed deep, trying desperately to calm her racing heart.

Last night, Michael made love to her.

Pieces of memory flashed before her. The delicious heat and explosion of her orgasm. The gentle curve of his lips as he smiled. The strokes of his hands against her flesh as if she were breakable and precious, not just a one-night stand.

But she was. Or at least, maybe a two-night stand. Because at the end of the week, this whole charade would end, and he’d leave. Like they all did.

How had it happened? She’d confessed her secrets freely at his uncle’s house and had no one to blame but herself. His gentleness encouraged her to open up easier than any hot demands ever had. One moment she swore she’d be on the next plane out. The next, she’d challenged him to a bout of lovemaking with the stupid idea she’d be able to wring him out of her system.

She nibbled at her lip and took another scalding sip. When she woke up he’d left her a note that he’d run into town for a few hours and would be back to bring her to the headquarters of La Dolce Famiglia. The disappointment of an empty bed rattled her foundation. She always fought the need to escape as fast as possible once dawn hit. For the first time, she craved a morning snuggle with the man she made love with. He consistently surprised her, challenged her, and made her long for more. He was dangerous. Not just to her body. But to her heart.

She had to get out of here.

Her heart pounded and the blood roared in her veins. The oncoming panic attack gathered speed and Maggie grabbed her camera, desperate to control her ridiculous physical defaults. Breathe deep and clear her mind. She began snapping shots of the landscape, sharpening her focus to the frame in front of her, looking to find something unique and incredible. Her mind clung to the noise of the shutter and the flash of the light of the lens as she moved around the back terrace. Anything but the dizzy pull of alarm taunting her to lose all control.

“Meow!”

The half shriek of the cat caused her to stumble back and almost fall on her ass. She caught a whirl of black fur as the thing launched through the air, and she scrambled away, desperate to avoid the sharp sting of claws.

“Crap!” she yelled, heading toward the safety of concrete and away from the bushes. “Get away from me.”

The cat, or whatever the thing was, stalked her. Blazing green eyes dominated the black face as massive paws closed the distance between them. Maggie jumped behind a wrought-iron chair and glared at it. She did not like cats. Never did. Dogs were sufferable because they were generally affectionate and only lived for you to pet them. Cats were different—they were like high-strung divas who assumed your only job in life was to serve them. They scared the bejesus out of her—even more than children—and there was no way she was sticking around a moment longer. But this creature was three times the normal size, almost like a small dog. He’d do a wicked witch proud because he stared her down like he was about to cast a spell, and he freaked her out.

“Ah, I see you met Dante.”

Maggie spun around. Michael grinned down at her, clean-shaven, with his long hair neatly tied back. He looked rested and refreshed, while she still felt completely out of sorts and scrambling for her composure. “What do you feed it? Small children?”

He chuckled and knelt down, trying to call the cat over. Dante swished his tail and hissed. Maggie jumped back another step. “You’re not afraid of cats, are you, cara?”

She shuddered. “I just don’t like them. They’re demanding and spiteful.”

His lip twitched. “Seems like you’d go perfect together.”

“Funny. Is he yours?”

Michael shook his head. “Nope, he’s a stray. Visits a regular route for food, but won’t let anyone near him. Even Carina, whom we call the animal whisperer, hasn’t gotten close. Dante has issues.”

She stared at the cat. Pretty clean, definitely not starving, but he seemed to dislike people. The sudden humor struck her. “So Dante gets fed and catered to by the same people he openly despises. Interesting.”

“Yes, I guess it is,” he murmured. Suddenly, she was in his arms. His minty breath rushed across her lips and made her belly tumble. “Did you sleep well last night?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.” His dark eyes glittered with promise and a hint of danger. Shivers raced down her spine. “But if three times still gave you enough sleep, I’ll need to do better tonight.”

Oh. My.

She cleared her throat and reminded herself another night with him may be dangerous. She blinked and pulled back, needing the distance. His arms closed around her. “Michael—”

“I love hearing my name on your lips.” His mouth lowered and took hers, kissing her deep and long and slow. She opened up and thrust against each silky stroke of his tongue, pressing close. He caught her low moan, then slid over her bottom lip to nip. The sharp pleasure-pain shot a rush of heat between her aching thighs. He tasted so good she wanted to devour every inch and discover all those hard muscles straining under his clothes. Drowning in sensation, she let herself slide headlong into a pit of seething heat and fire and—

“Owww!” He thrust her away and jumped on one leg.

She looked down in horror to see Dante’s teeth stuck in Michael’s pants. The tiny puncture holes through the thin fabric caused her to freeze, afraid she was his next meal. The cat’s face turned upward in a sneer and he disengaged from Michael. He hissed low, then stalked toward her with intention.

“Dante!” Michael let out a rush of Italian and waved him away with a threatening gesture. The cat ignored him and reached her. She closed her eyes, unable to move and—

Dante rubbed his body against her calf. The low hum of a motor reached her ears. She opened her eyes and realized that noise was purring. He pushed his face hard into her leg, his long whiskers twitching with pleasure as he circled once, twice, then settled beside her.

Michael just stared at the cat, then back at her. “I don’t believe this. He’s never done that before,” he murmured. “And he’s never bitten.”

“What? It’s not my fault—I told you I don’t like cats. I didn’t tell him to bite you!”

“No. It’s deeper than that. Perhaps he sees something we’ve all been missing.”

Maggie watched with widened eyes. “And you feed this thing so he comes back?” she asked in amazement. “What is wrong with you? He came at you like he smelled a tuna dinner.”

The electricity between them jumped and burned like a live fuse gone wild. Her pulse rocketed. His eyes darkened with purpose, and he reached for her.

“Margherita? Michael?”

They both jumped back. His mother stood framed in the doorway, an apron covering her dress, her hair twisted neatly into a chignon. The aristocratic lines of her face shimmered with a classical power that had launched a successful business and raised four children. “What is happening out here?”

“I was just introducing Maggie to Dante.”

Mama Conte gasped. “Why is Dante near Margherita?”

“Yes, that seems to be the question of the day.” Maggie shifted uneasily and took a step back from the man-eating cat. Dante only stared with disgust at her cowardly retreat. “Mama, we’ll be going to the office with Julietta in a bit. Do you need anything?”

“I will give you a list of ingredients I’m running low on. Margherita, I need help in the kitchen. Will you join me?”

She hesitated. As much as she liked Michael’s mother, a deep-seated fear lodged in her gut. The woman was too sharp and asked too many questions. What if she slipped up and blew the whole cover story? Michael motioned for her to go, but she shook her head. “Um, I really don’t like cooking. Maybe Michael can help you.”

His mother crooked a finger. “Michael already knows how to cook—you do not. Come with me.” She disappeared back into the house.

Maggie cursed under her breath, indignant at Michael’s shaking shoulders as he smothered his laughter. “I hate cooking,” she hissed. “Your mother scares me. What if she suspects?”

“She won’t. Just be nice, cara. And don’t blow up the kitchen.”

She scooped up her camera, shot him a dirty look, and stomped off. A low meow sounded behind her but she refused to acknowledge the sound. The irony of her current situation blew her mind. She seemed to be confronted at every turn with all the items she refused to deal with back home. Already, she felt responsible for Carina and her current activities, she had to make sure she didn’t kill four small children, she had to deal with psychotic cats, and now she needed to please his mother by not poisoning the food. Muttering under her breath, she put her camera down on the table.

Michael’s mama already had a variety of bowls and measuring cups stacked on the long, wide counter. Shiny red apples that would do Snow White’s evil queen proud gleamed in a row. An expensive blender thing with wheels took up the center. Various containers of powder—which she guessed as sugar, flour, and baking soda—were neatly lined up.

Maggie tried to feign enthusiasm for the task ahead. God, she wanted some wine. But it was only 9:00 a.m. Maybe she’d spike her coffee—Italians liked their liquor.

She smiled with false cheer. “So what are we making today?”

Mama Conte slid a well-worn piece of paper over to her and pointed. “That is our recipe.”

“Oh, I figured you knew enough not to need a recipe.”

His mama snorted. “I do, Margherita. But you need to learn how to follow instructions. This is one of our signature desserts at our bakery. We shall start simple. It’s called torta di mele, an apple breakfast cake. It will go nicely with our coffee this afternoon.”

Maggie scanned the long list and got lost on step three. She’d made chocolate cake from a mix once because she wanted to try it. It sucked because she hadn’t realized you had to mix the batter for so long, so clumps of dry powder got stuck in the middle. Her then-boyfriend had laughed his ass off and she’d broken up with him that night.

“I will supervise. Here are your measuring cups. Begin.”

When was the last time an older woman ordered her about? Never. Unless she counted Alexa’s mother, and that was only because she’d spent time at her house when she was young. Slowly, she measured each dry ingredient and poured it into the huge bowl. Ah, well, if she was going to be tortured, she might as well be nosy. “So Michael says you taught him to cook at an early age. Did he always want to run La Dolce Famiglia?”

“Michael wanted nothing to do with the business for a very long time,” the older woman answered. “He had his heart set on being a race-car driver.”

Maggie’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Si. He was very good, though my heart stopped every time he went out on the track. No matter how many times his papa and I tried to discourage him, he found a way back on the track. By then, the bakery was taking off, and we had opened up another one in Milan. His papa got into many riffs with him about his responsibility to the family and the business.”

“He never told me he raced cars,” Maggie murmured. The words escaped before she caught them. Holy crap. Why wouldn’t she know her husband’s past? “Um, I mean, he doesn’t say much about his previous racing.”

“I am not surprised. He rarely talks about that part of his life anymore. No, Margherita, you crack an egg like this.” A clean break sliced the egg open and, one-handed, she expertly dropped it in the bowl.

Maggie tried to copy her and the shell exploded. She winced, but Michael’s mother took a bunch of eggs and directed her to start cracking. Maggie tried to concentrate on the eggs, but an image of a young Michael Conte defying his parents and racing cars stuck in her head.

“What happened?”

His mother sighed. “Things were difficult. A friend of his was injured, which made us even more upset. At this point, we knew Venezia wanted nothing to do with the bakery, and our dream of a family business began to die. Of course, we had other choices we could make. My husband wanted to expand; I liked cooking and wanted to remain with the two bakeries. Who knows what we would have done? God stepped in and Michael made his choice.”

Maggie hit the side of the bowl with an egg. The egg slid neatly inside with no shell, and an odd satisfaction ran through her. Seven must be her lucky number. “Michael decided to quit racing?”

Mama Conte shook her head, an expression of regret flickering across her face. “No. Michael walked out and decided to race cars for a living.”

Maggie sucked in her breath. “I don’t understand.”

“He left and did the circuit for a year. He was young but talented, and his dream was to race in the Grand Prix. Then my husband had a heart attack.”

The image hit her full force. She stared at his mother, as if on the verge of a terrible truth. Every muscle tensed with the urge to run and cover her ears. Her voice broke on the two words that broke from her lips. “Tell me.”

Mama Conte nodded, then wiped her hands on her apron. “Si, you should know. When Michael’s papa had the heart attack, Michael came right home. Stayed at the hospital day and night and refused to leave his side. I think we all believed he would be all right, but the second one struck hard and we lost him. When Michael came out of the room, he informed me he had quit racing and was taking over the business.”

Maggie remained silent as the older woman pondered the event with the flicker of demons in her eyes.

“I lost something in my son that day, the same day I lost my husband. A piece of wildness, of freedom from restrictions that always burned bright. He became the perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect businessman. Everything we needed from him. But he left something of himself behind.”

Her throat clogged with emotion. Maggie gripped the spoon so tightly she was amazed it didn’t shatter. No wonder he seemed so faultless. He gave up his own dreams and became everything his family needed. With no thought of himself and no whining. Not once had he even hinted this was not where he wanted to be.

His mother shook her head and refocused. “So that is the story. You may do with it what you wish, but as his wife, I wanted you to know.”

Maggie tried to speak but only managed a nod. As they peeled apples the image of the man she imagined she knew exploded into tiny pieces. His easy, carefree existence hid a man strong enough to make decisions for others. For the people he loved.

“Tell me about your parents, Margherita.” The sudden command cut through her aha moment. “Why did your mother not teach you to cook?”

She concentrated on skinning. “My mother is not the domestic sort. She worked in movies and believed her children would be better raised by nannies and cooks. That being said, I never wanted for anything, and enjoyed a wide variety of foods at meals.”

Pleased with her cool, calm reaction, Michael’s mother glanced up.

She carefully lay down the apple and squinted as if to study every hidden nuance of her expression. “Are you close with your parents now?”

Maggie tilted her chin up and let her stare. “No. My father is remarried and my mother prefers we do lunch only occasionally.”

“Grandparents? Aunts or uncles? Cousins?”

“No one. Just me and my brother. It really wasn’t a big deal; we had all our needs taken care of, and life was quite easy for us.”

“Bullshit.”

Maggie’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“You heard me, Margherita. You did not have it easy. You had no one to guide you, teach you, care for you. A home is not only about things or needs being met. But this is not your fault. They are fools, your parents, for missing out on such a beautiful, special woman.” She scoffed in disgust. “No matter. You learned strength and stand on your own two feet. This is why you are good for my son.”

Maggie laughed. “Hardly. We’re completely different.” She choked at the blunt admission. Damn, she’d screwed up again. “Um, I mean, well, we thought it wouldn’t work but then we fell in love.”

“Hm, I see.” Maggie fumbled and the batter flew up toward the ceiling. “When did you get married, Margherita?”

She dug deep and remembered all the times she needed to lie and be good at it. Please, Devil, don’t fail me now. “Two weeks ago.”

“The date?”

She stumbled but forged on. “Um, Tuesday. May twentieth.”

The older woman remained silent and still. “A good day for a wedding, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love my son?”

She dropped the spoon and stared. “What?”

“Do you love my son?”

“Well, of course, of course, I love him. I wouldn’t marry anyone I didn’t love.” She forced a laugh and prayed it didn’t sound fake. Damn Michael Conte. Damn him, damn him, damn him. . . .

Suddenly, strong hands enclosed hers and squeezed. Maggie winced as his mother’s gaze shredded past the surface and sought the truth. She held her breath. She so did not want to blow up their ruse when they only had a few more days left. A dozen responses flitted past her mind to try to convince his mother they were truly married, but as if a sudden thunderstorm had passed, his mother’s face cleared and softened with a knowledge Maggie didn’t understand.

“Si, you are perfect together. You give him back his freedom. Before this visit is over, you will believe it, too.”

Before Maggie could respond, the large mixer was dragged over. Mama Conte pointed. “Now, I will show you how to use this. Pay attention or you can lose a finger.”

Maggie gulped. The insistent demon that lived within her and always whispered she would never be good enough took hold. “Why are you doing this? I still don’t like to cook. I won’t be baking Michael yummy desserts and catering to his whims when we get back to the States.” She almost wished his mother would say something cutting and cold. “I work late and order take-out and tell him to get his own beer. I’ll never be the perfect wife.”

A ghost of a smile settled on Mama Conte’s lips. “He’s tried many times to love a woman who would be a proper wife. Or, at least, what he thinks a proper wife is.”

A deep longing took root and grew. Maggie swallowed past the urge and tried desperately to ignore the emotion. After all, she’d fought it back before, many times. Like Rocky, she kept going round after round, knowing if she fell she’d be hurt beyond measure.

As if his mother knew her thoughts, she touched her cheek with a gentle caress that reminded her of Michael. “And as for cooking, I am doing this for one reason. Every woman should know how to make one signature dessert. Not for anyone else but herself. Now, mix.”

When dozens of apples were peeled and the cake was safely in the oven, Maggie grabbed her camera, relieved she still possessed all ten fingers, and turned to thank Mama Conte for the lesson. Her fingers flexed around her camera as the image before her swallowed her whole. Trembling, Maggie brought the lens up and pressed the shutter release. Again. And again.

Mama Conte gazed out the kitchen window, seeing something not really there. Her hands held the mixing bowl to her chest, wrapped almost in a hug. Head tilted slightly, a small smile on her lips, her gaze held the dreamy, rapt expression of one caught in the past. Stray strands of hair lay against her milky cheek, the lines in her face emphasizing her strength and beauty as the sunlight trickled through the window and warmed her. It was a photo of such emotional depth, Maggie’s heart expanded in her chest. It was a moment caught in time that defied the past, the present, and the future. It was purely human.

And for a little while, in Mama Conte’s kitchen, Maggie felt like she finally belonged. A glimmer of what a real home might feel like taunted her, but she firmly pushed it back in the box and shoved the lid closed.

Maggie remained silent and left the kitchen. Left the woman to her memories. And wondered why she suddenly wanted to cry.

“Absolutely not!”

Michael smothered a groan and faced his two angry sisters from across the conference room. Irritation prickled his nerve endings but he reached for the usual control and authority he used when dealing with family drama. The two advertising executives glanced back and forth between them, as if trying to decide whom to side with.

With a smooth smile, he focused his attention on the ad team. “How fast can you get us a new campaign?”

The men shared a look. Their eyes glittered with the mad lust for money. “Give us a week. It will blow you away and make waves.”

“Very good. I will discuss this further with my sisters and call you back in.”

“Si. Grazie, Signore Conte.”

The door shut and Michael faced the twin firing squad. “Always remember to keep conflict within the family, Julietta.”

Bitterness tinged Julietta’s voice. “You didn’t even hear me out. Again. Michael, I spent months helping with this campaign, and I think you’re going in the wrong direction.”

He waved his hand at the photos on the cherrywood conference table. “I’ve seen the reports, and consumers want edge. A homey, plain-style bakery ad is not going to cut it in New York, and we need to freshen up things at home. I want to launch a whole new look. Hire a sexy model, maybe one eating a pastry, and come up with a catchy line playing off the whole comparison of sex and food.”

Julietta gasped. “Excuse me? Are you nuts? This is Mama’s business and I refuse to see you exploit it for money!” She threw the thick portfolio onto the table with a crash. “I’m in charge here, and I like our new ads. Profit is steady, and there’s no reason to throw something away that’s working.”

“I disagree.” Michael stared at his sister, his voice stone-cold. “You may be the CEO, Julietta, but I still own the bulk of this company. I believe we need to take a risk with the new opening in New York. I’ll need new print ads, a television spot, and billboards, and we will go in this new direction.”

The weight of responsibility deadened his shoulders, but he straightened and took it like he always had. Dios, he wished he didn’t always have to make the hard decisions. “I know you are angry with my choice, but I feel it is best for the family. For La Dolce Famiglia.”

There was a total of twenty bakeries spread throughout the Milan and Bergamo area, all a tightly run operation boasting fresh and creative pastries for both the casual pedestrian and four-star party catering. The headquarters stood proudly in the middle of Milan and took up the whole upper floor, and they’d finally added their own factory so they could consistently ship fresh ingredients and have total quality control. Running a massive empire required making hard decisions, even if he needed to overstep Julietta’s boundaries. Though his sister impressed him with her business decisions, if the new campaign failed it would be his fault. He opened his mouth to explain, but his sister interrupted.

“I cannot believe you would disrespect me like this.” Julietta clenched her fists, her normally reserved features set with fury. Her voice shook. Dressed in an impeccable navy suit with matching pumps, her hair twisted in a neat chignon, she came across as the perfect businesswoman. Unfortunately, tears shimmered in her eyes. “I’m not doing this anymore. Hire someone you trust, because obviously you don’t trust me.”

Michael jerked back in surprise at her sudden emotion. He softened his voice and took a step closer. “Ah, cara, I didn’t mean—”

“No!” She jumped up from the table. “I’m sick of the way you treat me. I’m good enough to run La Dolce Famiglia when you’re not here, but as soon as you step back onto my turf, you disrespect everything I’ve worked so hard to build: respect, mutual admiration, work ethic.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I’m only doing what’s best for the company.”

Julietta nodded. “I see. Well, then I don’t think you need me anymore. I’m resigning as CEO. Effective immediately. Go find someone else to boss around.”

Ah, merda.

Venezia jumped in front of Michael and wagged her finger madly through the air. “Why do you always have to order everyone around?” she demanded. “You’re our brother, not Papa.”

His jaw clenched and unclenched. “No, perhaps if I was Papa, I wouldn’t have let you flounce off to dress a bunch of Barbie dolls and call it a career. Perhaps if I was Papa, I would’ve made you take your rightful place in this company and not put all the weight on Julietta.”

Venezia practically snarled like Dante and teetered on her three-inch red heels. “I knew it! I always knew you never respected my career. Fashion is a huge industry, Michael, and I’ve made a name for myself in a competitive business. But no, just because I chose to do what I loved, that’s not good enough for you. You don’t respect any of us.”

“Zitto! Enough of your childish tantrums, both of you. I do what is best for this family, always.”

Venezia sneered and grabbed her sister’s hand. “Who do you think you are? You order us around like children, refuse to respect the decisions and choices we make, and pretend you actually care. We’re making a life for ourselves here and have been doing fine without you.”

Pain shot through his chest and he struggled for breath. “How could you say this to me? After everything I’ve done?”

Venezia tossed her hair and led Julietta toward the door. “We don’t need you anymore, Michael. Maybe it’s time you return to America, where you belong now.”

They shut the door behind them.

Michael stood in the shattering silence as the pieces of his life exploded around him.

His head pounded as he paced the empty conference room, searching for answers. The careful control he’d built to protect his family slipped under the weight of raw emotions. Julietta had always been the rational one, yet the hurt in her eyes when he’d overruled her cut him to the bone. Had he been mistaken? Should he have stepped out of the way, even when he knew the campaign wasn’t the best, and let her fail?

The door opened.

Maggie peeked her head in. “Okay, I’m bored and I want to go home. I visited the cafeteria twice, hung out with Julietta’s secretary, and was sufficiently impressed with your organization. I’ve done my wifely duty so I’m heading out.”

He forced a nod, but she blinked and nudged the door wider. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” He waved her out. “I shall meet you at home.”

The blasted woman ignored him and stepped into the room. “Did you have a fight with your sister?”

He should kick her out and keep business in the family. Yet, the words rushed out of his mouth. “Make that sisters. I disagreed with Julietta’s advertising campaign and they—what do you Americans term it?—blew up.”

“Ah, I see.” She looked uneasy as she shot a look at the exit. He waited for her to go but she shifted from foot to foot, her hands cradling her camera, which Michael now thought of as another appendage. “Is that the ad campaign?” she asked. She walked over to the table, and her legs flashed in her short skirt and high heels. Memories of those limbs wrapped snug around his hips and open to every thrust shuddered through him.

“Yes. It’s outdated. I told them we need a sexy commercial equating food and sex. Americans like shock. It sells.”

“Hm.” She flipped through the photo ad, then closed the folder. “Okay, I’ll meet you at home.”

Damn her. He almost choked on the words when he realized how much he respected her opinion. “What do you think?”

“Of the campaign?”

“Yes. Am I right?”

She turned on her heel and stared at him. Her bangs slid over one eye. The sexy peek only made him fight harder to concentrate on business and not the low moans she made last night. “I agree.”

The breath rushed out of his lips. He straightened, glad he made the right decision. “I thought so.”

“But I hate your idea, too.”

He frowned. “Scusi?”

She threw one hand up in the air as if dismissing him and wrinkled her nose. “Some shock sells but not for a family bakery. Your mama would hate it.”

Coldness rushed through him. “I see. Well, thanks for your opinion, but you really have nothing to do with this. I’ll meet you at home.”

Annoyance flitted across her face. She threw her purse on the table and took out her camera. In typical fashion, his tigrotta marched over to him, stood on tiptoe, and got in his face. “Is that what you do to your sisters when you don’t agree with their opinion? No wonder they walked out. Oh, trust me, I can never forget my place. I don’t want to be involved in this shit, but you keep messing up. For God’s sake, Count, wake up. You treat your sisters with a patronizing air they can’t stand. Julietta is perfectly capable of running the business without you, yet instead of respecting her place, you challenge all of her decisions.”

“Enough.” His brows lowered in a frown. “You have no clue how my sisters feel.”

She laughed without humor. “Are you kidding? It’s crystal clear. They adore you and believe you practically walk on water. They just want some kudos from their big brother. A little respect for what they’ve accomplished. Do you know Venezia believes you think she’s a joke? She may dress celebrities and gain respect in her field, but it means nothing because you don’t acknowledge her success. And Carina? She loves to paint, but you term it a cute little hobby, pat her on the head, and force her to attend business school. She’s got tons of talent and she aches to pursue it, but wants your approval. You’re not seeing her, and the woman she’s becoming. And Julietta keeps fighting the idea she’s an imposter and the business will never truly belong to her. You’ve made her doubt her instincts.”

A muscle ticked in his face. “I respect them and love them more than you know. Dios, they are my life! I sacrificed everything so they can be happy.”

Suddenly, her face softened. “I know,” she whispered. “You’ve done everything a father would have done. You supported them with money, discipline, and good advice. You kept them safe. You made sure they did the right thing and wanted for nothing. But you forgot the most important part. They don’t want a substitute father. They want an older brother who can joke with them, support them, and let them shine. On their own. They don’t need you to take care of them anymore, Michael.” She touched his cheek and tenderness slipped through the cracks and right into his heart. “They just want you to tell them you love them. Exactly the way they are.”

Her words rocked through him and tore down his comfortable blinders.

She held up her camera. “This is what I see for the image of La Dolce Famiglia,” she said. The screen showed the shot of his mother, bowl clasped in her embrace, a dreamy expression on her face in her homey kitchen. “It’s not about sex and food. It’s about this. Her dreams for her family, her determination to be the best, and the quality she strives for every day. That’s what your motto and advertising campaign should be.”

He stared silently at the screen. When he looked up, an array of emotions flickered across her features.

“You’re so lucky to have them. Make a mistake and they’ll forgive you. That’s what family is about.” She trailed off as if thinking about another event. “I don’t belong here, Michael. With you. With them. I can’t do this anymore.”

She turned and fled, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Everything he believed in and worked hard to maintain rose to mock him. His past swam before his eyes, and he tamped down the excruciating pain of failure. His mother’s face stared up at him from the camera. She deserved more than this. She deserved more from him.

He pulled out the leather chair and sat down. Slowly, he clicked past all the photos Maggie had taken since she arrived. They were so much more than pretty landscapes. In each shot, she’d reached something elusive, whether it be a color or shape that struck the onlooker. He watched as his four nephews came into focus, a candid glimpse of grinning, messy, mischievous boys as they mashed clay between their fingers. Slowly, he lay down the camera and faced the truth.

He was falling in love with her.

At the same time, she scared the crap out of him. Maggie wasn’t the woman he’d ever imagined spending his life with. She twisted everything inside of him until he vibrated at a high pitch, and she made the long line of other women he’d taken to bed fade away into nothingness. She was prickly, hardheaded, honest to a fault, and hid a soft center that melted his heart.

The worst of the whole encounter was his realization that she was right.

He hadn’t done his job. Images of his father dying before his eyes tortured him. The guilt of leaving him to pursue his own selfish dreams while his father worked long hours and tried to build a company his children never even believed in.

Emptiness ripped at his gut. But Maggie spoke the truth. Throughout his climb to push the company to the top, he’d refused to see his sisters as equals. In his mind, they reflected the young image of grief-stricken youths in desperate need of protection and stability. Even with his mother’s strength, Michael knew it was up to him to provide and assume a leadership role. So he did. He disciplined, advised, and led.

But he never told them good job. He never told them he loved them. He never listened.

He had done each of them a terrible injustice. He refused to allow Julietta any real rewards for stepping in as CEO. She completed all the menial tasks on a day-to-day basis, yet never retained any glory. He kept all the good stuff for himself like a selfish child and never gave his full support.

With Carina, he was so used to her being the baby of the family, he never thought of asking her what she wanted. He ordered, demanded, and expected. Sure, he knew she liked art, but not until Maggie pointed out her talent did he realize she may have a dream of her own, or even need encouragement to pursue something not business oriented.

But the worst, by far, was Venezia. Shame filled him as the admission rose up inside and choked the air from his lungs. Venezia followed her dream to be a stylist, yet he constantly berated her for not taking responsibility for the family business, and he belittled her choice. Now, he realized why. He was jealous—jealous she was able to go after her dream, yet he’d lost his own. Somehow, he needed to let the anger go. He’d always prided himself on making his own decisions, and quitting racing was his choice. Venezia should not have to pay the price for following her dream, or for the loss of his.

And Maggie? She was about to flee. He had no idea how he was going to convince her, or tear down her careful control enough to get under her skin, but damned if he wasn’t going to give it his best shot. He would not let her get on that plane until he convinced her to surrender her soul. Then, and only then, could he know if it would work for them.

The shattered pieces of his life lay broken around him. Time to make a decision. First, make it right with his sisters. Second, take a leap of faith. Maggie had the heart and soul of a wounded warrior, and it was time he fought for her.

He needed to find his fake wife and somehow convince her to stay.