he kissed her knuckles and said, “I’ll take care of that.”
“Does that mean tonight I will officially be Mrs. Lorenzo Baldi?”
“Who said anything about waiting for tonight? Don’t forget, you married an impatient man,” he said, and enjoyed the red shade spreading across her cheeks.
God, she was breathtaking. Her pearl-colored dress was long and pretty. She had designed it herself. Just like the gowns she had created since applying herself to her wonderful talent, it had a modern twist. She had insisted on no veil, her hair falling in smooth waves across her shoulders. The V-neck hinted at her gorgeous breasts, but fortunately kept them hidden for his eyes only.
“Congratulations, man,” Brent Turner, Georgia’s fiancé, said. The two of them had bonded during the trips Georgia and Brent had taken to New York. His friend patted him on the back, and Lorenzo smiled. It was nice to have another guy in his situation—in Brent’s case, divorced and with a daughter, and according to news that Lorenzo had been sworn to secrecy on, another one on the way. “Wish you guys all the best.”
“Thanks,” he said, although that seemed to be the overused word of the night. He was thankful, though, wasn’t he? After some pictures taken by the professional photographer, he admired the shades of pink, orange, and yellow surrounding the sun.
This is what the inside of the sunset looks like, my boy. He could hear his father’s voice, lively, low-pitched. Lorenzo touched his forehead and closed his eyes, willing that burning emotion away. For a moment, his cheeks and nose tensed. No. He wouldn’t cry. When was the last time he had cried?
“That’s a beautiful sunset,” Viola said behind him.
He drew in a long breath and blinked. “It is. Thanks for coming.” He pivoted and flashed her a genuine smile. Who knew Alice would keep in touch with her? Then again, why wouldn’t she? Even in his New York City building everyone already seemed to have surrendered to Alice’s charms. His wife. A pang of pride went through him. The fashion student who would take the world by storm.
“How are the paintings? You kept them, right?”
“In my New York apartment library,” he said, realizing his workspace became a notch warmer when he could look at the amazing work his father had done.
She slanted him a look and tapped her fingers on her wineglass. “Good.”
“Alice mentioned you were seeing someone. Didn’t want to bring him to the wedding?”
She shifted from foot to foot and sighed. “He’s nice, but we’re taking it slow.”
“Don’t take it too slow.” He winked at her. She stepped forward and took a swig of red wine. For a moment, they stood side by side, almost entranced by the breathtaking view from the hilltop.
Then, Viola studied his profile, for an instant longer than was comfortable. Did she have something to tell him? What in the world could she be holding back? The woman never held any punches. “You know, I never told you I met the artist. From your paintings. Benicio Laron.”
His gut clenched. What was this about? “No. I thought your husband got in trouble for partying with him.”
She smiled a little. “He did. Then once I had him bring his friend for dinner, so I could meet him and see who my competition was. Who was taking my husband out to party with women.”
“And?” he asked, jamming both hands in his pants.
“And, of course, even after having dinner I was still mad at them both. There was, though, one moment that almost made me change my mind. When I talked about wanting to get pregnant, Benicio showed me a picture of his son that he carried in his wallet.”
Lorenzo’s heart skipped a beat. “He did?”
Kindness flickered in her eyes. “It was a beautiful boy with dark hair and green eyes. Kind of like yours.”
He swallowed. “I see.”
“I asked him if he lived with his boy, and he said no. I asked him if he saw him often, and he said not as much as he’d like.”
Lorenzo shook his head. “I’m sure he could have found a way.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But he said he got into some sort of trouble, and staying away was the best way to protect his boy. I’m guessing he used alcohol as a way to deal.”
The terrorist ties. Of course. He remembered his mother yelling at his father after he took him to that meeting. His father never hurt a fly as far as he could tell. If anything,