A Weekend of Misbehaving - Carmen Falcone Page 0,2

James Franco on Instagram. Yep. James’s posts were a lot more personable than Lorenzo’s tight half smiles or curt nods.

Nibbles squeaked, and she spun around to face the large wrought-iron cage. “Hi, little fellow.” He squeaked again, and she grabbed a handful of bird food pellets and threw them in his bowl. She headed to the outdoor area. A gentle breeze curled the tips of her hair. Her cell phone buzzed again. Another text from her mom.

He doesn’t take insurance, but he’s been highly recommended. Love, Mom.

Well, of course he doesn’t.

Sounds good.

Alice typed, then turned off her cell phone and tossed it on the lounge chair. The lights from downtown Austin, only a few miles away, skipped through the manicured bushes of the penthouse. The set of outdoor furniture still had tags on it. She eyed the kidney-shaped pool on the rooftop terrace, the water so still and lifeless it could have been a painting like those inside.

She removed her shoes and dropped them on the natural stone tiles. Her dress clung to her sweaty body. She would give anything to plunge into that pool and, just for a moment, forget about all her problems.

Why not? Mr. B was away on a business trip, and Cara was at a girl’s leadership camp an hour away. No one would ever know.

Reaching for the zipper at her back, she swallowed. She’d been fantasizing about skinny-dipping in that pool for months. After the day she had, wasn’t she entitled to an itty-bitty indulgence?

Yes. Hell to the yes. Giggling like a schoolgirl who had just ditched class, she let her worries roll down her back. Shaking her shoulders, she walked to the edge of the pool, entranced by the tranquility of her surroundings.

Sure, she had swum here with Cara a couple times, but watching over a nine-year-old was quite different than indulging in a nice, relaxing swim with no one around. She slipped one bare toe into the water, and the mild temperature prickled her skin. Tonight, this is my alcohol. My chocolate. My cigarette.

She unzipped her dress, and the jersey fabric slid down her body like it was luxurious silk. Chuckling, she removed her multicolored bra, tossing it on the stone floor. When her panties pooled at her feet, a smile formed on her lips. The cool evening air caused a goose-bump effect throughout her body. Her toes curled against the border of the pristine pool.

She glanced around.

The penthouse suite in the Austin skyscraper gave her an ironic sense of privacy. She had deactivated the alarm system, and the only artificial light glared from inside the pool, which was adorned with a selection of cool golden and orange tiles.

Embracing the serenity around her, she took the plunge. At least right now, nothing could go wrong.

Lorenzo Baldi gestured for Viola Campello to enter the elevator and followed suit. Viola. The woman who held the key to unlocking his deepest desire, the one he had craved forever.

The doors closed in front of them, and he bit back a smile. So. Close. “I’ll make your time worthwhile, Ms. Campello.”

The short woman’s high heels tapped on the elevator floor, and she folded her arms. Even though the weather was rather warm, an oversize plaid trench coat snugged her petite frame. “I hope so. You are persistent, Lorenzo.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Persistence often annoys me, but I’m intrigued to see your art collection. I’m a sucker for nineteenth-century landscapes.”

He’d guessed right that a glimpse at his collection would tickle her enough to detour her before she headed to the airport. She was a cold fish, this one, and he’d had to channel every ounce of charm to get her to agree. “I appreciate it. Will you have a drink while I tell you my plans for your husband’s art collection?”

“Ex-husband.” She straightened her spine and inhaled, and the little progress he thought he’d made vanished like powder against the wind. “And no alcohol for me.”

“Of course.” He cracked his knuckles. Don’t screw this up. An invisible clock ticked inside him, his heart thumping with each passing second. “I’m surprised you are so attached to the paintings, what with the artist being fairly unknown.”

“My ex-husband bought them from the man himself, and they bonded over weekends of debauchery back in the day. Carlo wanted to keep them very badly during the divorce negotiations.” She cleared her throat. “So I fought for them, to teach him we can’t have everything we want.”

I can and I will. He’d