hen she’d looked back at her own brood with an impish grin. “And these are our little monsters. That’s Sam—” she motioned toward a studious dark-haired eight-year-old poring through the leather-bound books on the library’s shelves “—and Elena—” a pouting little girl who was vigorously thumping her older brother with her teddy bear “—and Hayes—” a toddler who was frantically pulling on the shirts of both his elder siblings. Emma put her hand on her belly, which only had the slightest curve. “And there’s this angel, due next spring.”
Rosalie looked at her in amazement. Emma Falconeri seemed so calm and put-together, so effortlessly chic and lovely, while for the last two months, contessa or not, Rosalie had felt like a zombie in yoga pants with baby spit-up on her shoulder. Today was the first day in ages that Rosalie had felt like herself, rather than just a baby accessory. In her flowy red dress and red lipstick, she almost felt pretty. But she had only one child, while Emma had nearly four. She blurted out, “How do you manage?”
Smiling at her children, Emma looked back at her handsome husband fondly. “With help.”
Coming close to his wife, Cesare took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. “Nothing makes me happier.”
The way Cesare looked at his wife...
Rosalie’s throat suddenly hurt.
“Well, come on,” she told them finally. “Alex is outside. The party has just started. He will be surprised to see you!”
“Surprised?” Cesare’s dark eyebrows lifted.
“Happy,” Rosalie amended quickly.
Alex was surprised, all right. But he wasn’t happy. After a brief stop to introduce the Falconeris to her great-aunt Odette, who’d decided to skip the party in favor of a good book and glass of cognac by the fire in her room, Rosalie led the family outside. Still holding her yawning baby, she went out into the field between the villa and the winery, where the bonfire was being held, beside fairy lights and a few heaters in the rapidly cooling evening.
Her husband’s dark eyes widened when he saw Rosalie in the red dress. His sensual lips curved and he started to come toward her.
Then he saw Cesare, Emma and their children behind her. And from his expression, Rosalie suddenly knew, with a chilling certainty, that she’d made a horrible mistake.
“Look who’s come to visit,” she said lamely.
“I see.” Alex looked at her, then at his cousin. “How did it happen?”
She lifted her chin almost defiantly. “I invited them.”
“Ah.”
“It seemed past time for our children to meet.”
“Of course.” Reaching out, Alex shook his cousin’s hand, asking Cesare how he was, as if it had been merely days since they’d met, rather than years. He then politely extended his hand to Emma, who pushed it aside to give him a warm hug.
“It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry we missed—” Pulling back, Emma finished awkwardly “—so much.”
So much, indeed, Rosalie thought. They’d missed their wedding, and for all these months, though living so close, they’d never even spoken.
The Falconeri children, after dutifully saying hello to their baby cousin Oliver, ran off to look more closely at the bonfire—and more important, the food table—as their father shouted a warning, “Don’t break anything,” and their mother called with a smile, “Be careful, cuties, stay close.”
“So...how are you, Alex?” Cesare said.
“Fine,” he snapped.
Three pairs of adult eyes turned on him in amazement.
Alex added politely, “The grape harvest was excellent. The hail did no damage.”
“That’s good.” Cesare cleared his throat. “The hotel business has been solid. We now facilitate owner-operated homestays, for those who want a different kind of luxury experience.”
Silence fell. Their two wives glanced at each other with chagrin.
“I need to feed Oliver and put him to bed,” Rosalie said. “I’ll be back in a bit...”
“I need to keep an eye on my children,” Emma said. “With all the farm equipment around, you never know when Elena might try to convince one of her brothers to jump into a vat...”
The two women’s eyes met, then they deliberately left the Falconeri men alone.