A Husband She Couldn't Forget. Christine Rimmer

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      Cat and Ernesto Santangelo still lived in the big two-story house where they’d raised their family. Their four sons were all grown up. Pascal and Tony were married, with kids. Dante was divorced with twin daughters. Marco, the youngest, would be nineteen now. Last Connor had heard, Marco still lived at home.

      Dante parked in the big graveled turnaround in front of the house, filling an empty space between two other vehicles. A mud-spattered quad cab was parked several yards away. Had all the Santangelo sons shown up for this?

      Dante turned off the engine. “Mom and Aly are both fragile right now,” he warned. “You give either of them the slightest hint of grief and you will be dealing with—”

      Connor cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I get it. Let’s go in.”

      In the house, the full gauntlet of Santangelo men waited for him in the big living room. All four of them—Ernesto, Pascal, Tony and Marco—stared at him through identical angry, coffee-brown eyes. Dante, too, for that matter.

      Ernesto, as the patriarch, did the talking, his voice low and carefully controlled. “We don’t want you here, but what else can a man do? My Bella won’t quit asking for you. You’d better not screw this up or we’ll make it a family project to rearrange your face for you.”

      Okay, the threats were getting really old. He was here, wasn’t he? He’d promised to keep himself under control. What more did they want? About now, it was getting pretty hard not to imagine how much he would enjoy mixing it up with a Santangelo or two.

      Aly, he reminded himself. She’s why you’re here.

      Connor kept his voice calm and said what Dr. Warbury had warned him to say. “I’m not here to cause trouble, only to help.”

      Several seconds of cold stares ensued. Finally, Ernesto nodded at Marco. “Go on, get your sister.”

      “Wait a minute,” Connor put a lot of effort into keeping his voice low and easy. “I’m guessing Aly would rather meet with me in private. I have promised before and I’ll promise again to behave myself. I’m just thinking she’d rather do this without her father and her brothers breathing down her neck.”

      “Forget that,” Ernesto and Dante said almost in unison.

      Ernesto went on, “You know nothing about what my daughter would rather do. It’s happening here, in the open, where we can keep an eye on you. You will tell her that you’re not married anymore, that you haven’t been married for a long time and that’s gonna be that.”

      Connor let a shrug speak for him. He’d tried. At this point, it seemed counterproductive to push the issue.

      Marco vanished into the front hall. Nobody spoke. An endless couple minutes ticked by.

      And then, at last, Aly appeared in the open doorway to the foyer, with Marco right behind her. She had bruises on her pale arms and two black eyes. A white bandage covered a spot on the left side of her head. The gorgeous, milky skin of her cheeks and forehead was scraped raw and scabbed over. Cuts and scratches marred the soft column of her neck. Only her glorious mane of dark hair appeared unscathed, except for that shaved area on the left side. It was covered with a white bandage. She looked like hell—and so damn beautiful it hurt.

      She gasped at the sight of him. He probably did the same. It rocked him, rocked him deep, just to see her again.

      There was a moment, endless and so sweet. They stared at each other. God, it was good. A complete lie, yeah, but perfect nonetheless. She was looking at him the way she used to before he screwed it all up. Like he was everything that mattered, the center of her world.

      As the seconds ticked by, he grew more and more certain that she would throw herself into his arms. He could not wait.

      She didn’t do it, though. Instead she came forward with her head high and held out a hand. Every nerve in his body on fire with hopeless yearning, he took it.

      “Come on,” she said, and turned for the foyer again.

      “Hey!” Dante started after them as the other Santangelo men let out a chorus of protests.

      “Aly, no...”

      “Aly, stay here.”

      “You’re not leaving this room,” said her dad.

      Still holding tight to Connor’s hand, Aly stopped in the doorway. She turned and pinned them all with a look. “I will talk to my husband alone if you don’t mind.”

      Dante froze where he stood.

      And Ernesto, who never could refuse her anything, gave in. “Let them go.” Suddenly, he looked old.

      Not another word was spoken. Aly led Connor across the foyer and up the stairs. She entered the second room along the upstairs hall, the room that had been hers when she was growing up.

      He remembered that room. Even after they got married, her mom had kept it for Aly, with her purple satin bedspread and black lacquer furniture. Pictures of him and Aly and of her school friends had remained stuck beneath the mirror frame of the vanity table.

      Not anymore, though. Cat had redone it—as a guest room, apparently. The walls were a tan color, the bedspread a soft blue.

      He heard Aly shut the door, and turned from studying the room to face her.

      “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Connor. At last.”

      And then she did throw herself at him.

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