Storm in a D Cup (The Husband Trilogy)

Also by Nancy Barone THE HUSBAND DIET TRILOGY 1. The Husband Diet 2. My Big Fat Italian Break-Up 3. Storm in a D Cup OTHER Snow Falls Over Starry Cove Starting Over at the Little Cornish Beach House Dreams of a Little Cornish Cottage No Room at the Little Cornish Inn New Hope for the Little Cornish Farmhouse STORM IN A D CUP Book Three of The Husband Diet series Nancy Barone AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS www.ariafiction.com First published in the UK in 2023 by Head of Zeus Ltd, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc. Copyright © Nancy Barone, 2023 The moral right of Nancy Barone to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. 9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN (PB): 9781803287713 ISBN (E): 9781803287690 Cover design: Nina Elstad Head of Zeus Ltd First Floor East 5–8 Hardwick Street London EC1R 4RG WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM Contents Welcome Page Copyright Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Epilogue Apology About the Author Acknowledgements An Invitation from the Publisher To my family and friends near and far. 1 Italian Playboys Castellino, Tuscany, five years later ‘Ciao, bella, want a rrride?’ I ignored the slowing Ferrari that had materialized next to me on the deserted Tuscan country lane as I trudged up the last hill leading home from the village. The countryside around Castellino, in the province of Siena, the place we had chosen to be our home almost eight years ago, could not have been more idyllic. It was a vast, bucolic setting of endless patchwork hills of greens, yellows and russets that chased to the horizon, brushed by squiggles of tall cypress trees that ran single file, now purpling under the dome of a magenta sky. ‘Flat tire? Come, come!’ ‘No, thank you,’ I said without turning to acknowledge my molester. ‘Come on, Eri-ha! It’s a long way up from Castellino to your home…’ Oh God, the last thing I needed was to be ambushed by Leonardo Cortini, the local playboy. With long, wavy sun-streaked hair and blue eyes, he was sort of good-looking-ish, in a savage, old-world, long-nosed noble family kind of way. The kind of looks that come from money and confidence. And, alas, regular visits to tanning salons. He regularly catered to the needs of lonely and/or bored women down in the Val d’Orcia. Personally, I was neither lonely nor bored, so I couldn’t understand why he was wasting a single moment of his time with me, a happily remarried mother of two. Because if Prince Charming ever existed, it was no doubt my husband Julian Foxham, the former principal at my children’s school in Boston. Not that that was why we’d met. Oh no. It had to happen in the most embarrassing of ways. My brother from another mother, Paul Belhomme, had been in the hospital with a broken leg, so I’d volunteered to bring him a change of pajamas and other essentials from his home. Only on the way, I’d had to stop at a restaurant for a quick pee. In the ladies’ room, as I was washing my hands, a giant spider had somehow ended up inside my trousers, sending me into a flurry of blood-curdling screams. At that, a man had burst in, alarmed by the ruckus, only to find me bouncing from wall to wall trying to get the dreaded thing off me. And when that hadn’t worked, I’d grabbed the man, begging him to pull my trousers off. And kill the beast. When he was satisfied that I wasn’t a total whack job trying to frame him for indecent acts in public, he’d proceeded to comply to my extraordinary request. Only my zipper was stuck and he’d had to wrench my trousers off me as I continued to scream, my arms and legs flailing in every direction. By the time we were done, I’d realized that, in my panicked frenzy, I’d ripped his shirt open too. When he’d offered to take me to lunch, I’d refused, for several reasons. One, Paul was waiting for me; two, I couldn’t bear to look my rescuer in the eye after he’d seen all of my wobbliest bits; and three…? In all honesty, I struggled to find any other reason why I shouldn’t have seen him again. And yet, I’d let that train pass, while thinking about him day after day. And night after night, actually. Until I came face to face with him at a meeting with my kids’ principal. Meaning that he was my kids’ principal who had called me in for, as he’d said, a simple ‘chinwag’. Just so you know, when your kids’ principal calls you in, it’s never for a simple chinwag. There is always trouble lurking behind that call. Of course it had to be the day that I had a stinking cold and looked like shit, wearing my worst suit that smelled like mothballs because I hadn’t had a chance to pick up my dry cleaning. And of course, he had to go and recognize me, what with the gazillion parents he meets on a daily basis. My daughter, only eight at the time, had mentioned