The Sicilian's Christmas Bride

The Sicilian's Christmas Bride Sandra Marton Sicilian tycoonDante Russo has become rich and successful the hard way. So there's no mercy in his heart when he hears that Taylor Sommer's business is struggling. She's the woman who ended their affair three years ago, and her present plight is perfect—for Dante to blackmail her back into his bed and get his desire for her right out of his system.Tally's now the mother of a lovely little girl, news which only serves to harden Dante's heart further and intensify his need to possess. But rich and ruthless though he may be, even Dante isn't immune to the magic of Christmas and the miracles it brings… The Sicilian’s Christmas Bride Sandra Marton Sandra loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her or visit her at www.sandramarton.com. CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE COMING NEXT MONTH CHAPTER ONE THE HOTEL BALLROOM was a Christmas fairyland. Evergreen garlands hung with silver and gold ornaments were draped across the ceiling; elegant white faux Christmas trees sparkled with tiny gold lights. Someone said there’d even be a visit from Santa at midnight, tossing expensive baubles to the well-dressed and incredibly moneyed crowd. Nothing could ever compare with New York’s first charity ball of the holiday season. Dante Russo had seen it all before. The truth was, it bored the hell out of him. The crowds, the noise, the in-your-face signs of power and wealth… But then, for some reason everything bored him lately. Even—perhaps especially—the high-octane excitement of his current mistress as she clung to his arm. “Oh, DanteDarling,” she kept saying, “oh, oh, oh, isn’t this fabulous?” That was how she’d taken to addressing him, as if his name and the supposed-endearment were one word instead of two. And fabulous seemed to be her favorite adjective tonight. So far, she’d used it to describe the decorations, the band, their table and the guests. A month ago, he’d found Charlotte’s affectations amusing. Now, he found them almost as irritating as her breathless, little-girl voice. Dante glanced at his watch. Another hour and he’d make his excuses about an early-morning meeting and leave. She’d protest: it would mean missing Santa’s visit. But he’d assure her Santa would bring her something special tomorrow. A little blue box from Tiffany, delivered to her apartment building not by Saint Nick but by FedEx. He would see to it the box held something fabulous, Dante thought wryly. Something that would serve not only as a gift to make up for ending the night early but as a goodbye present. His interest in Charlotte was at an end. He’d sensed it for days. Now, he knew it. He only hoped the breakup would be clean. He always made it clear he wasn’t interested in forever, but some women refused to get the message, and— “DanteDarling?” He blinked. “Yes, Charlotte?” “You’re not listening!” “I’m sorry. I, ah, I have a meeting in the morning and—” “Dennis and Eve were telling everyone about their place in Colorado.” “Yes. Of course. Aspen, isn’t it?” “That’s right,” Eve said, and sighed wearily. “It’s still gorgeous—” “Fabulous,” Charlotte said eagerly. “But it’s not what it used to be. So many people have discovered the town…” Dante did his best to listen but his attention wandered again. What was the matter with him tonight? He didn’t feel like himself at all. Bored or not, he knew better than to let his emotions gain control. Giving free rein to your feelings was a mistake. It revealed too much, and revealing yourself to others was for fools. That conviction, bred deep in his Sicilian bones by a childhood of poverty and neglect, had served him well. It had lifted him from the gutters of Palermo to the spires of Manhattan. At thirty-two, Dante ruled an international empire, owned homes on two continents, owned a Mercedes and a private jet, and had his choice of spectacularly beautiful women. His money had little to do with that. He was, as more than one woman had whispered, beautiful. He was tall and leanly muscled, with the hard body of an athlete, the face of Michelangelo’s David and the reputation of being as exciting in the bedroom as he was formidable in the boardroom. In other words, Dante had everything a man could possibly want, including the knowledge that his life could very well have turned out differently. Being aware of that was part of who he was. It helped keep him alert. Focused. Everyone said that of him. That he was focused. Tightly so, not just on his business affairs or whatever woman held his interest at the moment but on whatever was happening around him. Not tonight. Tonight, he couldn’t keep his attention on anything. He’d already lost interest in the conversation of the others at the table. He took his cue from Charlotte, nodded, smiled, even laughed when it seemed appropriate. It bothered him that he should be so distracted. Except, that was the wrong word. What he felt was—What? Restless. As if something was about to happen. Something he wasn’t prepared for, which was impossible. He was always prepared. Always, he thought…Except for that one time. That one time— “DanteDarling, you aren’t paying attention at all!” Charlotte was leaning toward him, head tilted at just the right angle to make an offering of her d?colletage. She was smiling, but the glint in her eye told him she wasn’t happy. “He’s always like this,” she said gaily, “when he’s planning some devastating business coup.” She gave a delicate shudder. “Whatever is it, DanteDarling? Something bloody and awful—and oh, so exciting?” Everyone laughed politely. So did Dante, but he knew, in that instant, his decision to end things with Charlotte was the right one. These past couple of weeks, while he’d grown bored she’d grown more demanding. Why hadn’t he phoned? Where had he been when she called him? She’d begun using that foolish name for him and now she’d taken to dropping little remarks that made it seem as if she and he were intimate in all the ways he had made clear he never would be. With any woman. Any woman, even— “…would love to spend Christmas in Aspen, wouldn’t we, DanteDarling?” Dante forced a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t get that.” “Dennis and Eve want us to fly to Aspen,” Charlotte purred. “And I accepted.” Dante’s eyes met hers. “Did you,” he said softly. “Of course! You know we’re going to spend Christmas together. Why on earth would we want to be apart on such a special day?” “Why, indeed,” he said, after a long pause. Then he smiled and rose to his feet. “Would you like to dance, Charlotte?” Something of what he was thinking must have shown in his face. “Well—well, not just now. I mean, we should stay here and discuss the party. When to fly out, how long we’ll stay—” Dante took her hand, drew her from her chair and led her from the table. The band was playing a waltz as they stepped onto the dance floor. “You’re angry,” she said, her voice affecting that little-girl whisper. “I’m not angry.” “You are. But it’s your own fault. Six weeks, Dante. Six weeks! It’s time we took the next step.” “Toward what?” he said, his tone expressionless. “You know what I mean. A woman expects—” “You knew what not to expect, Charlotte.” His mouth thinned; his voice turned cold. “And yet, here you are, making plans without consulting me. Talking as if our arrangement is something it is not.” He danced her across the floor and into a corner. “You’re right about one thing. It’s time we, as you put it, took the next step.” “Are you breaking up with me?” When he didn’t answer, two bright spots of color rose in her cheeks. “You bastard!” “An accurate perception, but it changes nothing. You’re a beautiful woman. A charming woman. And a bright one. You knew from the beginning how this would end.” His tone had softened. After all, he had only himself to blame. He should have read the signs, should have realized Charlotte had been making assumptions about the future despite his initial care in making sure she understood they had none. Women seemed to make the same mistake all the time. Most women, he thought, and a muscle jumped in his cheek. “I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together,” he said, forcing his attention back where it belonged. Charlotte jerked free of his hand. “Don’t patronize me!” “No,” he replied, his voice cooling, “certainly not. If you prefer to make a scene, rest assured that I can accommodate you.” Her eyes narrowed. He knew she was weighing her options. An embarrassing public display or a polite goodbye that would make it easy for her to concoct a story to soothe her pride. “Your choice, bella,” he said, more softly. “Do we part friends or enemies?” She hesitated. Then a smile curved her lips. “You can’t blame me for trying.” Still smiling, she smoothed her palms over the lapels of his dinner jacket. It was a proprietorial gesture and he let her do it; he knew it was for those who might be taking in the entire performance. “But you’re cruel, DanteDarling. Otherwise, you wouldn’t humiliate me in front of my friends.” “Is that what concerns you?” Dante shrugged. “It’s not a problem. We’ll go back to our table and finish the evening pleasantly. All right?” “Yes. That’s fine. But Dante?” The tip of her tongue flickered across her lips. “Hear me out, would you?” “What now?” he said, trying to mask his impatience. “I know you don’t believe in love and forever after, darling. Well, neither do I.” She paused. “Still, we could have an interesting life together.” He stared at her in surprise. Was she suggesting marriage? He almost laughed. Still, he supposed he understood. He didn’t know Charlotte’s exact age but she had to be in her late twenties, old enough to want to find a husband who could support her fondness for expensive living. As for him, men his age had families. Children to carry forward their names. He had to admit he thought about that from time to time, especially since he’d plucked the name “Russo” from a newspaper article. Having a child to bear the name was surely a way to legitimatize it. Charlotte could be the perfect wife. She would demand nothing but his superficial attention and tolerate his occasional affair; she would never interfere in his life. Never fill his head to the exclusion of everything else. And, just that suddenly, Dante knew what was wrong with him tonight. A woman had once filled his head to the exclusion of everything else. And, damn her, she was still doing it. The realization shot through him. He felt his muscles tighten, as if all the adrenaline his body could produce was overwhelming his system. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Charlotte said, “don’t look at me that way! I was only joking.” He knew she hadn’t been joking but he decided to go along with it because it gave him something to concentrate on as he walked her back to their table. Eva greeted them with a coy smile. “Well,” she said, “what have you decided? Will we see you in Aspen?” For a second, he didn’t know what she was talking about. His thoughts were sucking him into a place of dark, cold shadows and unwanted memories. Memories of a woman he thought he’d forgotten. Then he remembered the gist of the conversation and his promise to Charlotte. “Sorry,” he said politely, “but I’m afraid we can’t make it.” Charlotte shot him a grateful look as she took her seat. He squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” “Going for a cigar?” Dennis said. “Russo? Wait. I’ll join you.” But Dante was already making his way through the ballroom, deliberately losing himself in the crowd as he headed for one of the doors. He pushed it open, found himself in a narrow service hallway. A surprised waitress bumped into him, murmured an apology and tried to tell him he’d taken a wrong turn. He almost told her she was right, except he’d taken that wrong turn three years ago. He went through another door, then down a short corridor and ended up outside on a docking bay. Once he was sure he was alone, Dante threw back his head and dragged the cold night air deep into his lungs. Dio, he had to be crazy. All this time, and she was still there. Taylor Sommers, whom he had not seen in three years, was inside him tonight, probably had been for a very long time. How come he hadn’t known it? You didn’t want to know it, a sly voice in his head told him. A muscle knotted in his jaw. No, he thought coldly, no. What was inside him was rage. It was one thing not to let your emotions rule you and another to suppress them, which was what he had done since she’d left him. He’d kept his anger inside, as if doing so would rid him of it. Now, without warning, it had surfaced along with all the memories he’d carefully buried. Not of Taylor. Not of what it had been like to be with her. Her whispers in bed. Yes. Dante, yes. When you do that, when you do that… He groaned at the memory. The need to be inside her had been like a drug. It had brought him close to believing in the ancient superstitions of his people that said a man could be possessed. He was long past that, had been past it by the time she left him. It was the rest, what had happened at the end, that was still with him. Knowing that she believed she’d left him, when it wasn’t true. He had left her. He’d never had the chance to say, “You made the first move, cara, but that’s all it was. You ran away before I had a chance to end our affair.” She didn’t know that and it drove him crazy. Pathetic, maybe, that it should matter…but it did. Obviously it did, or he wouldn’t be standing out here in the cold, glaring at a stack of empty produce cartons and finally admitting that he’d been walking around in a state of smoldering fury since a night like this, precisely like this, late November, cold, snow already in the forecast, when Taylor had left a message on his answering machine. “Dante,” she’d said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel our date for tonight. I think I’m coming down with the flu. I’m going to take some aspirin and go to bed. Sorry to inconvenience you.” Sorry to inconvenience you. For some reason, the oh-so-polite phrase had irritated him. Was inconvenience a word for a woman to use to her lover? And what was all that about canceling their date? She was his mistress. They didn’t have “dates.” Jaw knotted, he’d reached for the phone to call and tell her that. But he’d controlled his temper. Actually, there was nothing wrong in what she’d said. Date implied that they saw each other when it suited them. When it suited him. So, why had it pissed him off? Her removed tone. Her impersonal words. And then another possibility had elbowed its way into his brain. Maybe, he’d thought, maybe I should call and see if she needs something. A doctor. Some cold tablets. Or maybe I should see if she just needs me. The thought had stunned him. Need? It wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. Nor in Taylor’s. It was one of the things he admired about her. So he’d put the phone aside and gone to the party. Not just any party. This party. The same charity, the same hotel, the same guests. He’d eaten what might have been the same overdone filet, sipped the same warm champagne, talked some business with the men at his table and danced with the women. The women had all asked the same question. “Where’s Taylor?” “She’s not feeling well,” he’d kept saying, even as it struck him that he was spending an inordinate amount of time explaining the absence of a woman who was not in any way a permanent part of his life. They’d only been together a couple of months. Six months, he’d suddenly realized. Taylor had been his mistress for six months. How had that happened? While he’d considered that, one of the women had touched his arm. “Dante?” “Yes?” “If Taylor’s ill, she needs to drink lots of liquids.” He’d blinked. Why tell him what his mistress needed to do? “Water’s good, but orange juice is better. Or ginger tea.” “That wonderful chicken soup at the Carnegie Deli,” another woman said. “And does she have an inhalator? There’s that all-night drugstore a few block away…” Amazing, he’d thought. Everyone assumed that he and Taylor were living together. They weren’t. “I prefer that you keep your apartment,” he’d told her bluntly, at the start of their relationship. “That’s good,” she’d said with a little smile, “because I intended to.” Had she told people something else? Had she deliberately made the relationship seem more than it was? He’d thought back a few weeks to his birthday. He had no idea how she’d known it was his birthday; he’d never mentioned it. Why would he? And yet, when he’d arrived at her apartment to take her to dinner, she’d told him she wanted to stay in. “I’m going to cook tonight,” she’d said with a little smile. “For your birthday.” He made a habit of avoiding these things, a homemade dinner, a quiet evening, but he couldn’t see a way to turn her down without seeming rude so he’d accepted her invitation. To his amazement, he’d enjoyed the evening. “Pasta Carbonara,” she’d said, as she served the meal. “I remember you ordering it at Luigi’s and saying how much you liked it.” Her cheeks had pinkened. “I just hope my version is half as good.” It was better than good; it was perfect. So was everything else. The candles. The bottle of his favorite Cabernet. The flowers. And Taylor. Taylor, watching him across the table, her green eyes soft with pleasure. Taylor, blushing again when he said the food was delicious. Taylor, bringing out a cake complete with candles. And a familiar blue box. He’d given boxes like that to more women than he could count, but being on the receiving end had been a first. “I hope you like them,” she’d said as he opened the box on a pair of gold cuff links, exactly the kind he’d have chosen for himself. “Very much,” he’d replied, and wondered what she’d say if he told her this was the first birthday cake, the first birthday gift anyone had ever given him in all his life. He’d blown out the candles. Taken a bite of the cake. Put on the cuff links and felt something he couldn’t define… “Dante?” Taylor had said, her smooth brow furrowing, “what’s the matter? If you don’t like the cuff links—” He’d silenced her in midsentence by gathering her in his arms, taking her mouth with his, carrying her to her bed and making love to her. Sex with her was always incredible. That night…that night, it surpassed anything he’d ever known with her, with any woman. She was tender; she was passionate. She was wild and sweet and, as he threw back his head and emptied himself into her, she cried out his name and wept. When it was over, she lay beneath him, trembling. Then she’d brought his mouth to hers for a long kiss. “Don’t leave me tonight,” she’d whispered. “Dante. Please stay.” He’d never spent the entire night with her. With any woman. But he’d been tempted. Tempted to keep his arms around her warm body. To close her eyes with soft kisses. To fall asleep with her head on his shoulder and wake with her curled against him. He hadn’t, of course. Spending the night in a woman’s bed had shades of meaning beyond what he needed or expected from a relationship. Two weeks after that, he’d attended this charity ball without her, listened to people urge him to feed his mistress chicken soup… And everything had clicked into place. The birthday supper. The fantastic night of sex. The plea that he not leave her afterward. Taylor was playing him the way a fisherman who’s hooked a big one plays a fish. His beautiful, clever mistress was doing her best to settle into his life. She knew it, his acquaintances knew it. The only person who’d been blind to the scheme was him. “Excuse me,” he’d suddenly said to everyone at the table, “but it’s getting late.” “Don’t forget the chicken soup,” a woman called after him. Dante had instructed his driver to take him to Taylor’s apartment. It was time to set things straight. To make sure she still understood their agreement, that the rules hadn’t changed simply because their affair had gone on so long. In fact, perhaps it was time to end the relationship. Not tonight. Not abruptly. He’d simply see her less often. In a few weeks, he’d take her to L’Etoile for dinner, give her a bracelet or a pair of earrings to remember him by and tell her their time together had been fun but— But Taylor didn’t answer the door when he rang—which reminded him that she’d never given him a key. He hadn’t given her one to his place, either, but that was different. He never gave his mistresses keys, but they were always eager to give theirs to him. And it occurred to him again, as it often did, that Taylor wasn’t really his mistress. She insisted on paying her own rent, even though most women gladly let him do it. “I’m not most women,” she’d said when he’d tried to insist, and he’d told himself that was good, that he admired her independence. That night, however, he saw it for what it was. Just another way to heighten his interest, he’d thought coldly, as he rang the bell again. Still no answer. His thoughts turned even colder. Was she out with another man? No. She was sick. He believed that; she’d sounded terrible on the phone when she’d called him earlier, her voice hoarse and raw. Dante’s heart had skittered. Was she lying unconscious behind the locked door? He took the stairs to the super’s basement apartment at a gallop when the damned elevator refused to come, awakened the man and bought his cooperation with a fistful of bills. Together, they’d gone up to Taylor’s apartment. Unlocked the door… And found the place empty. His mistress was gone. Her things were gone, too. All that remained was a trace of her scent in the air and a note, a note, goddamn her, on the coffee table. “Thank you for everything,” she had written, “it’s been fun.” Only that, as if their affair had been a game. And Dante had swallowed the insult. What else could he have done? Hired a detective to find her? That would only have made his humiliation worse. Three years. Three years, and now, without warning, it had all caught up to him. The embarrassment. The anger… “Dante?” He turned around. Charlotte had somehow managed to find him. She stood on the loading dock, wrapped in a velvet cloak he’d bought her, her face pink with anger. “Here you are,” she said sharply. “Charlotte. My apologies. I, ah, I came out for a breath of air—” “You said you wouldn’t embarrass me.” “Yes. I know. And I won’t. I told you, I only stepped outside—” “You’ve been gone almost an hour! How dare you make me look foolish to my friends?” Her voice rose. “Who do you think you are?” Dante’s eyes narrowed. He moved toward her, and something dangerous must have shown in his face because she took a quick step back. “I know exactly who I am,” he said softly. “I am Dante Russo, and whoever deals with me should never forget it.” “Dante. I only meant—” He took her arm, quick-marched her down a set of concrete steps and away from the dock. An alley led to the street where he hailed a cab, handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill and told him Charlotte’s address. He’d left his topcoat inside the hotel but he didn’t give a damn. Coats were easy to replace. Pride wasn’t. “Dante,” she stammered, “really, I’m sorry—” So was he, but not for what had just happened. He was sorry he had lived a lie for the past three years. Taylor Sommers had made a fool of him. Nobody, nobody got away with that. He took his cell phone from his pocket and called his driver. When his Mercedes pulled to the curb, Dante got in the back and pressed another number on the phone. It was late, but his personal attorney answered on the first ring. He didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “I need a private investigator,” he said. “No, not first thing Monday. Tomorrow. Have him call me at home.” Three years had gone by. So what? Someone had once said that revenge was a dish best served cold. A tight smile curved Dante’s hard mouth. He couldn’t have agreed more. IT WAS A LONG WEEKEND. Charlotte left endless messages on his voice mail. They ranged from weepy to demanding, and he erased them all. Saturday morning, he heard from the detective his attorney had contacted. The man asked for everything Dante knew about Taylor. “Her name,” he said, “is Taylor Sommers. She lived in the Stanhope, on Gramercy Park. She’s an interior decorator.” There was a silence. “And?” the man said. “And what? Isn’t that enough?” “Well, I could use the names of her parents. Her friends. Date of birth. Where she grew up. What schools she attended.” “I’ve told you everything I know,” Dante said coldly. He hung up the phone, then walked through his bedroom and onto the wraparound terrace that surrounded his Central Park West penthouse. It was cold; the wind had a way of whipping around the building at this height. And it had snowed overnight, not heavily, just enough to turn the park a pristine white. Dante frowned. The detective had seemed surprised he knew so little about Taylor, but why would he have known more? She pleased his eye; she was passionate and intelligent. What more would a man want from a woman? There had been moments, though. Like the time he’d brought her here for a late supper. It had snowed that night, too. He’d excused himself, gone to make a brief but necessary phone call. When he came back, he’d found the terrace door open and Taylor standing out here, just as he was now. She’d been wearing a silk dress, a little slip of a thing. He’d taken off his jacket, stepped outside and put it around her shoulders. “What are you doing, cara? It’s much too cold for you out here.” “I know,” she’d answered, snuggling into his jacket and into the curve of his arm, “but it’s so beautiful, Dante.” She’d turned her face up to his and smiled. “I love nights like this, don’t you?” Cold nights reminded him of the frigid winters in Palermo, the way he’d padded his shoes with newspaper in a useless attempt to keep warm. For some reason he still couldn’t comprehend, he’d almost told her that. Of course, he had not done anything so foolish. Instead, he’d kissed her. “If you can get over your penchant for cold and snow,” he’d said, with a little smile, “we can fly to the Caribbean some weekend and you can help me house-hunt. I’ve been thinking about buying a place in the islands.” Her smile had been soft. “I’d like that,” she’d said. “I’d like it very, very much.” Instantly, he’d realized what a mistake he’d made. He’d asked her to take a step into his life and he’d never meant to do that. He’d never mentioned the Caribbean again. Not that it mattered, because two weeks later, she’d walked out on him. Walked out, he thought now, his jaw tightening. Left him to come up with excuses explaining her absence at all those endless Christmas charitable events he was expected to attend. But he’d solved that problem simply enough. He’d found replacements for her. He’d gone through that season with an endless array of beautiful women on his arm. On his arm, but not in his bed. It had been a long time until he’d had sex after Taylor, and even then, it hadn’t been the same. The truth was, it still wasn’t. Something was lacking. Not for his lovers. He knew damned well how to make a woman cry out with pleasure but he felt—what was the word? Removed. That was it. His body went through all the motions, but when it was over, he felt unsatisfied. Taylor was to blame for that. What in hell had possessed him, to let her walk away? To let her think she’d ended their affair when she hadn’t? A man’s ego could take just so much. By Monday, his anger was at the boiling point. When the private investigator turned up at his office, he greeted him with barely concealed impatience. “Well? Surely you’ve located Ms. Sommers. How difficult can it be to find a woman in this city?” The man scratched his ear, took a notepad from his pocket and thumbed it open. “See, that was the problem, Mr. Russo. The lady isn’t in this city. She’s in…” He frowned. “Shelby, Vermont.” Dante stared at him. “Vermont?” “Yeah. Little town, maybe fifty miles from Burlington.” Taylor, in a New England village? Dante almost laughed trying to picture his sophisticated former lover in such a setting. “The lady has an interior decorating business.” The P.I. turned the page. “And she’s done okay. In fact, she just applied for an expansion loan at—” The P.I. rattled on but Dante was only half listening. He knew where to find Taylor. Everything else was superfluous. How surprised she’d be, he thought with grim satisfaction, to see him again. To hear him tell her that she hadn’t needed to leave him, that he’d been leaving her— “…just for the two of them. I have the details, if you—” Dante’s head came up. “Just for the two of what?” he said carefully. “Of them,” the P.I. said, raising an eyebrow. “You know, what I was saying about the house she inherited. A couple of realtors suggested she might want something newer and larger but she said no, she wanted a small house in a quiet setting, just big enough for two. For her and, uh…I got the name right here, if you just give me a—” “A house for two people?” Dante said, in a tone opponents had learned to fear. “That’s right. Her and—here it is. Sam Gardner.” “Taylor.” Dante cleared his throat. “And Sam Gardner. They live together?” “Well, sure.” “And Gardner was with her when she moved in?” The P.I. chuckled. “Yessir. I mean—” “I know exactly what you mean,” Dante said without inflection. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.” “Yeah, but, Mr. Russo—” “Most helpful,” Dante repeated. The detective got the message. Alone, Dante told himself he’d accomplish nothing unless he stayed calm, but a knot of red-hot rage was already blooming in his gut. Taylor hadn’t left him because she’d grown bored. She’d left him for another man. She’d been seeing someone, making love with someone, while she’d been with him. He went to the window and clasped the edge of the sill, hands tightening on the marble the way they wanted to tighten on her throat. Confronting her wouldn’t be enough. Beating the crap out of her lover wouldn’t be enough, either, although it would damned well help. He wanted more. Wanted the kind of revenge that her infidelity merited. How dare she make a fool of him? How dare she? There had to be a way. A plan. Suddenly, he recalled the P.I.’s words. She’s done well. In fact, she’s just applied for an expansion loan at the local bank. Dante smiled. There was. And he could hardly wait to put it into motion. CHAPTER TWO TAYLOR SOMMERS POURED a cup of coffee, put it on the sink, opened the refrigerator to get the cream and realized she’d already put it on the table, right alongside the cup she’d already filled with coffee only minutes before. She took a steadying breath. “Keep it up,” she said, her voice loud in the silence, “and Walter Dennison’s going to tell you he was only joking when he said he’d change those loan payments.” Dennison was a nice man; he’d been a friend of her grandmother’s. He’d shown compassion and small-town courtesy when Tally fell behind on repaying the home equity loan his bank had granted her. But he wasn’t a fool and only a fool would go on doing that for a woman who behaved as if she were coming apart. Was that why he wanted to see her today? Had he changed his mind? If he had, if he wanted her to pay the amount the loan called for each month… Tally closed her eyes. She’d be finished. The town had already shut down the interior decorating business she’d been running from home. Without the loan, she’d lose the shop she’d rented on the village green even before it opened because, to put it simply, she was broke. Flat broke. Okay, if you wanted absolute accuracy, she had two hundred dollars in her bank account, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to what she needed. She’d long ago used up her savings. Moving to Vermont, paying for repairs to make livable the old house she’d inherited from her grandmother, just day-to-day expenses for Sam and her had taken a huge chunk of her savings. Start-up costs for INTERIORS BY TAYLOR had swallowed the rest. Beginning a decorating business, even from home, was expensive. You had to have at least a small showroom—in her case, what had once been an enclosed porch on the back of the house—so that potential clients could get a feel for your work. Paint, fabric, wicker furniture to make the porch inviting had cost a bundle. Then there were the fabric samples, decorative items like vases and lamps, handmade candles and fireplace accessories…Expensive, all of them. Some catalogs alone could be incredibly pricey. Advertising costs were astronomical but if you didn’t reach the right people, all your other efforts were pointless. Little by little, INTERIORS BY TAYLOR had begun to draw clients from the upscale ski communities within miles of tiny Shelby. Taylor’s accounts had still been in the red, but things had definitely been looking up. And then the town clerk phoned. He was apologetic, but that didn’t make his message any less harsh. INTERIORS BY TAYLOR was operating illegally. The town had an ordinance against home-based businesses. That Shelby, Vermont, population 8500 on a good day, had ordinances at all had been a surprise. But it did, and this one was inviolate. You couldn’t operate a business from your house even if you’d been raised under its roof after your mother took off for parts unknown. Tally’s pleading had gained her a two-month reprieve. She’d found a soon-to-be-vacant shop on the village green. Each night, long after Sam was asleep, she’d worked and reworked the costs she’d face. The monthly rent. The three-months up-front deposit. The fees for the carpenter, painter and electrician needed to turn the place from the TV-repair shop it had been into an elegant setting for her designs. And then there were all the things she’d have to buy to create the right atmosphere. Add in the cost of increased advertising and Tally had arrived at a number that was staggering. She needed $175,000.00. The next morning, she’d kissed Sam goodbye, put on a white silk blouse and a black suit she hadn’t worn since New York. She’d pulled her blond hair into a knot at the base of her neck and gone to see Walter Dennison, who owned Shelby’s one and only bank. Dennison read through the proposal she’d written, looked up and frowned. “You’re asking for a lot of money.” “I know.” “Asking for it in a home equity loan.” “Yes, sir.” “You understand what would happen if you were unable to pay the loan off, Ms. Sommers? That the bank would have the right to foreclose on your house?” Taylor had nodded. “Yes, sir,” she’d said again. “I do.” Dennison had looked at her for a long moment. Then he’d smiled. “You’ve got your grandmother’s gumption, Tally,” he’d said, and held out his hand. The loan was hers. She’d made the first payment…but not the second. Or the third. The contractors demanded their money according to the schedules she’d agreed to. Things couldn’t get worse, she’d thought… And the furnace in the house went belly-up. Pride in tatters, Taylor had gone to Dennison again. If he could see his way clear to lower the monthly payments… He’d sighed and run his fingers through his thinning hair. In the end he’d done it. Which brought her back to today’s phone call. It had come while she and Sam were having breakfast. “I need to see you, Ms. Sommers,” Dennison had said. “Today.” She’d almost stopped breathing. “Is it about my loan?” There’d been a little pause. Then Dennison had said yes, it was, and she was to come to his office at four. “Four,” he’d repeated, “promptly, please.” The admonition had surprised her. So had the change from Tally to Ms. Sommers. She’d told herself it wasn’t a bad sign. A man who wanted to discuss a six-figure loan was entitled to be a little formal, even if he’d known you since you were a baby. “Of course,” she’d said, all cool New York sophistication. Then she’d hung up the phone and tried to smile at Sam, whose eyes were filled with questions. “Nothing to worry about, babe,” Tally had said airily. Sam had grinned a Sam-grin, at least until she said she might not be home until suppertime. “You can visit the Millers,” she’d said reassuringly. “You know how much you like them.” She’d smoothed things over by promising they’d have the entire weekend together, doing what Sam liked most: snuggling with her on the sofa, watching videos and eating popcorn. Dante Russo had probably never watched a video or eaten popcorn in his life… And what was that man doing in her head again? Who gave a damn what Dante Russo did or didn’t do? He was history. Besides, he’d never meant anything more to her than what she’d meant to him. New York was filled with relationships like theirs. Two consenting adults going out together, being seen together… Having sex together. Tally’s eyes closed. Memories rushed in. Scents. Tastes. Sensations. Dante’s hands, deliciously rough on her skin. His mouth, demanding surrender as he kissed her. His face above her, his silver eyes dark as storm clouds, his sensual lips drawn back with passion… She swung toward the sink, dumped her coffee and rinsed out the cup. What stupid thoughts to have today of all days, when she had to be at her best. Still, she understood why she would think of Dante. Her mouth curved in a bitter smile. This was an anniversary of sorts. She’d left Dante Russo a few weeks before Christmas, three years ago. All it took was the scent of pine and the sound of carols to bring the memories rushing back. She wouldn’t let that happen. Dante had no place in the new life she’d built for herself. For herself and Sam. He was nothing to her anymore. Or to Sam. Sam didn’t know Dante existed. And Dante certainly didn’t know about Sam. He never would, either. She would see to that. Tally knew her former lover well. Dante hadn’t wanted her and surely wouldn’t have understood why she wanted Sam…But that didn’t mean he’d simply let her have Sam, if he knew. Her former lover could be charming but underneath he was cold, determined and ruthless. She refused to think about how he might react if he knew everything. Tally sighed and turned on the kitchen lights. Night had fallen; it came early to these northern latitudes. The coming storm the weatherman had predicted rattled the old windows. She’d fled New York on a night like this. Cold, dark, with snow in the forecast. What a wreck she’d been that night! Pretending to be sick, then packing her clothes and scribbling that final note. All she’d been able to think about was getting away before Dante showed up. She wasn’t stupid. She’d known he hadn’t wanted her anymore. He’d been removed and distant for a while and sometimes she’d caught him watching her with a look on his face that made her want to weep. He was bored with her. And getting ready to end their affair, but she wouldn’t let that happen. She’d end it first. It would be quicker, less humiliating… And safer, because by then she had a secret she’d never have been foolish enough to share with him. So she’d made plans to leave him. And she’d done it so he wouldn’t be able to find her, even if he looked for her. Not that she thought he would. Why would a man go after a woman when she’d saved him the trouble of getting rid of her? Even if he had, maybe out of all that macho Sicilian arrogance made all the more potent by his power, his wealth, his gorgeous face and body—even if he had, he’d never have found her. He’d never dream she’d flee to a tiny village in New England. He knew nothing about her. In their six months together, he’d never asked her questions about herself. Not real ones. Would you prefer Chez Nicole or L’Etoile for dinner? he’d ask. Shall I get tickets for the ballet or the symphony? Things a man would ask any woman. Never anything more important. Well, yes. He’d asked her other things. Whispered them, in that husky voice that was a turn-on all by itself. Do you like it when I touch you this way? And if what he was doing seemed too much, if it made her tremble in his arms, he’d kiss her deeply and say, Don’t stop me, bellissima. Let me. Yes. Let me do this. Yes. Like that. Just like that… She was trembling even now, just remembering those moments. “You’re a fool,” Tally said, her voice sharp in the silence of the kitchen. Sex with Dante had been incredible, but sex was all it was, even though lying beneath him, feeling the power of his penetration, his possession, sometimes made her want to weep with joy. But it didn’t make up for the fact that he’d never once spent the entire night in her bed or asked her to come to his. Stay with me, she’d wanted to say, oh, so many times. But she hadn’t. Only the once, when the words had slipped out before she could stop them… Only the once, when she’d forgotten that all her lover wanted was her body, not her heart. Tally turned her back to the window. So what? Why would she have wanted a man to tie her down, give her a baby and then turn his ever-wandering eyes elsewhere as her father had done, as a man like Dante Russo would surely do? It was the meeting with Walter Dennison that had her feeling so strange, that was all. Once she put that behind her, she’d be fine. And it was time to get moving. Be here at four, Ms. Sommers, and please be prompt. She smiled as put on her coat and grabbed her car keys. All those years in New York had made her forget how pedantic a true Yankee could be. AS USUAL, the weatherman had it wrong. Snow was already falling as if someone were shaking a featherbed over the town. The snow dusting the woods and fields with a blanket of white as Tally drove past would have made a beautiful Christmas card. In the real world, it made for a dangerous drive. The narrow road that led into the heart of town already wore a thin coating of black ice, and the new snow hid stretches of asphalt as slick as glass. Her old station wagon needed better snow tires. The rear end slewed sickeningly as she turned onto Main Street and her stomach skidded with it, but there were no other vehicles on the road and she came through the turn without harm to anything but her nerves. Only two cars were parked in the bank’s lot, the aged maroon Lincoln she recognized as Dennison’s and a big, shiny black SUV that looked as if it could climb Everest in a blizzard and come through laughing. Dennison would have sent his employees home early because of the storm. The SUV probably belonged to some tourist on his way to ski country who’d stopped to use the ATM. Tally parked and got out of the station wagon. The double doors to the bank opened as she reached them, revealing Walter Dennison wearing a black topcoat over his usual gray suit. “You’re late, Ms. Sommers.” He whispered the words. And shot a quick look over his shoulder. Tally felt a stab of panic. The black car. The paleness of Dennison’s face. His whisper. Was the bank being held up? “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to peer past him, “but the roads—” “I understand.” He hesitated. “Ms. Sommers. Tally. There’s something you need to know.” Oh, God. It was true. She’d walked into a holdup in progress— “I sold the bank.” She stared at him blankly. “What?” “I said, I sold the bank.” He might as well have been speaking another language. Sold the bank? How could he have done that? The Dennison family had started the Shelby Bank in the early 1800s. “I don’t understand, Mr. Dennison. Why would you—” “It’s nothing for the town to worry about. The new owner will keep everything just as it is.” Dennison cleared his throat. “Almost everything.” His eyes shifted from hers, and Tally’s stomach dropped. There could only be one reason he’d wanted to see her. “What about the new payment arrangements on my loan?” She saw Dennison’s adam’s apple move up, then down. He opened his mouth as if he were going to speak. Instead, he shouldered past her, turned up his collar and went out into the storm. Tally stared after him as his lean figure was lost in a swirling maelstrom of white. “Mr. Dennison! Wait!” Her voice rose. “Will this affect my loan? You said the new owner will keep everything just as it is—” “Not quite everything,” a familiar voice said. And even as her heart pounded, as she swung toward the open bank doors and told herself it couldn’t be true, she knew what she would see. That voice could belong to only one man. DANTE SMILED when Taylor turned toward him. Her face was white with shock. Excellent. He’d wanted her stunned by the sight of him. Things were going precisely as he’d intended, despite how quickly he’d had to work. He’d put his plan in motion in less than a week, first convincing the old man to sell and then getting the authorities to approve the sale, but he was Dante Russo. People always deferred to him. This morning, he’d phoned Dennison and told him he’d be there at three. Told him, as well, to notify Taylor to be at the bank at four. Promptly at four. And, of course, not to mention anything about the bank’s new ownership. Dante’s lips curved in a tight smile. He’d figured Taylor would be on edge to start with. A woman who’d put up her home as equity for a loan of $175,000.00 she couldn’t pay would not be at ease. Add in Dennison’s refusal to explain the reason for the meeting and the warning to be prompt, her nerves would be stretched to the breaking point. His smile faded. The only thing that would have made this more interesting was if Samuel Gardner was with her, but from the investigator’s comments, he’d gathered that his former mistress’s new lover didn’t stand up to life’s tougher moments. “Why didn’t Sam Gardner sign for the loan?” he’d asked Dennison. The old man had looked at him as if he were insane. “Buying a bank on a seeming whim, suggesting something anyone in town would know is impossible…You have a strange sense of humor, Mr. Russo,” he’d said with a thin-lipped Yankee smile. Dante stood away from the door. Dennison was wrong. There was nothing the least bit humorous about this situation. It was payback, pure and simple. And it was time Taylor knew it. “Aren’t you going to come inside and face me, cara?” he said, his tone deliberately soft and coaxing. “Perhaps not. Facing me is not your forte, is it?” He saw her stiffen. She probably wanted to run, but she didn’t. Instead, she raised her chin, squared her shoulders and stepped inside the bank. He had to admire her courage, the way she was girding herself for confrontation. She had no way of knowing that nothing she could do would be enough. The news he was going to give her was bad, and it delighted him to do it. “Hello, Dante.” Her voice trembled. Her face had taken on some color, though it was still pale. Three years. Three years since he’d seen her… And she was still beautiful. More beautiful than his memory of her, if that were possible. Was it time that had made her mouth seem even softer, her eyes wider and darker? Still, time had not been completely kind. It had affected her in other ways. Purple shadows lay beneath her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in an unbecoming knot and he had the indefensible urge to close the distance between them, take out the pins and let all those lustrous cinnamon strands tumble free. He let his gaze move over her slowly, from her face all the way to her feet and back again. A frown creased his forehead. He’d never seen her in anything but elegantly tailored clothing. Designer suits and gowns, spiked heels that could give a man dangerous fantasies, her face perfectly made up, her hair impeccably cut and styled. Things were different now. The lapels of her coat were frayed. Her boots were the no-nonsense kind meant for rough weather. Her hair was in that ridiculous knot and her face was bare of everything but lipstick—lipstick and the shadows of exhaustion under her eyes. He spoke without thinking. “What’s happened to you?” he said sharply. “Have you been ill?” “How nice of you to ask.” She was still pale but her gaze was steady and her words were brittle with sarcasm. He moved quickly; before she could step back he was a breath away, his hand wrapped around her arm. “I asked you a question. Answer it.” A flush rose in her cheeks. “I’m not ill. I’m simply living in the real world. It’s a place where people work hard for what they have. Where you can’t just snap your fingers and expect everyone to leap to do your bidding, but then, what would you know of such things?” What, indeed? It was none of her business, of anyone’s business, that he’d started his life scrounging for money, that he’d worked his hands raw in construction jobs when he came to the States, or that he could still remember what it was like to go to sleep hungry. He’d never snapped his fingers and never would, but he’d be damned if he’d explain that to anyone. “And your lover? He permits this?” She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “My what?” “Another question you don’t want to answer. That’s all right. I have plenty of time.” Tally wrenched free of his grasp. “I’m the one with questions, Dante. What are you doing here?” “We haven’t seen each other in a long time, cara.” A slow smile that turned her blood to ice eased across his lips. “Surely, we have other things to talk about first.” “We have nothing to talk about.” “But we do. You know that.” She didn’t know anything. That was the problem. What did he know? Did he know about Sam? She didn’t think so. Surely, he’d have tossed that at her already, if he did. Then, what did he want? He wasn’t here for a visit. He hadn’t bought the Shelby bank on a whim… The loan. Her loan. Oh God, oh God… “Ah,” he said slyly, “your face is an open book. Have you thought of some things we might wish to discuss?” She couldn’t let him see her fear. There had to be some way she could gain the upper hand. “What I know,” Tally said, “is that we never talked in the past. We went to dinner, to parties…” She took a steadying breath. “And we went to bed.” His mouth twisted. Had she struck a nerve? “I’m glad you remember that.” “Is that why you came here, Dante? To remind me that we used to have sex together? Or to ask why I left you?” Somehow, she managed a chilly smile. “Really, I thought you’d understand. My note—” “Your note was a bad joke.” Tally shrugged her shoulders. “It was honest. Or did it never occur to you that a woman is no different from a man? I mean, yes, we can pretend in ways a man can’t, but sooner or later, things grow, well, old.” Dante’s face contorted with anger. “You’re a liar!” “Come on, admit it. We’d been together for months. It was fun for a long time but then—” She gasped as he caught hold of her and encircled her throat with his hand. “I remember how you were in bed,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Are you telling me it was all a performance?” He tugged her closer, until her body brushed his and she had to tilt back her head to look into his eyes. It was deliberate, damn him, a way of emphasizing his strength, his size, his domination. God, how she hated him! Three years, three endless years, and he was still furious because she’d walked out on him, but she’d done what she had to do to survive. To protect her secret from his unpredictable Sicilian ego. “You were fire in my arms.” His eyes, the color of smoke, locked on hers. She tried to look away but his hand was like a collar around her throat. When he urged her chin up, she had no choice but to meet his gaze. “You cried out as I came inside you. Your womb contracted around me. Would you have me believe you faked that, too?” “Is it impossible for you to be a gentleman?” Tally said, hating herself for the way her voice shook. His smile was slow and sexy and so dangerous it made her heartbeat quicken. “But I was a gentleman with you. Was that a mistake? Perhaps you didn’t want a gentleman in your bed.” She gasped as he forced her head back. “Is that why you ran away in the middle of the night?” “I left you, period. Don’t make it sound so dramatic.” “Left me for what, exactly? The glory of an existence in the middle of nowhere? A bank account with nothing in it?” His tone turned silken. “I think not, cara. I think you left me for a new lover who isn’t a gentleman at all.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He thrust his fingers into her hair. The pins that held it confined clattered sharply against the marble floor as the strands of gold-burnished cinnamon came loose and fell over her shoulders. “Is that it? Was I too gentle with you?” He wound her hair around his fist and lowered his head until his face was an inch from hers. “Had you hoped I would do things to you, demand things of you, that people only whisper about?” “Dante. This is—It’s crazy. I don’t—I didn’t…” She swallowed dryly. “Let me go.” She’d meant the words to be a command. Instead, they were a whisper. He smiled with amusement, and she felt an electric jolt in her blood. “I said, let go…Or did you come here thinking you could bully me back into your arms?” His eyes grew dark; she saw his mouth twist. The seconds ticked away and then, when her heart seemed ready to leap from her breast, he thrust her from him, stepped back and folded his arms. “Never that,” he said coolly. “And you’re right. Things were over between us. I knew it. In fact, that was the reason I went to see you that night. I wanted to tell you we were finished.” He gave a quick smile. “As you say, cara, things get old.” She’d known the truth but hearing it made it worse. Still, she showed no reaction. He wanted her to squirm, and she’d be damned if she would. “Is that what this is about? That the great Dante Russo wants to be sure I understand I made the first move only because your timing was off?” Dante chuckled. “Bright as always, Taylor—though you surely don’t believe I bought this bank and made this trip only so I could tell you it was pure luck you ended our affair before I did.” Tally moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She was dying inside, but she’d be damned if she’d let him know it. “No. I’m not that naive. You bought the bank because—” Desperately, she ran through the terms of the loan in her mind. Could he do that? Could he cancel what Dennison had already approved? “Because you think you can cancel my loan.” “Think?” he said, very softly. “You underestimate me. I can do whatever I wish, but canceling a loan that already exists would take more time and effort than it’s worth.” He smiled. “So I’m going to do the next best thing. I’m reinstating the original repayment terms.” Her gaze flew to his. “Reinstating them?” she said stupidly. “I don’t understand.” “It’s simple, cara,” he said, almost gently. “As of now, you will pay the amount you are supposed to pay each month.” Tally thought of the four-figure number the loan called for. She was paying a quarter of that amount now, and barely managing it. “That’s—it’s out of the question. I can’t possibly—” “Additionally, you will pay the amount that’s in arrears.” He took a slip of paper from his pocket and held it out toward her. His lips curved. “Plus interest, of course.” Tally looked at the number on the paper and laughed. It was either that or weep. “I don’t have that kind of money!” “Ah.” Dante sighed. “I thought not. In that case, you leave me no choice but to start foreclosure proceedings against your home.” She felt the blood drain from her face. “Foreclosure proceedings?” “This was a home equity loan. You put up your house as collateral.” Another quick, icy smile. “If you don’t understand what that means, perhaps your lover can explain it to you.” “Are you crazy?” Tally’s voice rose. “You can’t do this! You can’t take my house. You can’t!” Her hands came up like a fighter’s, fists at the ready as if she would beat him into understanding the horror of his plan. “Damn you, there are rules!” “You’ve forgotten what you know about me,” Dante said coldly. “I make my own rules.” He proved it by gathering her into his arms and kissing her. CHAPTER THREE HE WAS KISSING HER, Dante told himself, because she’d lied to him a few minutes ago. Why else would he want her in his arms, except to make her confess to the lie? Taylor had never faked her responses in bed, and he’d be damned if he’d let her pretend she had. He was over her, but she knew just the right buttons to push. Well, so did he. He’d kiss her until she melted against him the way she used to and then he’d step back and say, You see, Taylor? That’s the price liars pay. Which was why he was kissing her. Or trying to. The problem was that he had cornered a wildcat. She fought back, twisted her head to the side to avoid his mouth and pummeled his shoulders with her fists. When none of that worked, she sank her teeth in his ear lobe so hard he hissed with pain. “Damn you, woman!” “Let go of me, you—you—” Her fist flew by his jaw. Grimly, Dante snared both her hands in one of his and pinned them to his chest. Her knee came up but he felt it happening and yanked her hard against him to immobilize her. She was helpless now, pinned between him and the wall beside the double doors. “Take your hands off me, Russo! If you don’t, so help me—” “So help you, what? What will you do? How will you stop me from proving what a little liar you are?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am not a—” He bent his head and captured her mouth with his. She nipped his lip, her teeth sharp as a cat’s. He tasted blood but if she thought that would stop him, she didn’t know him very well. He would win this battle. He had the right to know why she’d lied about what she’d felt when he made love to her. And to know why she’d left him. He wanted answers and, damn it, he was going to get them. He caught her face in his hands. Kissed her again, angling his mouth over hers, penetrating her with his tongue. He remembered how she’d loved it when he kissed her this way. Deep. Wet. Hot. He’d loved kisses like this, too… He still did. Dio, the feel of her in his arms. Her breasts, soft against his chest. Her hips, cradling his erection. He wanted her, and it had nothing to do with anger. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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