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He took it with a soft thank you, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes downcast. "I don't know. I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore, Scarlett. That is a fact."
I stood over him, studying him. I'd forgotten how thick his eyelashes were, double-rowed and darker than his hair. I'd forgotten how well defined his lush top lip was, how broad his shoulders were, so muscular they flexed even when he made a movement as small as taking a drink of his coffee.
I'd forgotten that when he showed me the tiniest glimmer of vulnerability, it made me go weak as a babe.
I'd forced myself forget so many things about him, and I wondered, hardly daring to even hope, if it could be different now.
Was there some chance that I could turn my bitter memories sweet again? Not all of them. Of course not. But perhaps some?
I still didn't know.
Everything had changed, but the future was more uncertain than ever.
I stroked a hand oh so softly over his hair, and his entire big body tensed as though bracing for a blow.
He had good instincts. "I know, Dante." My voice was quiet, but the tremulous intensity of it reverberated through the room. "I know."
"I don't have the faintest notion what you're talking about." Slowly and carefully, he set his coffee down on the side table to his right.
"You're such a liar," I told him almost playfully, because for once I had the upper hand.
Finally, that had him looking up at me, meeting my eyes without flinching.
"Who have you been talking to?" The question came out careful, his tone measured. Deceptively harmless.
I wasn't fooled. His face was bland, still, except for his eyes. They were telling me a different story.
A story of rage and violence. Of his temper boiling, unchecked, just under the surface.
If I gave him a name, told him who had clued me in . . .
Heads would roll.
"That's the least relevant thing you could ask," I finally answered, an evasion, but one I knew would be effective.
"I don't agree. Who?" The bland veneer was slipping from his voice.
"I'll answer one of your questions, but not that one." My voice was almost teasing.
He licked his lips and it was an effort not to bend down and kiss him. "What do you mean?"
I was in dangerous territory now. My urge to heal him was becoming as strong as my need to harm him.
"The answer is yes," I uttered softly. It hurt my tattered heart to get the words out, but I could not seem to keep them in.
Confusion drew his brows together, his brilliant eyes studying my face. "Yes to what?"
"Yes. I do love you as much as I hate you."
Something happened to his face; it fell and lifted as a shudder wracked through him. "Jesus," he whispered, again and again as he grabbed me, burying his face in my stomach, his big arms wrapping around me.
My voice was grating, as brittle as breaking glass, as I added, "It is a near draw, the love and the hate, but it could tip either way. I'm done with the lies, Dante. I have some questions, and you are going to answer them."
He didn't let go of me, didn't flee this time.
Progress.
"What do you know?" he asked carefully, voice muffled against my belly. His face was still pressed tightly to me.
