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She’d what? Walk away?
Dante was in the same sort of mood. He wasn’t interested in delay. Pushing her dress back, he parted her legs. “No underwear?” he exclaimed softly.
“Oh, did I forget?”
He gave her a look. “You were up in your bedroom long enough. I would have thought it might occur to you at some point.”
Okay, so she was a shameless hussy. Hang her for it.
Honestly? She had imagined this very scenario occurring at some point in the evening, and the thought of exposing her grannie bashers to Dante’s searching hands held no appeal. Going commando was by far the better way.
“This is one bad habit I’d like you to keep,” he said with approval that made her softly pulsing body even more impatient for his touch.
It was like the first time all over again: intensely and unbelievably pleasurable—incredible, really…incredible to be with Dante. There was just one crucial difference this time, and that was that her feelings for him got in the way. She wanted more than he was prepared to give her. She wanted all of him. Would she go to Argentina? The chance to see and work with Dante every day was so tempting. But would it be enough for her? At the moment, she was a craven love slave with a world of emotion thrown in, but when feelings ran as deep as hers did, she had everything to lose.
Dante found new and exciting ways to distract her, and she lost control exultantly and repeatedly, while he encouraged her all the way. Her mind blanked to everything connected with Argentina, and when she quieted for a few seconds, he murmured, “Again?” As her feet were braced against the roof of the vehicle at the time, that didn’t seem like an unreasonable suggestion.
There was only one thing concerning her now, Rose thought as she resolutely pushed all her deeper worries away. They were rocking the hell out of the off-roader. Could an SUV tip over?
Chapter Eight
Their absence from the party had not been noticed. Which wasn’t so surprising when they returned to find everyone dancing and the band in full swing with Rose’s father in the thick of it. The noise was ferocious, and the air had become a humid smog of warm bodies and alcohol. They spent the rest of the night in silence, hunkered over a couple of beers at the bar. No one disturbed them. They were a tight unit—or must appear to be so, Rose thought. Dante drove them home shortly after midnight. Her father sang happily and tunelessly all the way. “It’s good to see you enjoying yourself, Rose,” he commented in a break between songs. “You don’t get out enough.”
“Nor do you,” she replied fondly.
“Maybe I will now I know I can safely leave the animals.” He glanced gratefully at Dante.
She smiled and reached over the seat to squeeze his arm. “You should get out more. You’ve been lonely long enough.”
~~o0o~~
Dante saw Rose and her father into the house and then returned to the inn. He climbed the creaking stairs to his room, lifted the black, wrought iron latch, and switched on the light. He liked Crackallen, and he liked the characters who lived here. Maybe he’d buy a place.
To add to the dozen or so properties I own across the world and never visit?
He called in once a year on most of them, to check they were still standing. He called nowhere home.
He booted up the laptop to make sure the security cameras on the farm were operating efficiently, then he took a shower and went to bed. And didn’t sleep. Not that the bed wasn’t comfortable. Just that it was empty without Rose.
He was up at dawn the next morning. He skipped breakfast in favor of driving straight to the farm. He was impatient to see her—to have her. No other woman had ever consumed him like Rose.
The kitchen door was open. He walked straight in. She was at the range, making breakfast. He strode across the room, and before she had a chance to turn around, he looped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. She felt, smelled, tasted as good as he’d anticipated—maybe better. The way she leaned i
nto him said she felt the same.
“So you’re coming to Argentina,” he confirmed.
She turned around in his arms so she could look at him. Her expression was as challenging and seductive as ever. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“You left the door open.”
“You’re right. I should have closed and bolted it against you,” she agreed.
“That wouldn’t have saved you.”
“From you? Probably not,” she agreed, “because you’re the guy who finds the door locked, so he climbs in through the window.”
“That’s me.” He smiled faintly. “But, seriously. Always remember to lock that door. I walked straight in.”
