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“You can put me down,” she said as they entered the house.
“No need.” She felt as light as a feather as he jogged up the stairs.
“You’re in a strange mood today,” she said. “I heard it’s your birthday tomorrow.” And then she did something that nearly broke him. Reaching up, she traced his cheek. “That must be a difficult anniversary for you.”
He ground his jaw and made no reply. He should have known Rose wouldn’t leave it. “Your birthday is also the anniversary of your mother’s death,” she said gently.
“Stop now,” he warned.
“I don’t want to upset you. I just want you to know I understand.”
“Accept I’m a lost cause, and enjoy this for what it is,” he advised.
“But, what is it, Dante?”
“Very good sex.” He hardened his heart to the expression in Rose’s eyes, and, kicking off his boots, he joined her on the bed.
~~o0o~~
Dante was in the shower before she got a chance to look around. She threw on his top like a dress. She was hungry for clues about the man she was coming to care for far too much. Did anyone get close to him, she wondered? Dante’s bedroom was like the rest of his impressive house in that it was a quality build full of quality items. She’d expect nothing less of a billionaire. Decorated in rich earth tones, there were fabulous ethnic hangings in jewel colors on the walls, and curiosities from a number of countries, which she guessed had been collected over a period of time, possibly some even inherited from his mother. The burnished oak floors felt warm beneath her feet, and all in all, she was surprised to discover that Dante’s home had a distinctly cozy feel.
A burst of laughter from the party drifted in through the window. Drawn outside onto the impressive balcony, she listened to the night rhythm of cicadas and the sound of drapes ruffling in the breeze. The scent of honeysuckle and roses rising from the exquisitely groomed formal gardens was strong. Illuminated by subtle lighting, these were punctuated by beautiful water features that twinkled in the moonlight. Leaning over the polished wood balustrade, she tried to assess the size of his home and concluded it was huge. Removed from the rest of the estate, rather like the man himself, Dante’s hacienda was vast and sprawling, with outbuildings adding to its size. It was a big place for one man, but Dante’s past had scarred him in some way, making it difficult for anyone to get close, Rose suspected. Returning inside, she examined her own situation, which was no better. Each time she thought they were growing close, Dante pulled back.
And not much she could do about it, Rose concluded, pausing by a carved wooden chest to look at what she decided must be relics from his childhood. There was a crudely carved horse, and beside that, the photograph of a middle-aged man on horseback. She presumed it was Dante’s father with a very young Dante riding at his side. Dante looked wilder than the pony in the photographs—certainly in comparison to his straight-backed father, though they had the same eyes, she noticed when she picked up the photograph to study it more closely, and the same determined jaw.
“Rose?”
Her heart banged guiltily in her chest as Dante came back in to the bedroom. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” She put the picture down. With just a small towel looped around his waist and another that he was rubbing his hair dry with, Dante was a sensational sight. It was hard to believe they’d been in bed together in the most intimate circumstances only a short time before. “It’s such a good photograph. I hope you don’t mind my looking at it.” She glanced around the room. “Do you have any of your mother?”
She could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. To say Dante’s stare had cooled would be a mammoth understatement.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said quietly. “You and I don’t have that type of relationship.”
Her throat dried. “What do we have?”
“I think you know.”
“Good sex?” she queried, hurt beyond words.
“Better than that,” Dante remarked, swinging the towel around his neck.
Good sex was all they had. Why couldn’t she just accept it?
Because it wasn’t and never would be enough, Rose concluded. Loss could only be dealt with gradually, one tiny step at a time, but Dante had had plenty of time to get over what he’d suffered as a child, and she hadn’t meant to offend him by talking about his mother. She’d also lost her mother at a very young age, but she hadn’t allowed that fact to blight her life.
“Why can’t you say what you feel for once?” she challenged. “Is this cold, loveless existence what your mother would want for you?”
“I have no idea what she’d want.”
Dante frowned as he made an angry gesture, but she refused to be put off. Six brothers had inured her to moods and thunderstorms threatening. “Maybe it’s time to stop living in the past?”
“Maybe it’s time you stopped making observations about events you know nothing about.”
Tense and furious, he’d come to loom over her. No one talked about his parents, she guessed,
or if they did, it would be with the utmost reverence, preferably out of Dante’s earshot.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” She met his angry stare head-on. “Try losing that chip on your shoulder. Don’t hug the past. You’ve grown since then. Start living like a man who’s got everything most people can only dream about. I didn’t know my mother, in case you didn’t read my CV, but I don’t let that rule my life.”
