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Costanza understood him—made allowances for him. He’d taken comfort from that in the past. He’d taken advantage of it too—to wallow in self-pity, he suspected—or to hug the past, as Rose would put it. Tonight he found no comfort in those thoughts. They only made him more impatient with himself than ever.
“Is it your mother?” Costanza prompted.
“I carry my mother in my heart, but I can’t live my life through her,” he brooded, speaking his thoughts out loud.
Costanza smiled. “Rose is good for you.”
He shrugged dismissively.
That should have been the end of it, but Costanza was in no way put off. “How long are you going to lie to yourself?” she demanded. “Everyone can see what Rose means to you. Why can’t you?”
He snapped. “Do you have any idea how annoying you can be?”
“I should. You’ve been telling me since we were kids.”
“Then you should know to leave me alone.” He pulled back. “We don’t have to dance.”
“Leave you to brood and pick a fight?” Costanza suggested with a lift of her brow. “Not a chance, though you should be dancing with Rose. If you’re in love, accept it and get on with it, as I have.”
“Love?” He stared down at Costanza as if she were crazy. “What makes you think I’m in love?”
“The woman with murder on her mind who’s glaring at us right now?”
He glanced up, but as their stares met, Rose looked away. “I’m not in love with Rose Delaney. She works for me.”
“And?” Angling her chin, Costanza stared up and shook her head. “Honestly, Dante. Some days I want to strangle you. The only thing stopping me is the fact that you’re a man, and I have to keep reminding myself to make allowances.”
~~o0o~~
That sixth sense—the instinct Rose was so proud of? Sometimes it was great. Other times…? She’d spotted them right away. Dante was dancing with Miguel’s beautiful daughter, Costanza, within an hour of making love to Rose. That had to be some sort of record, surely? And what about Tom? Where did he fit into this equation?
Making love? They’d had sex, Rose swiftly amended. There was no point gilding a lily when it came with a turd attached. And there was no equation. Dante could dance with whomever he liked.
She would behave with dignity, Rose decided as she made for the bar where the gauchos from the race were gathered. She should celebrate with them. That was why she’d come to the party in the first place. She wasn’t going to hang around on the fringes, glowering at Dante, which would only prove to him how much she cared.
“Hey, Rose—” Tom smiled as he drew her into the circle of men.
She braced herself for the teasing and the inevitable comments about the Little People, Ireland’s fairy folk, casting a spell over the rest of them, which had to be the only reason she’d managed to do so well. The men were in a good mood, and soon there was a line of beers stacked up on the bar. The moon had come out from behind the clouds and beamed down like a spotlight. Everything was good—except for Dante’s stare boring into her back.
“Would you prefer a soda?”
She looked up as Tom spoke. He was a nice man. If Dante hadn’t clamped his big hands around her heart and squeezed it tight, she might have noticed a lot more about the men who populated his estancia. “I’d love a soda. Thanks.”
“I’ll order it, then we’ll dance,” Tom offered.
“With you?” She pulled a face.
“Why not with me?” Tom demanded good-humoredly.
“Because I dance like a drunken hippo? You might want to rethink that offer.”
“I’m wearing boots,” Tom pointed out with a grin.
Leaning over the bar, he ordered her drink and then led her onto the dance floor. “One dance to celebrate third place,” he said.
Tom wasn’t looking at her, Rose noticed. His attention was centered on Costanza dancing with Dante. Tom’s eyes were narrowed with hostility. Dante’s expression, when their stares clashed briefly, was hardly any friendlier. She felt trouble brewing. How many women would it take to stop two raging bulls from killing each other?
Two, as it turned out. Rose stood in the way of Dante’s fist, while Costanza held on to Tom’s arm with grim determination.
