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Then Dante had appeared.
For a little while, at least, she could lift her head, take a breath, make plans. Yes, he’d obviously realized what a burden he’d undertaken, but once she was in New York, things would be better.
She’d lost the fazenda and that broke her heart, but perhaps the cold truth was that she’d be better off in Manhattan. She knew it better than she knew Bonito. She had friends in the city, contacts, her old agent. She could find a small apartment, get some modeling assignments, start to regain her feet.
She had thought about all those things during the flight, but by the time the plane landed she was sick. Whatever bug she’d been fighting had finally won. Everything ached; her belly felt as if someone had jabbed it with a hot poker.
She hid it from Dante. Not that he’d have abandoned her if he learned she was ill—she knew that. But the last thing she’d wanted was to be more of a burden than she already was. She would never have let him know she was sick if he hadn’t stumbled across the information by accident.
But she would get better. She would not overstay her welcome. A few days. A week, at most, and she would move on.
She had to, she thought now, as the baby slept beside her. Oh, yes, she had to move on. And quickly, before her foolish heart led her into trouble. Into temptation. Look at what had happened a little while ago. That kiss. The whisper of Dante’s fingers against her breast. She’d felt her body come alive, reminding her that she was not only a mother, she was a woman.
Yara had said she would be free of such urges for a very long time but clearly, her old ama was wrong. Those urges, those needs, were still there. They were there for Dante, only for Dante.
A light knock sounded at the closed door. Gabriella drew the duvet higher.
“Yes?”
“Is it okay to come in?”
It wasn’t, not while her heart was pounding like this.
“Sim. Yes, of course.”
Dante had a tray in his hands. There were things arranged on it. A carafe of iced water. A glass.
A teapot, cup and saucer. A box of tissues. And a small brass bell.
“In case you’re thirsty,” he said briskly, making room on the teak night table. “And a bell, if you should need me.”
“A bell,” she said, as if she’d never heard the word before. Why wouldn’t he look at her?
Moments ago he had kissed her as if he would never get enough of kissing her and now…
“One of my sisters, Anna, brought it back from somewhere. Thailand. Katmandu. Wherever aging hippies go to die.” He did look at her then, flashed a quick smile. “Not that Anna’s an aging anything. I keep telling her she was born a few decades too late.”
“Anna,” Gabriella said, and it truly was a word she’d never heard before. In the months they’d been together, she’d met his brothers once, purely by chance, but Dante had never talked about his family. Of course, neither had she. “It’s…it’s a lovely name.”
“Old-fashioned, Anna says, but…”
But what? Dante thought. Why was he talking about his sister? Was it because it was safer than doing what he really wanted to do, reaching for Gabriella, drawing her into his arms and kissing her until she wrapped her arms around his neck and begged him to finish what they had started a little while ago? No way. She was sick. He couldn’t take advantage of her and besides, it would only complicate things—as if they weren’t complicated enough.
He moved the pitcher of water, the glass, the teapot, did a handful of absolutely unnecessary things and then he stepped back.
“Okay,” he said brightly. “As I said, if you need anything…”
“Thank you.”
“Do you feel better?”
“I’m fine.”
The hell she was. Her face was almost the same shade of ivory as the pillow. The baby, at least, looked okay. He was sleeping, lashes dusting his cheeks, mouth pursed in a small bow.
Cute.
Dante frowned. Wrong. The baby didn’t look cute as much as he looked, well, like a miniature of a familiar face. A very familiar face…
He swallowed hard. Turned his gaze on Gabriella.
“Yeah. Well, we’ll see what the doctor has to say.”
“Dante. I don’t need a—”
“Yes. You do.”
“I don’t. Honestly, Dante—”
“Honestly, Gabriella,” he said, and then, because he damned well had to do it, he bent and kissed her, very lightly, on the mouth. “Ring the bell if you need me,” he said, and then he was gone.
Gabriella glared at the closed door. Damn the man! Did he think he could give her orders? Kiss her into obedience? He had not changed at all. He still acted as if he owned the world.
