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She’d smoothed things over by promising they’d have the entire weekend together, doing what Sam liked most: snuggling with her on the sofa, watching videos and eating popcorn.
Dante Russo had probably never watched a video or eaten popcorn in his life…
And what was that man doing in her head again?
Who gave a damn what Dante Russo did or didn’t do? He was history. Besides, he’d never meant anything more to her than what she’d meant to him. New York was filled with relationships like theirs. Two consenting adults going out together, being seen together…
Having sex together.
Tally’s eyes closed. Memories rushed in. Scents. Tastes. Sensations. Dante’s hands, deliciously rough on her skin. His mouth, demanding surrender as he kissed her. His face above her, his silver eyes dark as storm clouds, his sensual lips drawn back with passion…
She swung toward the sink, dumped her coffee and rinsed out the cup.
What stupid thoughts to have today of all days, when she had to be at her best. Still, she understood why she would think of Dante.
Her mouth curved in a bitter smile.
This was an anniversary of sorts. She’d left Dante Russo a few weeks before Christmas, three years ago. All it took was the scent of pine and the sound of carols to bring the memories rushing back.
She wouldn’t let that happen. Dante had no place in the new life she’d built for herself. For herself and Sam.
He was nothing to her anymore.
Or to Sam.
Sam didn’t know Dante existed. And Dante certainly didn’t know about Sam. He never would, either. She would see to that.
Tally knew her former lover well.
Dante hadn’t wanted her and surely wouldn’t have understood why she wanted Sam…But that didn’t mean he’d simply let her have Sam, if he knew.
Her former lover could be charming but underneath he was cold, determined and ruthless. She refused to think about how he might react if he knew everything.
Tally sighed and turned on the kitchen lights. Night had fallen; it came early to these northern latitudes. The coming storm the weatherman had predicted rattled the old windows.
She’d fled New York on a night like this. Cold, dark, with snow in the forecast.
What a wreck she’d been that night! Pretending to be sick, then packing her clothes and scribbling that final note. All she’d been able to think about was getting away before Dante showed up.
She wasn’t stupid. She’d known he hadn’t wanted her anymore. He’d been removed and distant for a while and sometimes she’d caught him watching her with a look on his face that made her want to weep.
He was bored with her. And getting ready to end their affair, but she wouldn’t let that happen. She’d end it first. It would be quicker, less humiliating…
And safer, because by then she had a secret she’d never have been foolish enough to share with him.
So she’d made plans to leave him. And she’d done it so he wouldn’t be able to find her, even if he looked for her. Not that she thought he would. Why would a man go after a woman when she’d saved him the trouble of getting rid of her?
Even if he had, maybe out of all that macho Sicilian arrogance made all the more potent by his power, his wealth, his gorgeous face and body—even if he had, he’d never have found her. He’d never dream she’d flee to a tiny village in New England. He knew nothing about her. In their six months together, he’d never asked her questions about herself.
Not real ones.
Would you prefer Chez Nicole or L’Etoile for dinner? he’d ask. Shall I get tickets for the ballet or the symphony?
Things a man would ask any woman. Never anything more important.
Well, yes. He’d asked her other things. Whispered them, in that husky voice that was a turn-on all by itself.
Do you like it when I touch you this way? And if what he was doing seemed too much, if it made her tremble in his arms, he’d kiss her deeply and say, Don’t stop me, bellissima. Let me. Yes. Let me do this. Yes. Like that. Just like that…
