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She was trembling even now, just remembering those moments.
“You’re a fool,” Tally said, her voice sharp in the silence of the kitchen.
Sex with Dante had been incredible, but sex was all it was, even though lying beneath him, feeling the power of his penetration, his possession, sometimes made her want to weep with joy. But it didn’t make up for the fact that he’d never once spent the entire night in her bed or asked her to come to his.
Stay with me, she’d wanted to say, oh, so many times. But she hadn’t. Only the once, when the words had slipped out before she could stop them…
Only the once, when she’d forgotten that all her lover wanted was her body, not her heart.
Tally turned her back to the window.
So what?
Why would she have wanted a man to tie her down, give her a baby and then turn his ever-wandering eyes elsewhere as her father had done, as a man like Dante Russo would surely do?
It was the meeting with Walter Dennison that had her feeling so strange, that was all. Once she put that behind her, she’d be fine.
And it was time to get moving. Be here at four, Ms. Sommers, and please be prompt.
She smiled as put on her coat and grabbed her car keys. All those years in New York had made her forget how pedantic a true Yankee could be.
AS USUAL, the weatherman had it wrong. Snow was already falling as if someone were shaking a
featherbed over the town.
The snow dusting the woods and fields with a blanket of white as Tally drove past would have made a beautiful Christmas card. In the real world, it made for a dangerous drive. The narrow road that led into the heart of town already wore a thin coating of black ice, and the new snow hid stretches of asphalt as slick as glass.
Her old station wagon needed better snow tires. The rear end slewed sickeningly as she turned onto Main Street and her stomach skidded with it, but there were no other vehicles on the road and she came through the turn without harm to anything but her nerves.
Only two cars were parked in the bank’s lot, the aged maroon Lincoln she recognized as Dennison’s and a big, shiny black SUV that looked as if it could climb Everest in a blizzard and come through laughing.
Dennison would have sent his employees home early because of the storm. The SUV probably belonged to some tourist on his way to ski country who’d stopped to use the ATM.
Tally parked and got out of the station wagon. The double doors to the bank opened as she reached them, revealing Walter Dennison wearing a black topcoat over his usual gray suit.
“You’re late, Ms. Sommers.”
He whispered the words. And shot a quick look over his shoulder. Tally felt a stab of panic. The black car. The paleness of Dennison’s face. His whisper.
Was the bank being held up?
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to peer past him, “but the roads—”
“I understand.” He hesitated. “Ms. Sommers. Tally. There’s something you need to know.”
Oh, God. It was true. She’d walked into a holdup in progress—
“I sold the bank.”
She stared at him blankly. “What?”
“I said, I sold the bank.”
He might as well have been speaking another language. Sold the bank? How could he have done that? The Dennison family had started the Shelby Bank in the early 1800s.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Dennison. Why would you—”
“It’s nothing for the town to worry about. The new owner will keep everything just as it is.” Dennison cleared his throat. “Almost everything.”
