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Purple shadows lay beneath her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in an unbecoming knot and he had the indefensible urge to close the distance between them, take out the pins and let all those lustrous cinnamon strands tumble free.
He let his gaze move over her slowly, from her face all the way to her feet and back again. A frown creased his forehead. He’d never seen her in anything but elegantly tailored clothing. Designer suits and gowns, spiked heels that could give a man dangerous fantasies, her face perfectly made up, her hair impeccably cut and styled.
Things were different now. The lapels of her coat were frayed. Her boots were the no-nonsense kind meant for rough weather. Her hair was in that ridiculous knot and her face was bare of everything but lipstick—lipstick and the shadows of exhaustion under her eyes.
He spoke without thinking. “What’s happened to you?” he said sharply. “Have you been ill?”
“How nice of you to ask.”
She was still pale but her gaze was steady and her words were brittle with sarcasm. He moved quickly; before she could step back he was a breath away, his hand wrapped around her arm.
“I asked you a question. Answer it.”
A flush rose in her cheeks. “I’m not ill. I’m simply living in the real world. It’s a place where people work hard for what they have. Where you can’t just snap your fingers and expect everyone to leap to do your bidding, but then, what would you know of such things?”
What, indeed? It was none of her business, of anyone’s business, that he’d started his life scrounging for money, that he’d worked his hands raw in construction jobs when he came to the States, or that he could still remember what it was like to go to sleep hungry.
He’d never snapped his fingers and never would, but he’d be damned if he’d explain that to anyone.
“And your lover? He permits this?”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “My what?”
“Another question you don’t want to answer. That’s all right. I have plenty of time.”
Tally wrenched free of his grasp. “I’m the one with questions, Dante. What are you doing here?”
“We haven’t seen each other in a long time, cara.” A slow smile that
turned her blood to ice eased across his lips. “Surely, we have other things to talk about first.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“But we do. You know that.”
She didn’t know anything. That was the problem. What did he know? Did he know about Sam? She didn’t think so. Surely, he’d have tossed that at her already, if he did.
Then, what did he want? He wasn’t here for a visit. He hadn’t bought the Shelby bank on a whim…
The loan. Her loan. Oh God, oh God…
“Ah,” he said slyly, “your face is an open book. Have you thought of some things we might wish to discuss?”
She couldn’t let him see her fear. There had to be some way she could gain the upper hand.
“What I know,” Tally said, “is that we never talked in the past. We went to dinner, to parties…” She took a steadying breath. “And we went to bed.”
His mouth twisted. Had she struck a nerve?
“I’m glad you remember that.”
“Is that why you came here, Dante? To remind me that we used to have sex together? Or to ask why I left you?” Somehow, she managed a chilly smile. “Really, I thought you’d understand. My note—”
“Your note was a bad joke.”
Tally shrugged her shoulders. “It was honest. Or did it never occur to you that a woman is no different from a man? I mean, yes, we can pretend in ways a man can’t, but sooner or later, things grow, well, old.”
Dante’s face contorted with anger. “You’re a liar!”
