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He was failing. He had failed, in every way that mattered.
And Paige might be the one to pay for it. Someone always paid. Paige. Ana. The child, if there was one. All tied to him because of an act of carelessness.
The truth was, this business trip could be deferred. But he had to get his control back. He had to get distance.
And as long as Paige was around, as long as he had to see her, with her petite curves and tendency to dress in sequins, to listen to the sound of her voice, that voice that he’d heard moaning with pleasure, as long as he had to smell that sweet floral scent combined with the fresh smell of her clean skin…he wouldn’t be able to master his emotions.
And he had to. There was no other option.
Even if it might already be too late.
* * *
Midnight, the day of the wedding, Dante arrived back at his San Diego home. It had been a long trip. And his bed had seemed cold, empty.
He had made promises, threats, really, about a wedding night, but he had no doubt Paige wouldn’t be too thrilled if he tried to make that happen. And he wouldn’t blame her. He’d acted like an ass to her.
About everything. About the potential baby.
But he had everything contained now. One thing the time away had been good for was to start feeling like himself again. To start feeling like he had some semblance of control over his mind and body.
Whatever was ahead for them, they would handle. So long as he maintained his distance, in an emotional sense, everything would be fine.
He walked into the house, expecting silence, and heard Ana’s indignant wailing instead. He walked up the stairs, toward her room, expecting Paige to be there as she’d been their first night together.
But she wasn’t there.
He could hear the water running in the next room. Paige was in the shower, and since it was the time when Ana was normally asleep, she was probably stealing what had been her first chance of the day.
But now the baby was crying. Deep sobs. A sound so sad, so pitiful. And so full of helplessness that it called to him, resonated in him.
He walked into the nursery, an image in his mind of a small boy on the floor, crying endless tears, with no one there to comfort him. Crying for a mother who would never return. He approached Ana’s crib, his heart pounding in his head.
He swallowed and looked down at her. “Why are you crying, principesa?”
She looked at him, her owlish eyes wide and furious, and continued bawling.
He reached out to her slowly, placing his hand flat on her round tummy. She quieted and wiggled beneath his palm, her expression morphing to one of curiosity. When he didn’t satisfy it immediately, she started to cry again.
He could go and pull Paige out of the shower, which she had done to him. Of course, his had been a shower with a self-destructive bent, rather than one intended for cleanliness. Or he could handle this himself.
He couldn’t remember if he’d ever held a baby before. He doubted if he had. But he had seen the way Paige held her, with infinite care and sweetness. Close to her body to keep her safe. And if…if his carelessness had resulted in a pregnancy, he would have to learn.
He bent forward and scooped her into his arms, pulling her up against his chest. The discomfort that bordered on fear whenever he saw Ana started to fade, replaced with that tenderness he always saw on Paige’s face when she held her daughter. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, that softening in his chest. But surely it was right to feel tender toward a baby? A sign that perhaps not everything in him was frozen.
Ana stopped crying, her heart beating fast like a little bird’s as she nestled into his chest. “Is that all you wanted?” he asked, his voice breathless. “To be held?”
She melted into him, her little body supported by his hands. The trust she had in him humbled him, broke something deep inside of him.
She shifted, a sharp cry of discontentment on her lips.
He sat down in the rocking chair, hoping the back-and-forth movement would calm her.
Sing to her.
He remembered Paige asking him to do that the first night.
I don’t know any lullabies.
A lie.
Ana wiggled against him, her crying becoming more insistent.
He took a deep breath, moving his hand over her back. For a moment he could not force the words out. They stuck in his throat, stuck, along with the image in his mind of the little boy curled up on the floor. That was the last time he had sung the song. The last time he had let the words out.
