Dante's Twins

Murmuring reassurance, he pressed his face against her, and as naturally as she drew breath, she buried her fingers in his hair and held him to her, there where the quivering ache tormented her.

For long seconds he remained quite still and she suspected that he used the time to recoup control of himself because, when he finally rose to his feet again, though far from even, his breathing was less labored.

“What am I doing, sneaking into dark corners with you as if our being together is something shameful to be hidden away from the rest of the world?” he said huskily, standing a little apart from her as if he didn’t entirely trust himself.

They were words she needed to hear. They gave her the courage to challenge the shoddy hypocrisy of men like Carl Newbury. “I am ashamed of nothing,” she told Dante. “How could I be, when nothing in my life before this has ever felt so completely right?”

He groaned and pulled her back into his arms. “I’m not the type to rush blindly into a relationship,“ he said thickly.

“Nor am I,” she said, but he made the mistake of brushing her mouth with his again, and the spark flared up anew, exposing their claims for the lies they were. How could she worry about the rest of the world, she wondered dazedly, when there was only the here and now. Only Dante Rossi and Leila Connors-Lee.

But then a shaft of light streamed from one of the upstairs rooms to pierce the shadows and she cringed. Instinctively, Dante swung around, protecting her from view. He loomed over her, a tall and dark presence except for his white dinner jacket which glowed like a beacon, advertising his presence to the people on the terrace.

Peeping over his shoulder, Leila saw that some guests had chosen to sit at the tables on the terrace the better to enjoy the balmy, flower-scented night. But their attention quickly focused on the figures suddenly floodlit beneath the trees, and the buzz of conversation dwindled into silence.

“What is it?” Dante said, at her little murmur of distress.

“They’ve seen us and I’m afraid they’ve recognized you.”

His smile flashed briefly in the dark. “I certainly hope so!”

“But they’ll talk and-”

“Yes, they will,” he said, his tone serious “Does that bother you?”

She shrugged. “Yes. You...you don’t need their disapproval.”

“I’m the boss,” he said. “I don’t need their approval. I can do whatever I please, and it pleases me to be with you.”

We’re going to have to save him from himself.... Carl Newbury’s threat continued to stalk her, for all that she thought she’d shaken it off.

“Dante, some of the men with whom you work the closest won’t like that.” She couched the warning as obliquely as she knew how.

She succeeded too well. “I don’t blame them,” he replied, misunderstanding. “I wouldn’t like it if one of them had laid prior claim to you.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, scrabbling her bare toes in the sand to find her shoes. “They’ll think—”

He cut her short. “Leila, I don’t care what they think! All that concerns me is how you feel. Will it spoil your time here if I make no secret of the fact that I’m completely...” He drew a ragged breath and she froze, suspended on a fine edge of anticipation as he searched for the right word. “...Bewitched by you?”

How foolish she was to feel just a little let down. Did she really expect him to throw caution aside and profess he was in love with her?

Yes! Because she was in love with him, and whether that made sense or not didn’t signify. She held no more sway over her heart than she did over the number of stars in the sky.

“Well, Leila?” he said, and she realized he was waiting for her answer. “Will it bother you?”

“I’ve never been a very public sort of person,” she said, glad he couldn’t see the disappointment in her eyes. Just because she was willing to accept love so quickly didn’t mean that he was, and what, after all, was the rush? “I’d prefer it if, for now at least, we kept our... association private.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and regarded her doubtfully as she bent and slipped on her sandals. “I’m not sure I’m a good enough actor to pull that off, but I’ll try.”

When the last strap was securely in place, he offered her his arm. Sedately walking her back up the steps and across the terrace to the dance floor, he waited until they were well within earshot of others before he said, “Shall we finish our dance, Miss Connors-Lee?”

Several people were there already, swaying to the rhythm as a native Caribbean in a snug-fitting white satin suit gave an impressive imitation of Belafonte singing “Scarlet Ribbons.” She thought it would be easy to maintain the proper image and blend inconspicuously with the other couples. But the minute Dante took her in his arms, discretion melted in the tropical night. Imperceptibly he drew closer until he was holding her far closer than social convention allowed. And it seemed to her that everyone else noticed.

Sensing her discomfiture, he said, “Relax, sweetheart. We’re only dancing. There’s no sin in that.”

“The way they’re all staring, you might as well be making love to me,” she said miserably, the blood surging in her cheeks.

He stroked his forefinger along her jaw, the smile tugging at his mouth belying the smoky passion in his eyes. “In a way I am. Or do you think I dance this way with every woman in the company?”

“I hope not,” she sighed, temporarily dazzled into ignoring the ammunition they were giving Carl Newbury and his cohorts.

Common sense reasserted itself, however, as the evening drew to a close and Dante insisted on walking her to her room. The house, a restored sugar plantation mansion built at the end of the eighteenth century, was a magnificent example of neo-classical architecture, with tall pillars on the front of the building soaring to the tiled roof and separating the verandas lining the executive suites of the upper story. Inside, a wide staircase swept up from the great hall to a long gallery which branched off at each end to encompass two side wings.

Leila’s room was situated toward the back of one of these, overlooking the lush rear gardens with their fountains and courtyards. “A good thing we’re not next-door neighbors,” Dante observed wryly, stepping aside as she opened her door. “The temptation to haul you over the veranda and into my bed would be too hard to resist.” Checking first to make sure the hall was deserted, he dropped a swift kiss on her mouth. “Have breakfast with me in the morning?”

Although she hated to spoil the moment, conscience forced her to reiterate something he seemed wilfully determined to ignore. “Dante, you’re asking for trouble. You haven’t been around the office lately. You don’t realize how—”

He kissed her again, lingering this time so that her words died on a sigh. “Make that an order, Ms. Connors-Lee,” he murmured. “Have breakfast with me in the morning.”

“Maybe.” She closed her eyes, aching for him and knowing it would be professional suicide to give in to the yearning.

Perhaps he knew it, too, because the next moment he was striding away to the main gallery which housed the oceanfront executive suites, and she was able to slip into her room unnoticed.

At first he thought he’d be lying awake all night, his mind too filled with the tactile memory of her to allow him to rest. But three days of intensive seminars coupled with the previous month’s overseas itinerary claimed him somewhere around one in the morning and dropped him into a black hole of sleep.

He awoke just after seven, feeling as if he’d been hit broadside across the head with a two-by-four, and with a restless dissatisfaction clouding his mind. Not exactly prime condition for a man who prided himself on always being in charge—of himself and of his company.

But the truth was, he hadn’t been on top of things since that first night when she’d stepped out onto the terrace and stolen his... what? Heart—or sanity? Because the way he’d been acting was hotheaded to put it mildly, and atypical to say the least.

The only time he’d known anything remotely like this had been during his senior year in high school when he’d dated Jane Perry.

“I love you,” he’d foolishly told her, the steamed-up windows of his father’s old Chev and his own rampant hormones driving him to indiscretion.

And for a few days, maybe even a week, he’d believed that he did. Certainly, it had been the right thing to say. Jane had become amazingly compliant and he’d been no different from any other boy his age when it came to experimenting with sex.

But the blush had worn off pretty damn fast when he’d cornered her at her locker between classes and said, “Hey, look, I can’t make it to the movie on Friday.”

“Why not?” She’d pouted, standing just close enough that the tips of her nipples had brushed against his chest.

“I’ve got a late basketball practice,” he’d choked out, doggedly ignoring that part of him eagerly rising to the bait she’d so knowingly cast

“Basketball?” Her indignation had bounced off the school walls. “Baskerball?”

“Well, yeah. There’s a big game coming up and the coach wants the team in top form.”

“Oh, fine thing!” she’d snapped. “If you think I’m going to play second banana to basketball, Dante Rossi, you can think again.”

“It’s only for one night, for Pete’s sake! This is important, Jane.”