Dante's Shock Proposal

by Amalie Berlin

  Because...she liked to talk to him, even if her wanting friendships didn’t mean she could trust herself to choose good ones. It had never worked out. It never had worked that way for her. Not once. Her friendships in Jacksonville had been nice, but she’d still held people at a distance. The whole history of her personal relationships was littered with liars and manipulators, and she was just the dope who continually fell for it, like she wanted to fall for this.

  Dante wasn’t this nice. There had to be something he wanted, and she wasn’t going to be fooled again.

  * * *

  “Are you up for this?” Dante asked the second Lise joined him in the scrub bay. She looked different. He took a moment to look at her with a critical—not just appreciative—eye.

  She adjusted her cap, tucking wispy blonde hairs up under the elastic band, seeming to have full movement of both arms. “I’m doing much better and haven’t taken a muscle relaxer since an hour before my massage yesterday. So about fourteen hours ago.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Dante said. “Mind doing a range demonstration for me?”

  “Do I mind?” Lise repeated, and then chuckled. “Are you sure you’re up to the surgery, Dr. Valentino?”

  It had been a request. Why had it been a request? He didn’t make requests in his OR.

  “I was trying to curb this rudeness I’ve been repeatedly told I have,” he lied easily. Better she think it was on purpose rather than something he’d have to examine later. “Range of motion,” he prompted, pausing in his scrubbing in to watch her. Should’ve said his deference was due to their friendship, if he’d thought of it, but he was somewhat out of practice actively maneuvering people to do what he wanted. It had been years since he’d worked a long con, and these days he mostly used those old rusty skills to lead patients to better treatment.

  Moving a step away for space, she stretched her arms out to the sides, moved them up and down jumping jacks style, then repeated the motion with her arms to the front. Finally, she rotated them at the shoulder and at different heights.

  “Pain? Numbness?”

  “Sore.” She answered that directly at least. “But not worse than a bruised feeling. If you’d rather Sandy take my place, I understand completely.”

  He didn’t even need to think about that one. She was as fit as he could hope at this point, and Lise even at ninety percent was better than anyone else at one hundred percent.

  “No. We’re draining and debriding a cerebral abscess in a tricky place. I want you.”

  She joined him at the sink, not commenting on his statement, but the look she gave him reflected his double meaning right back to him.

  With no one else in the bay with them, Dante let himself look at her long enough to summon her gaze again, then murmured, “I’m playing tonight. Just me, not the whole band.”

  Her pale blue eyes widened and darted around until she was satisfied they were alone and not about to be overheard. “Are you inviting me?”

  Dante made a sound of affirmation. “But I’d settle for dinner Friday at my house, if you’re not up for dancing tonight. You’re sore and all.”

  Soaped to the elbows, outside the frequent looks around to be sure they continued to be alone, she kept scrubbing and her eyes off him, voice low. “What kind of music is it?”

  “Just piano. Whatever I want, but often touching down in the style you heard before.”

  He didn’t need to look, he’d been keeping secrets so long he’d developed an almost supernatural ability to recognize when his surroundings changed. They were still alone. Despite the window separating the bay from the OR, and the people setting up there who could see them talking.

  He let himself look at her again. “I’m trying not to demand you do both. Tuesday was the best time I ever had with a grouchy, bratty, whiplash victim. And I promised to put in the time to build a friendship.”

  The smile that split her face was a reward for his teasing. “Will there be time for talking at the club?” she asked, then teased, “Maybe just dinner. I don’t know if I could do two nights with you out of four.”

  “You could,” he murmured, shifting the scrub brush back to his fingernails for a final pass. “You could do many more, but dinner at my house is a good start.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We always argue, and I’m not sure if that’s what makes great friends.” Pink little ears bent outward from the thickness of the scrub cap behind them, leaving her looking like an adorable little elf. A sunburned little elf, perhaps, especially with the way that flush was spreading.

  “That’s not all we do, but fire is fire, Bradshaw.” He rinsed and stepped on the pedal to turn off the water in his sink. “Time for focus. We can talk more later.”

  One of the nurses met Dante as he came in, gloving and gowning him, then tying his mask around his neck so it could be pulled up later.

  “Who’s going to get Mr. Polluck? He’s in the hyperbaric chamber.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TWO DAYS LATER, Lise stood at the open French doors leading off Dante’s living room to a veranda and the spectacular view of the ocean beyond.

  The house—or what she’d seen of it—was exactly what she’d expect from him. Modern. Clean lines. Beautiful. But the only parts that looked lived in were these doors, and the baby grand piano situated directly to the right of the doors, where he could no doubt sit, play, and watch the tide.

  The bedroom, which she hadn’t seen, probably could be included in the lived-in designation—no one could sleep on that sofa. He really did need some furniture that would suck all aspirations out of him. It all likely cost an arm and a leg, but looked like it was made out of hard black plastic. She hadn’t tried it, but it was all stacked rectangles and corners—like show room or dollhouse furniture.

  Nothing for comfort. It felt like a stage.

  When her family had lived in luxury, had it felt so cold and unnatural?

  She tried to think back, but couldn’t quite grasp a memory of the house that didn’t involve the blood and viscera of her loved ones. Everything before that night had gone into some kind of mental black hole, and anything beyond that event horizon felt like someone else’s life.

  He really needed new furniture. If he was so bent on befriending her—as he continuously claimed—she should be able to tell him that. No one could be happy in this house.

  She stuck by the veranda doors.

  Dante had busied himself in the kitchen, frying plantains to go with the sandwiches they’d picked up on the way, or she assumed he was cooking in there. The sweet, buttery scent she’d usually associate with the fruit frying didn’t reach her over the clean salt air blowing through the doors, and she couldn’t tear herself away from the dimming summer sky painted in shades of pink and purple. The sun didn’t have to set over the water to make it beautiful and serene—at least one part of his house could do that aspiration-sucking.

  “It’s nice out here,” Dante said from behind her, then stepped around, that scent she’d been waiting for trailing after him.

  Small talk. Maybe that would give her some idea of how to handle this date? Dinner with a friend? She should just try to keep things from getting flirtatious, not worry about anything else. Talk. Eat. Be pleasant. Enjoy the beach and the sound of the ocean. If he talks about something interesting again, even better. But don’t let things get sexy.

  “Nice isn’t a good enough word. But if you put a sofa like mine right here, or some equally comfortable patio furniture out here, all aspirations might blow away in a sea breeze.”

  He had a tray loaded with dinner and stopped at a small breakfast table, leaving her to trail after him and help him unload the tray.

  “Drinks?”

  “Margaritas.” He dragged a chair out for her and she sat. “Not as good as Mad Ron’s, but I did
my best.”

  “That’s a funny name for a bar. It’s also funny that you go to a bar for the food.”

  “Best Helibanas you’ve ever had.”

  “That’ll be easy—I’ve never had one.” She sat when the tray had been emptied, and reached for the drink.

  “Think a Cuban with a couple of tweaks in seasonings and toppings.”

  An hour later, after the point that the sky had gone midnight blue and the only light to see by spilled from the house’s open doors, Dante scooted back to light a torch and some candles, leaving Lise to tidy the table for something to do. He was companionable enough, but it all felt false somehow. Since their kiss, it had never really left her mind, and she didn’t even need to ask if it had gone far from his.

  “We ate sandwiches and delicious plantains, and you asked about work, school, and favorite television shows. What’s next?” Lise said, watching him half turn toward her, brows raised as she spoke. He had a plan, he had to have a plan.

  “Next?”

  “I bet if I frisked you, you’d have a list of questions you want to ask hidden somewhere on your body. You have a plan for the evening. It’s been more like a job interview and less like a friendly dinner. Am I not getting transferred to your team after all?”

  * * *

  Dante allowed himself to sit down before answering. She’d been cagey all evening, no matter how polite and civilized he’d made himself behave. “It wasn’t a job interview. And I do want to get to know you better.”

  “I assumed that was code for I want to get you alone and seduce you. Other than that, I don’t know what your motivation could be for this evening. I’m not that interesting, especially to someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” Dante asked. She didn’t have the distance sight that could let her unravel him, but he could see her now. It had taken him a little while, but after he figured out that the core of her personality revolved around honesty and gentleness, it hadn’t been hard to work his way back to the do-gooder archetype. She didn’t trust the rest of flawed humanity, including him right now—which was pretty smart, even if he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “You own a nightclub, live in a mansion on a beach, and have people who fly to Florida from far away in order to be treated by you. You’re a very different kind of person than I am.” She tried to put it all in a positive context, but didn’t back away from her usual straightforward manner. He could appreciate that. He could also appreciate that she didn’t put herself above him, even if it were true.

  Civilized wasn’t working because she didn’t believe it. She didn’t know that much about him, but she knew he was fluid with facts.

  “Maybe it’s the slickest move in my arsenal: get to know a woman so that I can discern the best way to get her into bed.”

  He purposefully kept his tone somewhat joking, but held eye contact steady enough to keep her guessing. It would be more fun if she decided to yell at him again anyway.

  She stiffened and her hands clasped hard. “That would be an evil thing.”

  Do-gooder.

  “Or just a tool to get the job done.”

  He leveled his gaze at her over the table, enjoying the golden flicker of the candles and the torch on her face. Over the space of several heartbeats he watched her expression change from shock to consideration. “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “No.” He scooted his chair up and stood, offering her a hand. “But I do have an ulterior motive for the evening.”

  She eyed his hand, and then purposefully crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “Bed, then?”

  “Are you offering?”

  “No, I’m not offering! I’m asking!” The alarm in her voice was unmistakable, but at least she was displaying emotion now. Emotional Lise was far more entertaining than the reserved and quiet dinner guest.

  “I promise to tell you before the evening ends. And I keep my promises.” He opened and offered his hand again to her. “I promised you a walk in the surf on a beach not packed with tourists, and it’s just over there.” Keeping his hand out in invitation, he did step back far enough to keep from crowding her. “That’s my main motivation right this second. You and me, walk on the beach.”

  “You’re holding all the power here, but you think I should just pretend everything is okay and walk on the beach because you have an itinerary? What’s the plan? First step: dinner. Second step: walk on the beach. Third step: secret seduction?”

  “No,” he said again, this time sighing. She wasn’t going to get off this. Stubborn. “I actually like you. I don’t understand how my secrets threaten you. My lust for you has been well documented by this point—so yes, at some point? You and I will end up in bed. Not tonight. But considering how frequently you obliterate my plans, I’m not counting it an impossibility. I’ve come to understand why you ended up in my club last week.”

  “Yes. Someone sent me there.”

  “Not someone. Something bigger. And I want to know more about you before committing.”

  “Committing? To what?”

  “You.” He sat back down, frustration taking him. Why did she have to be so difficult? “You were supposed to see me as more than an uptight surgeon, and I was to see that there’s more to you than a great, but largely silent nurse.”

  “That’s so silly. You believe that kind of thing?” She shook her head, “That’s not how the world works. We have to make our own fate, there’s no grand design that grants one person a perfect life and another person a tragic one. So drop that. Just tell me what you want from me. I hate surprises. I hate secrets! Tell me what you want or drive me home right now.”

  “And there goes another plan,” he muttered, half to himself. “I want to marry you. Happy?”

  “No, really. What do you want? Be serious.”

  “Just hear me out. I’m talking about a friends-with-benefits situation, only with rings, and the benefits include procreation.”

  “Over the last week, since you heard about my plan, you’ve decided to get married and picked me? I can appreciate that you don’t have the same luxury that I have—you can’t give birth to your own child—but this is more than a little ridiculous.”

  “Months ago, getting married became one of my goals. Not a goal I’ve made any progress on so far—there’s no overlap between the eligible women I meet at the club and those I meet at the hospital. And I haven’t figured out how to make some kind of dating profile that encompasses both.”

  “You want to marry me so no one who might tell your stupid secret ends up being your wife?” she shouted at him, then stood up and began stomping toward the beach. “Come on, you wanted a nice romantic walk on the beach, didn’t you?” She kicked her sandals off as she stepped down into the sand.

  Dante shot out of his chair and caught up with her before she made it five feet off the veranda. “Are you hoping to drown me in the surf?”

  “No, you wanted romantic so you could pop the question, right? Well, it’s your lucky day. Might I suggest you continue the cliché by telling me how wonderful I look with the wind in my hair and the freaking moonlight on my face?”

  Where had the anger come from? A reflection of his frustration? All he knew was that it amplified the effect. He snatched her closest hand and held on. “Romantic clichéd walks on the beach include hand-holding.”

  They stomped together, her trying to squirm out of his grasp and him hardening his grip until the water washed up over his feet. Then he stopped. “Tell me what upsets you so much about my secret. It’s a nothing secret.”

  “It’s something or it wouldn’t be a secret,” Lise grunted, and stepped closer to him to stomp on his foot. Hers might be little and without shoes, but she brought it down with enough anger to fill a swimming pool.

  He let go of her hand and had to work to keep from gra
bbing her again.

  Just listen. Let her talk.

  Her talking would give him more information about her, and he really needed that if he was going to have any hope of making this work out right.

  “You won’t even explain anything to me but you want me to marry you. The only reason you’re considering me is to keep me from telling your secret to someone else, and possibly because I’m a professional and have an urgent womb vacancy.”

  For a moment he had no idea what to say to her. He couldn’t even conjure up the right kind of delaying words that would calm her down without giving her too much information.

  She stepped back so that there was a good three feet between them, and adopted a pose that let him know exactly how he’d begun to stand: Arms crossed over chest, feet planted as if to withstand attack.

  “Let me guess.” She laughed the words now, which might be worse. “You’re completely stymied because your reputation, your money, and your cold, uninviting beach house were supposed to instantly make me say yes, and then fall into bed for some celebratory sex.”

  “I’m not stymied.”

  Yes, he was. Just not for that reason.

  The conversation had gotten out of his control the instant she’d planted herself and refused to go amiably along with him to walk on the beach. There wasn’t an accommodating or easy-going bone in her body.

  The only thing he knew for sure was that she was easier to talk to when he was touching her.

  It might not have been the modern, civilized way to treat a woman, but Dante stepped over to her, grabbed her arm and twirled her into his arms before she could regain her balance. He didn’t stop until her back was to his chest and he had his arms around her, her hands clasped in his own.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re freaking out,” he muttered, “but you’re not actually in any danger right now. Calm down.”

  “Telling someone to calm down never helps them calm down. It only does the reverse. You know that, brain doctor.” The words flew out with anger and more than a touch of fear, but she wasn’t actually trying to pull free of his arms right now.