by Maisey Yates
“Relax, Paige,” he said. “Take a breath.”
She snapped her mouth closed, her eyes still pooling with confused emotion.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the word foreign on his tongue.
Almost instantly, the tension left her, her face brightening. “It’s awkward. For everyone. I know. I’m not picking out china patterns or anything, I’m just … making the best of things. Making the best of living in a mansion by the sea, which, I admit, is not so hard.”
“You may not be so optimistic when you hear what I have to say next,” he said.
“You’re putting me on a hide-a-bed. No, my window has an ocean view, but the beach is a nude beach. Or maybe …”
“You’re going to have to at least appear to be sharing a room with me.”
“Say what?”
“Come now, Paige, are you so naive? If we’ve moved in together, we’ll obviously be sharing a room. A bed.”
Paige bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know about that. What about good, traditional values?”
“Does anyone have them these days?”
“My social worker, it seems. Since she was so concerned about Ana having a mom and dad.”
“Which means she needs to be confident that that is indeed what Ana is getting. And my staff needs to believe it, as well. The last thing I need is for someone to slip up and make a comment that winds up in the paper. I’m not being dragged into a public farce. A private farce, it seems, is unavoidable, but I will not be humiliated in a public forum.”
“That’s not my intent,” she said. “But hey, as long as I don’t actually have to sleep with you, I’m okay with having to dig through your closet to find my clothes.”
He wasn’t. He’d never lived with a woman before, had never had feminine things mingling in with his suits. His space was highly prized and this element of their arrangement didn’t sit well with him.
But while she was comfortable with her things being put anywhere, there was clearly one area that made her uncomfortable. And he had the uncontrollable urge to push at her, just a little.
“You’re the first woman I’ve ever encountered who was so opposed to sleeping with me she had to remark on it every couple of days.”
He was rewarded by the flood of color that bled into her cheeks. “That’s not … I’m just clarifying …”
“One might think,” he said, taking a step closer to her, “that you protest too much.”
She pulled Ana in tighter to her chest, a tiny, living shield. “Hey now, that is not true. I protest just enough for a woman who isn’t interested in having a … a fling with a playboy.”
“Playboy,” he said. “Such a strange label, and not one I’ve ever felt applied to me.”
“You change lovers often enough.”
“The dates I go to events with are not my lovers. I am very discreet with my lovers. And selective.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, then, I doubt I have anything to worry about. If you’re as selective as you say, I mean.”
Paige felt like melting beneath Dante’s intense, dark gaze. She didn’t know what had possessed her to bait him like that. To tempt him to say something derogatory about her appeal. She was aware of how far short she fell when it came to sexual allure.
The problem was, it wasn’t looks, not specifically. It wasn’t the way she dressed. She’d actually managed to score dates since moving to San Diego; it was just that … when they got that serious look, like they might miss her, she sort of freaked out. The idea of failing again, with someone new, was too painful. The thought of wanting someone who wouldn’t really end up wanting her … she hadn’t been willing to take the risk.
Which was why she really hadn’t bothered with dates for a long time. Getting herself sorted out was her top priority after all. Finding her way. And anyway, she didn’t need a hundred guys. She only needed the one right guy. And she was certain that one right guy would look nothing like Dante Romani.
Which was fine. Looks weren’t everything after all. The guy didn’t have to have a square jaw, and golden skin. Or a broad chest with incredible muscles that could not be hidden by the dress shirts he wore. He didn’t have to look like the essence of temptation wrapped in a custom suit. No. There were much more important things than that.
Like … way more.
She was sure of it.
“Is that what you think?” he asked.
Something in his eyes changed, the look becoming hungry, wild almost, as far from cool, calm, stuffed shirt Dante Romani as she could possibly imagine.
“I … obviously,” she said, her throat suddenly dry.
“What is obvious about it?” he asked.
“I’m … I’m …”
“Attractive,” he said.
She blinked. “Even with the pink stripe?”
“It’s growing on me.”
“Maybe I will get it colored over next time. In that case.”
“You just like to be difficult.”
She shrugged. “I’m a contrary beast, on occasion, I admit it.” She was doing it again, deflecting with humor, so he couldn’t see how much it had meant for him to call her attractive.
“I like a challenge.”
“I’m not a challenge,” she said, nerves skittering through her, making her feel shaky and off-kilter.
“You aren’t?”
“No. That makes it sound like I’m some sort of a … a game and I don’t like that. I don’t play games. What you see is what you get.”
“I’ve noticed. But I didn’t mean that I intended to play a game with you.”
“You didn’t?”
He shook his head, his dark eyes intent on hers. “I don’t play.”
She tried to swallow again. Her throat felt like it was coated in sand. “Right. Neither do I.”
He chuckled, dark and rich like chocolate. “I got the impression that you did very little besides playing.”
She looked down at the top of Ana’s fuzzy head. “And where did you get that idea? Between working for Colson’s and taking care of Ana, I don’t have a lot of playtime.”
He frowned. “I suppose that’s true. But it’s more the way you are. The things you say. You’re … happy.”
She laughed, the sound bursting from her with no decorum or volume control, as always. “I guess so. I mean, there’s plenty of crap I’m unhappy about. Like losing my best friend and having to contend with the adoption stuff. But I suppose … I mean in general I suppose that’s true.” She studied Dante’s face for a moment, the lines that feathered out from the corners of his eyes, the brackets by his mouth. “Are you happy?”
He shrugged. “I’m not really sure what that means. I’m content.”
“Content,” she repeated. She smoothed her hands over Ana’s back and a rush of love, or pure joy and pain filled her. “How can that be enough?” It wasn’t for her. Not now. It never would be again.
“Because emotion, strong emotion, is dangerous,” he said. “You don’t seem to realize that yet, Paige. But that’s the truth of it.” His voice was rough. Savage, almost. And coming from Dante, who was always smooth, and never ruffled, it meant something. It reached down deep inside of her and twisted her stomach.
“Was it the truth for you?”
“It’s just true,” he said. “If emotions control you, you have no control over yourself. In my mind, that’s unacceptable. Now come, and I’ll show you to your room.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER you put Ana to bed, come down to the dining room for dinner.
Paige touched the note Dante had left her earlier. A note. Who wrote a note? She’d have to introduce the man to the mighty power of the text message. Or, better still, making human contact when you lived in the same house as someone.
She touched one of the letters on the paper. He’d pressed too hard on his pen, made dents, each letter precise and perfect, gone over two or three times she guessed. Dante didn’t do spontaneous very well, that was for sure
.
Well, she supposed their arrangement fell under spontaneous, but then, even when he’d had that headline sprung on him he hadn’t acted with any sense of wild abandon. It had been with frightening calm, and complete confidence in the fact that he’d made the right decision.
Whereas, she, after blurting out the idiot untruth to Rebecca, had eaten a pint of ice cream and spent the night beating her head against the arm of her couch.
Decisive wasn’t really her thing. She needed to start getting there, though. She had a baby. A baby that would grow, and who would need a mother who could stand strong in decisions and discipline and … stuff.
The idea of it made her a little anxious. But for now, it was all about loving her. And that she had down just fine.
At least her room was nice. And yeah, all her clothes and her toiletries were in Dante’s room, but she’d managed to get her dress for dinner and her makeup essentials over to her room without running into him. Which suited her fine. She’d been feeling a little rumpled and frumpy after what had been a very long day.
But a shower and a sparkly minidress had done a lot to fix the way she felt. Her newfound sense of flashy style was something she’d acquired on arrival in San Diego, and it had done wonders for the way she felt about herself. About the outside of herself, anyway.
She leaned into the mirror and swiped her lipstick over her bottom lip, painting it with a streak of fuchsia, then spreading it evenly. She smiled. She felt better when she was bright. Like showing the world her mood, so that she had to bring herself up to match it.
She let out a long breath and opened her bedroom door, padding quietly down the hall to Ana’s room first, to make sure she was sleeping soundly, then continued to the stairs. She took the stairs two at a time, anxious now to hear what Dante would say.
To see if he would tease her again. Flirt with her? No, he wouldn’t flirt with her. There was no reason for that.
She tripped on the last step, her focus splintered over her thoughts.
“Careful.”
She looked up and her heart slammed hard against her breast. Dante was standing in the doorway of the dining room, his eyes on her. On her nearly falling on her face. He, on the other hand, looked immaculate as always. Perfectly pressed in a crisp white shirt that was open at the collar, showing a faint shadow of chest hair that she couldn’t help but notice, and black slacks that showed off his trim waist and powerful thighs.
Since when had she ever noticed a man’s thighs? What was he doing to her?
“I like to make an entrance,” she said, doing a very lopsided curtsy in an attempt to defuse the tension. All she really succeeded in doing was making herself look like a bit of an ass. That seemed to be her specialty. But it didn’t matter really. She just kept smiling. If she didn’t care, no one else seemed to. No one else seemed to notice how hard things were, how awkward she felt, if she didn’t.
She straightened and smiled, hoping she didn’t blush.
“You certainly do that.” He walked toward her, the easy grace in his movements filling her with one part envy and nine parts desire. He really was gorgeous.
“Ha. Yeah. My blessing and my curse.”
He put his hand on her lower back and heat fired through her from that point to the rest of her body. He propelled her forward into the dining room and she was afraid she might wobble again. Not because she was that big of a klutz, not usually, but because his touch was making her limbs feel rubbery.
She sucked in a breath when she saw the table. It was laid out special—gorgeous platters with appetizers and there were candles. It was very real, suddenly. Like an actual date, which she knew it wasn’t.
And she shouldn’t let it make her feel any kind of pressure. He wasn’t interested in her that way, and that was fine with her. She didn’t have the time or inclination for it.
“This looks great,” she said, too brightly.
He pulled her chair out for her and looked at her, waiting for her. She just stared.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.
“Oh, uh … yes. I’m not used to men pulling my chair out for me.”
“Then you need to associate with better men.”
“Or maybe find men to associate with in general.”
“I imagine your dating life is somewhat hobbled by recent developments.”
“Yeah, recent developments. That’s what’s hobbled my dating life.” She sat down and he abandoned his post at her chair and went to sit across from her. She took a salmon roll off the platter and put it onto her plate, her stomach growling, reminding her it was late for dinner. “So,” she said, “you want to talk?”
“We need to talk. I’m not sure I particularly want to talk. But we need a plan. If we’re going to be a couple, to both child services and the media we need to know about each other.”
“And how do you propose we get to know each other?” she asked, taking a bite of the sushi.
“I’m not proposing we get to know each other. I’m proposing we learn things about each other. The two are different.”
“Less involved, I suppose,” she said.
“Much.” He took a roll off the platter with a pair of chopsticks. Effortless for him, as ever. “Where are you from?”
“Silver Creek. Oregon. Small, bit of a nothing town. Everyone knows your business. Everyone knows you. The entire population is kind of like your extended family.”
“Which is why you moved.”
“Yes. To somewhere that didn’t have people with … expectations.” Expectations of her failure. Of her continuing to drift through life without a goal, without any success. “And you, where are you from?”
“Rome originally. Then moved to Los Angeles. And then … when my mother died,” he said, his voice too smooth, too controlled, as if he was saying words he’d rehearsed to perfection, “I went into foster care. I spent a few years with different families before the Colsons adopted me at fourteen.”
“I could have found all that out by reading a bio online somewhere.”
“But had you read one?”
“No.”
“So, I still had to tell you.”
“Fine, you did. What else do I need to know?” she asked.
He slid two covered plates over from the edge of the table and placed one in front of her, and one in front of himself. She uncovered it and took a moment to appreciate the tantalizing look and smell of the fish dish before directing her focus back to Dante.
“My sign?” he asked, his tone dry.
She laughed. “I don’t even know my own sign. I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”
“That surprises me—you seem like you would.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re very … free-spirited. And you’re an artist.”
“I see. Well, sorry to disappoint you. What’s your favorite color?”
“I don’t have one.”
“That’s stupid. Everyone has a favorite color.”
He arched one dark eyebrow. “Did you just call me stupid?”
“No. Your lack of favorite color is stupid.”
“Fine, what’s yours?”
“Well, I’m an artist, so I have a close relationship with color. I like cool colors—they’re very calming. And of course warm colors are quite passionate. So I have to say my favorite color is … glitter.”
He laughed and she felt a small tug of gratification that she’s managed to pull an expression of humor out of him. “That isn’t a color.”
“Sure it is. I’m an expert. I don’t question you about merchandising and advertising and everything else you have a hand in. Siblings?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “You?”
“Two. My sister is a pediatrician and my brother is a second-string quarterback for the Seahawks. Impressive, I know.”
“Very. So how did you get into art?”
She fought off the sting of embarrassment that always came when she had to talk about Jack and Emm
a. It wasn’t fair, really. They deserved their success. They earned it. They had talent, and they worked hard.
They didn’t deserve for her to make it about her. Still, it was never fun to talk about. But talking about it was better than living in a town where everyone knew that you were, without question, the big letdown of your family.
“I’ve always been interested in it. Started drawing and painting really young.”
“Did you go to school for it?”
“No.” She shook her head, kept her tone light. No big deal. It was no big deal. “I never really liked school. Just wasn’t my thing.”
“And what did your parents think of that?”
“Would you like me to lie down on the couch before you continue?”
“Just a question.”
“Well, uh … they’ve never been that impressed with my interests. My grades in school were bad, and they were spending a lot of money sending Jack and Emma to school already, even with the help of scholarships and … and they didn’t want to pay to send me too when they knew I wouldn’t apply myself. So the not going to school was a mutual decision.”
She could feel Dante’s dark gaze boring into her. “A mutual decision?”
She shrugged. “I mean, I might have gone if they …”
“But they wouldn’t.”
“No.”
“Should we tell your parents about the wedding?”
The subject change threw her for a moment. “Oh, it’s … No, probably not. It’s not like it will be huge news outside of our circle here. Your circle here, I should say and anyway … they won’t really approve of the whole thing with Ana.” An understatement. She could just hear her mother’s skepticism.
Do you think you can handle it, Paige? Filled with concern, and a bit of condescension.
But she could handle it. She was sure she could. She was almost completely sure. Again, the bigness of it all threatened to swamp her completely. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d really wanted something. The last time succeeding had been so important, if it ever had been.
