She had her keys in hand and her head down when she walked out of the building, but she was very aware of the fact that Dante and James were standing in the parking lot watching her come down the school steps. They were waiting by her car, so there was no way to avoid them.
She sighed—knowing it would be useless to argue—and handed her keys to James and waited for Dante to lead her to wherever his car was parked. All without saying a word. She just didn’t feel like arguing, not when they were all going to the same place anyway. Dante didn’t have much to say either, but he threw glances at her every few minutes, which she pointedly ignored.
“I’m not used to such silence from you,” he finally said when they were about five minutes from home.
“I don’t have much to say at the moment,” she said with a shrug.
“That bad, huh?”
She didn’t know what the hell that meant, but it just rubbed her the wrong way, and she turned to him with a ferocious scowl. “You think being flippant is the way forward here?” she snarled. “Because I’ve got news for you, buddy—”
The ear-splitting sound of screeching brakes interrupted her in midsentence, and she looked up into the driver’s-side window to see a car barreling straight at them.
“Dante!” Her scream was sharp and short-lived, and mere seconds passed between impact and the cessation of all movement and sound.
She battled her way out from beneath the airbag, which had deployed with a startling pop and had knocked the breath out of her. She could hear Dante groaning and was desperate to get to him. She could see blood and started to panic. His head was bleeding and his eyes were shut, and he sounded like he was in pain.
“Dante?” she whispered. “Oh God, Dante! Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
Her door was wrenched open, and she looked up to see James—who’d been following in her car—towering above her, his face grim. He reached down to unbuckle her seat belt.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice harsh.
“I’m fine. See to Dante first.”
“You know that he’d want me to help you first, Cleo.” James’s voice brooked no argument, and Cleo knew that disagreeing with him would only delay the time it took for him to get to Dante, so she allowed him to unbuckle her and help her out.
He ran expert hands over her, his touch telling her that he knew exactly what he was doing and what he was looking for. She batted his hands away impatiently.
“Help Dante,” she commanded, and he nodded curtly before heading back to the car. They had been pushed off the road, she noticed dazedly. They were hit while crossing a T-junction, and the other car had pushed them into a field. The second car had come to a standstill a few yards away, and Cleo could see the driver staggering his way out of the car. She stood frozen, her hands to her face in horror, and her entire body went numb as shock started to set in. She turned away from the other driver and back to their car, willing James to hurry, to bring Dante out to safety. And then she heard it—the unmistakable sound of Dante’s impatient voice—and the relief made her legs weak. She sat down in the middle of the field as her body started shaking from head to toe.
Cleo could hear them quite clearly: James saying that he didn’t think it was wise for Dante to move, and Dante telling him to get the hell out of his way. Dante, being Dante, predictably got his way, and after pushing his way past James, he stood looking like a wild man, his head whipping back and forth as he looked for something. Her, as it turned out.
“Cleo!” The harsh, commanding voice had a desperate edge to it as he called for her, clearly panicking because he couldn’t see her.
“I’m here,” she called, sounding shockingly weak. His head snapped in her direction, and she saw him wince at the fast movement before he lurched toward her.
“Ah, Jesus,” he cursed when he sank down to his knees in front of her. His hands cupped her face and tilted it up to peer at her closely. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He sounded unsteady, and he released her face to gather her tenderly into his arms and hug her close.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “That shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.”
“He came out of nowhere,” she protested, her voice wobbling even more than Dante’s. “It wasn’t your fault. You’re bleeding, Dante.”
The quiver in her voice gave way to a sob, and he held her even closer.
“It’s okay. It’s okay, nena. Don’t cry. I’m okay.” He muttered similar phrases, his English liberally sprinkled with Spanish. They could hear sirens in the distance and shouting as James and the other driver argued about something, but neither Dante nor Cleo moved, or even looked in that direction.
When the emergency services showed up, James pointed them to Dante and Cleo, who still sat in the middle of the field. They had long since lapsed into silence, Dante holding her close while Cleo battled to stop shaking.
“He’s bleeding,” she told the paramedics as soon as they crouched down in front of them.
“And she’s pregnant,” Dante informed them, as one of the men applied pressure to the bleeding wound above his right eyebrow, where a shard of the shattered window had narrowly missed his eye.
Her hand went to her bump at the mention of her pregnancy—of course it would be the first thing Dante thought about in a situation like this. No wonder he’d been so worried about her. There’d be no baby without a healthy Cleo.
It hadn’t even occurred to Cleo to be concerned about the baby. Her baby was fine. She’d know if it wasn’t. Still, it would be wise to check. She gave the bump a reassuring pat and stood up with the overeager assistance of two paramedics and one apprehensive-looking Spaniard. One of the paramedics attempted to steer her toward the waiting ambulance, but Dante stepped between them and took her elbow, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.
“I’ll do it,” he said firmly, and the paramedics exchanged glances before shrugging and smoothly moving to flank the hobbling couple as they slowly made their way toward the ambulance.
A second ambulance was just arriving, and so were the police. James left the other driver with the emergency responders and strode toward them.
“You both okay?” he asked, his sharp gaze taking in their injuries, or lack thereof, in a single glance.
“Fine,” Dante replied, while the paramedics were checking their vital signs. “What about that guy?”
James made a disgusted sound.
“Drunk. And feeling confrontational even though he can barely stand upright. He actually wanted to get back into his wrecked car and drive off. I had to take his keys. The fool thought this was an intersection and blasted through the red light. If you hadn’t been driving by at that exact moment, he would have wound up in this field.”
“We’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” Cleo whispered, her hand going to her abdomen as she considered the awful possibilities. It was bad enough that Dante was injured.
“You’re both going to have to come to the hospital with us,” one of the paramedics said sternly. “Sir, we have to rule out concussion, and we need to make sure that everything is in order with your wife’s pregnancy.”
“I’m not . . . ,” she began.
But Dante cut her short with a terse, “Fine.”
He helped her into the ambulance and climbed in after her.
“The cops are going to want to speak with you both,” James said as the paramedics shut the doors. “I’ll let them know which hospital they’re taking you to, and I’ll pick you up from there.”
Dante merely nodded, and his efficient bodyguard took control of the situation.
Endless hours later, Dante was given the all-clear. No concussion, but it was still a nasty bump to the head, and he needed to call a doctor immediately if he suffered headaches, nausea, or blurred vision. He had five stitches above his eyebrow and a bruise forming on his cheek. Cleo had a tender chest from the impact of the airbag but no damage to her ribs or sternum and was treated for
shock. The baby seemed fine, but they warned her to rest for the next few days and to contact her OB/GYN as soon as possible if there was any unusual cramping or bleeding.
They’d both made statements to the police and were assured that the driver of the other car would be arrested on drunk-driving charges, and since it wasn’t his first offense, he would likely be stripped of his license. Happy with that outcome, the exhausted couple gratefully followed James to Dante’s second car, which he’d picked up after dropping off Cleo’s hatchback. Cleo eyed the gleaming navy-blue car in amusement and arched a look at James.
“Didn’t you think my beat-up old Volkswagen was good enough for His Majesty over here?”
James grinned. “I thought you’d both be a lot more comfortable in the Mercedes.”
“Good call,” Dante said, his voice leaden with exhaustion and pain.
It was close to one in the morning by the time they finally got home. After saying good night to James, they wearily made their way up to the penthouse. Once there, Dante stumbled up to his room. Cleo trailed after him, wanting to be sure he made it to bed okay. She’d never seen him this sluggish, and it concerned her. She still worried about his head injury, even though the doctor assured them it was minor, and she knew it was probably the painkillers making him groggy. He dragged off his clothes, keeping on his black boxer briefs and black socks, and threw himself facedown on the bed without saying a word. Cleo didn’t even think he was aware of her presence in his room. She tried to convince herself that he would be fine if she left and reluctantly turned to exit the room.
He said something, his voice muffled by the pillow, and she stopped, turning to look at him. He didn’t appear to have moved a muscle.
“Did you say something?” she whispered, in case she’d imagined the sound. He turned to look at her. The bruise was taking on a livid, purplish hue, and his eye was swollen almost shut.
“Stay,” he said gruffly, and she wavered before admitting to herself that she didn’t want to leave him anyway.
“Just for a while,” she conceded. She took off her jacket and pulled one of the decorative chairs over to the bed. She curled up in it, pulling her bare feet up and tucking them beneath her butt.
With only his bedside lamp providing light, the room felt cozier than it actually was. She could see him clearly in the warm, yellow glow but knew that she was sitting just outside the little circle of light and was not as easily visible to him, which allowed her to study his features hungrily. Even with the swelling, the gauzy patch above his eye, and the bruises, he was still a remarkably good-looking man. But that wasn’t what riveted her—instead, it was the naked vulnerability she could see on his face that held her captive. She doubted that he was even aware of the expression; he was on the verge of falling asleep, every muscle in his body and face going limp as his exhaustion overtook him.
Cleo stayed awhile longer, watching him, enjoying the silence and knowing that despite the closeness they’d experienced tonight, tomorrow would see them back in their respective corners, facing off in the endless battlefield that was their relationship.
She waited until she was certain he was asleep, then stumbled to her own room and crawled into bed after taking off the least amount of clothes necessary for her to be comfortable. And then she fell into a thankfully dreamless slumber.
“You look awful,” Cleo said with a wince when Dante joined her for breakfast the following morning. “Jeez, does that hurt?”
“Like a sonofabitch,” he grunted, gingerly probing at his swollen eye with his fingers.
“Don’t touch it,” she admonished. “You’ll make it worse.”
“How are you this morning?” he asked, peering at her through his one good eye.
“Fine. I have a huge bruise on my chest from the airbag, and the entire area is a bit tender, but it’s nothing serious.” It actually hurt more than she was letting on because of her already sensitive breasts, but there was no point in complaining since there wasn’t any pain medication she’d feel comfortable taking anyway.
Dante poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table opposite Cleo, who was having a bowl of cereal.
“You’re not eating?” she asked, and he made a face and shook his head.
“Do you want to do something today?”
“Something like what?” Cleo asked in confusion, and Dante shrugged, looking a little discomfited.
“I was thinking we’re heading into week twenty, and Baby’s about the length of a banana, so we should probably call her Nan this week.” The baby had been Tom last week because he’d been about the size of an heirloom tomato. It was a silly game that had evolved between them when they’d discovered a fruit-and-vegetable-comparative-size chart to go along with their weekly growth updates. She’d been Pepper at week eighteen, when they’d first started this game. “I thought we could go do some shopping for her room.”
“But we don’t even know how big the room will be,” Cleo said, and Dante’s face became an expressionless mask.
“Cleo, you can’t mean to move out as soon as she’s born? You’ll need help during those first few months.”
“Months?” she squeaked. “You expect me to stay here for months after she’s born? Dante, no. You said you’d help us find a place to stay; it’s in the contract, and that’s what I’m expecting from you.”
“I’ll get Mrs. Clarke started on the search for a place first thing in the morning,” he said after a long silence, and her shoulders slumped in relief. She shoved her half-eaten cereal aside.
“It’s Mrs. Whitman now,” she reminded him.
“Yes. I’d forgotten.” He stared down into his cup of coffee as if it held the key to unlocking all the secrets in the universe.
“We could go window shopping,” he suggested. “And maybe get a basic idea of the stuff you’d need for Nan’s nursery.”
“Why are you so keen on doing this?” she asked, and he lifted and dropped his shoulders again.
“Maybe I want to feel involved,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just bored and want to get out of here today. This seems to be the most productive thing to do, and it is an activity that would interest both of us.”
His answer surprised her.
“You would find shopping for baby stuff interesting?”
“I’ve never bought baby things before. It would be educational, at the very least.”
Cleo considered his words; she did need some new clothes, since her skirts and trousers were getting too tight in the waist. She’d been thinking of getting a few maternity dresses. But she didn’t want them to be obviously maternity dresses. She always imagined awful, frumpy, tentlike frocks whenever she thought of maternity wear, and those were so not her style. She was hoping to find some fun, loose tops and dresses and drawstring trousers and skirts, which her changing body could grow into.
“Okay,” she said. “If you’re sure you’re up to it, I wouldn’t mind going out. I need some stuff anyway.”
Their first stop was a large high-end baby store in Green Point, and the moment she set foot inside, Cleo was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of tastefully displayed products. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected from a baby shop. Discreet and soothing tunes played in the background, and the place smelled like expensive wood. There were no price tags in sight, which made Cleo nervous. They were approached by several salespersons, all of whom homed in on Cleo and Dante like sharks smelling fresh blood, and Cleo felt a little intimidated by the predatory gleam in their eyes. A woman about two years younger than Cleo reached them first, and her colleagues backed off and disappeared into the woodwork, like wraiths. The saleswoman turned a hundred-watt smile onto her potential new clients.
“Good morning, ma’am, sir . . . I’m Kate. May I be of assistance?” Cleo peered at Dante, who—with his arms folded across his chest—seemed to be waiting for her to say something. Cleo was tempted to turn down Kate’s offer, but another look around the bewildering array of baby paraphernalia an
d Dante’s impassive face changed her mind for her.
“I need . . . well, everything,” she said helplessly. She felt a little inadequate when she acknowledged to herself that she wasn’t certain exactly what babies needed, aside from love, care, food, and clothing. As she watched Kate’s smile transform from a hundred watts to a hundred thousand megawatts, Cleo realized it was the worst reply she could have given.
“Well, then,” Kate said smugly, “you’ve come to the right place, because we have everything.” She lowered her eyes to Cleo’s barely protruding stomach, and her smile turned simpering. “Your first?” Cleo nodded, and Kate’s smile became beatific. She certainly had an amazing variety of smiles.
“How far along are you?”
“Just on five months,” Cleo replied.
“Babies are wonderful, aren’t they?” Kate gushed. “So full of life.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Cleo’s response was dry. “I don’t have a baby yet.”
Dante made a little choking sound that Cleo was coming to recognize as his attempt at disguising a laugh. Another quick look in his direction confirmed that his lips had tilted upward, even while he kept his gaze firmly averted from Cleo’s. Kate’s smile faded somewhat; she clearly did not like having the obvious pointed out to her.
“Of course.” The woman nodded before going into full-on sales mode. “Well, the best place to start would be with a crib. If you’ll follow me, we have a fantastic variety, which I am sure you’ll adore! Everything we have here is for display purposes, and your crib will be built to order, so we can change aspects of any design if you’re not happy with something. We could even custom-build one for you based on a design you have in mind. So it’s a good thing you came to us this early, because it takes time to make, especially if you’re purchasing matching furniture, which will also have to be built to order.”
Kate led them to the cribs in the back, and even to Cleo’s untrained eye, she could tell that everything was ridiculously expensive. While Kate was lauding the merits of one of the beautiful cribs, Cleo gravitated toward a smaller, less conspicuous one tucked away in the back. While not as beautiful as the rest, it definitely looked less pricey.
A Ruthless Proposition Page 25
