He had walked out of the bathroom. The door was open and his footsteps left a wet imprint on the carpet. A few droplets that had escaped his thorough towel-drying still clung like glass beads to his shoulders and in the spikes of his hair. Frozen in a shaft of late-afternoon sun, there was a haze of dust all around them, and the sense of a storm brewing was so profound she stood waiting.
‘I told you to calm down, Lucie. And I meant it.’
‘Calm down? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t have any reason to calm down. What the hell does my calming down have to do with anything?’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t respond well to emotional blackmail, and I’m not going to be around to pick up the pieces.’
‘Pieces? There are pieces? I just called you out. You’re the one with the problem! You’re a commitment-phobe and you’re trying to turn this into something that’s about me.’ She grabbed a robe from the hook in the bathroom and shoved her arms in, tying it so tightly it hurt.
Dante moved through the room, still at that slow and steady pace, but poised as a boxer. She could feel the waves of tension. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
‘Are you still going to deny it, Dante? To me? Or—what’s worse—to yourself. This has nothing to do with me going to pieces. When have you ever been close to anything that’s fallen to pieces? You don’t hang around long enough to see the sun set! You rock up and ship out! I’ll bet you barely stay long enough to learn their names!’
‘That’s enough!’
He turned. A quarter-turn, but it was swift and it made her halt. And go quiet.
‘You think I should learn names? There’s only one name in my head. As if it’s carved into my skull. And until I rub it out there will be no one else. Do you hear me, Lucie? Not you. Not anyone else. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else again. Ever.’
Lucie stood, her hand on the robe’s soft towelling belt, her fingers slipping over the knot she had tied, unable to loosen it.
‘You’ve no idea about my past—what I went through.’
‘What you went through...? Poor Dante. Did someone hurt you?’ She stepped forward. ‘You think you’re the only one who’s ever been hurt? I’ve been around hurt. I propped up my mother after my father left her. I saw her pain. And she got through it. So it doesn’t add up that you’re going to lock down your emotions and check out of life because of a little bit of hurt.’
She tugged and tugged at the stupid belt and eventually it came loose. She glanced to the side, where the dress she was planning to wear to the awards dinner was hanging like some ghoulish spectre, observing them. Dante moved to his bag, pulled out underwear, shook off the towel and started to get dressed.
He had his back to her. She knew he was listening, but it was as if he was putting more and more distance between them. As if he had rubbed her off his skin in the shower and was now rubbing her out of his mind.
‘Why can’t you answer me? Why can’t you tell me even one single thing about this—this woman? Help me understand why you’re acting like this?’
‘You’re really not going to give up, are you?’
‘Not if it’s going to help me understand what’s going on in your head, Dante. Not if there’s a chance that this weekend might have a different outcome.’
‘There’s only one outcome, Lucie. And it hasn’t changed since I drew up the terms on my yacht.’
‘Is that all love is to you, Dante? A business deal?’
‘You really want to know what love is to me? The last woman I loved took her own life. Because I wouldn’t do what she wanted me to do. Is that a big enough detail for you? Does that help? Will you leave it alone now?’
CHAPTER TEN
LIKE A SEA of giant white polka dots, tables extended into the farthest corners of the hotel’s grand ballroom. A wall of silver curtains encircled them, and to the front, accessed by a short sweep of steps on either side, was the imposing empty stage. A single spotlight splashed harsh yellow light down onto a solitary lectern, from which poked a long, thin microphone, and a vast screen articulated clearly that this was indeed the Twenty-fifth Annual Woman of the Year Awards.
As guests in silks and satins, jewel-bright, and in black and white took their seats, waiters hovered and then swept round them, brandishing bottles and laying out plates with a flourish. Glasses seemed to be permanently fizzing and popping, and the buzz of conversation tinkled higher and louder with each passing minute.
The heavy leaden twist of Lucie’s stomach had not eased in the two hours since Dante had uttered his declaration about his first love and then silently finished dressing. She had known that her overwhelming instinct—to go to him, hold him, comfort him—would be completely rejected. Instead they’d both skirted each other in some choreographed dance, as if it was a thousand years and the vast dry sands of the Sahara that lay between them rather than an opalescent wool carpet and a half-hour deadline.
She’d watched from the corners of her eyes, aching for him, but he hadn’t acknowledged her pleas and within moments had been dressed, and back in the easy, lazy zone he commanded so well.
With a curt, ‘Back in ten,’ he’d left her sitting at the dressing table, a clutter of products in front of her. Miracle this and Illusion that. She’d picked up one of the tiny tubes and bottles, refusing to believe that what they had shared had been an illusion. She’d travelled so far from the person she’d been that no matter what happened she would always treasure this time. But it was painful to think that for Dante it had been just another few days...
She’d shuddered. She wasn’t judging. He’d clearly been through hell. And to live with the pain of feeling responsible for someone else’s decision to end their life was unimaginable. She had seen her mother in agonies of despair, had brought her handkerchiefs in her childish way, trying to make her feel better, but this was something entirely different. No wonder Dante wanted nothing to do with love.
He’d returned, wordlessly, as she’d clipped her earrings into place. She’d glanced at him in the mirror but that rocky edifice had still been intact. If she had known what to say it might have helped, but she hadn’t, and they had noiselessly finished getting ready and then joined his family—straight from the arctic silence of their room to the warm, excited hubbub of aperitifs and air-kisses.
Lucie glanced across the table to where Dante now sat, his body tilted slightly to the side, engaged in conversation with his sister-in-law, Frankie. He was at his most handsome, in black tails, white bow tie and sharp-collared shirt. His golden skin and dark blond hair were utterly arresting. He stopped her heart—it was that simple.
Inwardly stifling the pain of another stab of hurt at how their time together was trickling to its close, Lucie allowed her glass to be refilled and stole another glance across the table, watching as he nodded slowly, occasionally allowing a dimple to form, as he reacted to Frankie’s ebullient delivery of some story or other involving polo ponies and a great deal of hand gestures.
Frankie looked so radiantly, contentedly happy. Her skin glowed with the hormones of the early pregnancy she and Rocco had announced when she’d beamingly refused the first of the glasses of champagne that had been passed around. Rocco had put his arms around her, laid his chin on her head and squeezed his eyes shut as if he couldn’t give enough thanks to God for her very existence.
At that moment Lucie had glanced at Dante. He had looked cast in stone, immobile, but had only stayed like that for mere seconds before he’d slipped on the full-power, two-dimpled smile and twinkling eyes charm mask. He’d slapped his brother’s back affectionately, shaken his hand, embraced Frankie gently and convinced the whole gathering that he’d never heard happier news.
Only Lucie knew differently.
She could see past the golden glow, the sunburst smiles and the azure-blue eyes, and with every passing moment it was clearer and clearer to her that Dante simply wasn’t able to form any kind of relationship that would lead
to commitment—never mind a wedding or children.
So her mother had been right after all. Playboy. Heartbreaker. Just like her father. A boy in a man’s body. Never wanting to grow up, never wanting to take on responsibility. Wanting a lifetime of playing the field.
Right on cue a striking-looking brunette appeared behind him. She placed her hands over his eyes and leaned in close. ‘Surprise!’ she whispered in a sultry voice, and as he turned to see who it was she twisted herself and her full cleavage almost into his face.
‘Lana! How lovely to see you.’ Dante composed himself and stood up. He kissed each proffered cheek, holding her at a distance that was just acceptable.
‘Mind if borrow your date?’ the brunette threw at Lucie as she slid her arm through Dante’s, without waiting for a reply, and walked with him to another table.
‘Subtle, huh?’ said a voice at her side. Frankie. ‘You get used to it. In time. I spent the first six months ready to claw their eyes out, you know?’
Lucie dragged her gaze back from where Dante was being pawed and stroked to the quirky smiling face of Dante’s sister-in-law.
‘Every time I was taken to a function like this I’d ask Rocco for a pre-match report—you know, to prepare for former lovers launching themselves at him. And then I’d stick to him the whole night, scanning the joint and making it obvious he was with me and me alone.’
‘Sounds like a lot of work,’ said Lucie, her eyes darting back to where Dante was now meeting and greeting the rest of the table.
‘Oh, it was, yes. I stopped as soon as I realised that Rocco might be the most handsome man in the world, as far as I was concerned, but he was also the most loyal. He could see past every one of those offers he was getting. What’s a roll in the hay compared to a lifetime of happiness? As soon as I accepted that I stopped trying to beat everyone off with a stick.’
‘Yes, well, perhaps there’s more than just hair colour that separates the brothers,’ said Lucie, rather archly. ‘Sorry,’ she added, when Frankie’s elfin features knitted into a frown. ‘It’s not that I don’t applaud your efforts. But I’m just passing through.’
‘Dante’s worth the effort. More than worth it. Everything good in life is. You get back what you put in. I’m not saying it’s about being on your guard—I’m saying it’s about understanding one another...accepting one another.’
Lucie nodded. She smiled. ‘And I’m saying that the first step is accepting yourself. I’ve just turned that corner. And he helped me to do that.’
‘I can imagine.’ Frankie sat back in her chair. Her hands fell to her tiny bump. ‘He’s a good man,’ she said. ‘The best.’
Lucie looked across at him. At the man she loved. She loved. The man who would not admit that he loved her back.
Time was running out for her to do anything. Another few hours here, for the ceremony itself, then dancing, and then—that was it. Curtains closed. Back to their room and then goodbye.
A rumble of anticipation went around the room, signalling that the awards were about to be announced. Dante excused himself and came back to their table.
The house lights and stage lights dimmed until only the glow from hundreds of flickering candles lit the cavernous space. Suddenly an uplifting overture boomed through the speakers and the Master of Ceremonies walked out onto the stage. The huge screen started to show images of the ballroom, focusing in on various tables and various dignitaries and celebrities. Whoops and applause followed when the camera hit upon someone of particular interest to the crowd.
There was no doubt that the women here were massively important figures in their worlds, be it literature, fashion, art, medicine, acting, science, business, community or politics.
A voice boomed out that these pictures were being beamed live around the world, and then there on the giant screen was their table. The voice, which it soon became apparent belonged to a roving reporter, told the ballroom—and presumably the world—that here was Eleanor Hermida and her family. They heard that she was due to be honoured shortly and that her wonderful family were here to share her joy. And wasn’t that Lady Vivienne Bond’s daughter there with them?
Lucie’s heart leaped into her mouth. Of course she’d known there would be cameras, that it was a live broadcast. But nothing intrusive—nothing that involved any attention on her. That wasn’t part of the deal! She was here as a date, as an icon of her own free will that her mother could observe from wherever she was on the planet. Free will that declared her independence.
The last thing—the very last thing—she wanted the world or her mother to see was her fumbling for words or breath. Thankfully the camera zoomed off to another table. She sat back in her seat and expelled a huge lungful of air through clenched teeth. She had to get this under control. It was a dinner—nothing else. She was a guest at a dinner, just as hundreds of others were.
‘Everything all right?’ Dante leaned across.
For the first time since they’d entered the ballroom his gaze snapped straight onto hers, and in that second a thousand things fell into place. Whatever he was looking for in this world, a simpering, vacuous woman wasn’t it.
Lucie straightened her spine, tugged her shoulders back, raised her chin and thanked God and her mother’s incessant moaning for at least this default face-saving movement.
‘Of course,’ she chimed. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? I feel honoured to be here. All these worthy women, doing such worthwhile things for their causes.’
The swell of applause caused both of them to turn back to face the podium. The moment had come to honour Eleanor. A reverent hush spread round the room. A montage of pictures of some of the projects she had supported began to roll on the screen and a quick summary of her achievements sounded out.
The lights dimmed further, apart from the single yellow spot that illuminated her, and the room was imbued with humbled silence. The Master of Ceremonies relayed tales of her years of work, the money she’d raised, the lives she’d touched. And then, in a poignant tribute, a young man who’d benefited took to the stage to deliver a speech and present the lifetime award.
Eleanor sat completely composed.
Well, that’s where he gets it, thought Lucie. Not a flicker of emotion other than a smile more enigmatic than the Mona Lisa’s. Not a hint or a suggestion that anything other than supreme self-possession ran through her veins, like liquid steel through iron pipes.
She looked at Dante and Rocco. Nothing. Complete control. Frankie was weeping, but that could be explained by her hormones—and anyway she was a Hermida only by marriage. But as Lucie looked around she saw other people similarly moved. She saw handkerchiefs pressed to eyes, heads shaking in disbelief. This woman was exceptional. Her achievements unsurpassed. But she and her sons looked as if they were listening to a travel report.
Even when Eleanor took to the podium herself, to deliver her acceptance speech, in which she paid homage to the patience of her family, their masks remained intact—Rocco’s dark stare and Dante’s golden gaze. Immovable. Solid. Set.
What hope did she have of piercing his impenetrable shield? He had no wish, no desire to let anyone chip through the rock to see what happiness there might be underneath. He was made of something other than flesh and blood. He had given her so much—had helped her past her own terrors, made her at home in her own skin—yet he wasn’t prepared to step out from the golden shield he hid behind—his mask.
Eleanor returned to the table. Her boys kissed her courteously and saw her seated. Frankie beamed and Lucie watched, spellbound. The understated grace was mesmeric, the filial attention hypnotic. The only thing missing was any genuine warmth. And the lack of that, as far as Lucie was concerned, was the most emotional aspect of all.
A standing ovation marked the end of the awards and the start of the dancing. People left their tables and started milling around, and Lucie felt her anxiety surge. She had convinced herself that she would be able to deal with strangers with Dante by her side, but now...? After al
l the emotion of earlier...? Now she’d rather just slope off to the bathroom and wait it out. No one would really notice if she took a very long time to powder her nose.
She lifted her clutch and started to make her way through the people. The music had changed and a deep, heavy bass was drawing people onto the floor. She noticed Rocco and Frankie, clasped in a slow dance, but though she looked all around there was no sign of Dante. The floor continued to fill. Her need to get some air continued to build. She could see the archway that led to the restrooms and she put her head down.
And there in her way was a tall, blond, handsome figure in full white tie. Dante—with his back to her.
And then he turned. Draped around him was the slim brunette. Her backless dress was scooped so low that Lucie could almost see the cheeks of her bottom—but not quite, because Dante’s hands were resting there. And as they swayed to the music the brunette tipped back her head and laughed.
Lucie looked to see the flash of white teeth, the burst of flame-blue eyes, the shock of blond hair. Two proud dimples.
They swayed to the music, the brunette pressing herself close as they moved. He spoke...she laughed again...and Lucie saw exactly what Frankie had meant. This was it for him. This was how he lived. This was what women did to him. All the time. Just as with her father, they threw themselves at him. It was his version of love.
He’d had his fingers burned with love in his youth and had learned that it was much easier to play the super-shallow, super-smooth playboy. Just as her mother had said.
Frankie could say all she wanted about him being worth the fight, but what price lay ahead? Couldn’t he even see out the end of this evening before he defaulted back to Dante the Lothario?
Anger bloomed inside her.
She put her head down and pushed past them.
She saw feet, heard voices, the pulsing bass of the music and the high, happy calls of people celebrating. The archway was close, and she brushed past a waiter pushing a trolley piled high with rows and towers of chalky-coloured petits-fours.
The Argentinian's Virgin Conquest Page 13
