by Diana Duncan
His fingers tightened on the sink. He and Ariana were now on more than one hit list.
Cleaning up would make him less recognizable to all their pursuers…whoever they were. He studied the deadly old-fashioned straight razor in his hand, then the bar soap on the sink. He gave a fatalistic shrug.
Simply one more risky improvisation in the line of duty.
A long soak in hot water eased his soreness. Clean, and with a towel slung around his hips, he swung open the bathroom door…and jerked to a halt.
Kerosene lamps illuminated the glowing room, and candles sparkled beneath dust-free glass globes on a chandelier over the table. Ariana had removed the protective plastic sheets, and pillows cushioned the furniture arranged in a cozy semicircle around the fireplace.
Her scrubbed clothing hung beside his on chairs near the crackling fire. She’d even cleaned his boots. Through the bedroom doorway, he saw the neatly made bed.
Ariana stood at the stove with her back to him, still clad only in a towel, humming “O soave fanciulla” from La Bohème and stirring a savory canned soup. His stomach cramped with hunger pangs that had nothing to do with food.
Growing up, he and Zia Ines were mired in the grinding struggle against poverty, too exhausted to indulge in niceties. Now he was too busy to bother and never around anyway. He didn’t know how to make a house into a home. The world he existed in was ugly and savage. Brutality was rewarded and life tenuous.
The welcoming sanctuary ignited a yearning inside him he hadn’t known existed. The peace enveloping the simple cottage pierced his heart with longing. He’d spent time with other women, been in many houses, but had never felt as though he belonged. Never ached to belong. His soul had been starving for beauty and warmth…and suddenly Ariana had created a banquet that dangled tantalizingly within reach.
Dante clenched his jaw. He’d learned the hard way it was futile—and dangerous—to pine for things he could not have. He would never trade the surety of serenity for the satisfaction of action. Never exchange permanent peace for the adrenaline rush of living on the edge. A wife and children would never replace his “blood brothers.”
It was a choice he could not make.
He thrust his fingers through his damp hair. Why was he even thinking about it? His fate had been sealed at age twelve, and he’d never looked back. Even in the never-going-to-happen scenario that he did want a real family, his occupation would only endanger them.
After two decades, he was way too deep inside to ever get out.
Ariana turned. “Hi. I found a can of lentil soup—” She gasped. Staring at him, she froze. The wooden spoon in her hand clattered to the floor
“I thought a towel was the fashion of the day.”
“It’s not that…well, it is…but—” She gulped. “Your face!”
“Sì. I am sporting souvenirs of our battles. And I lost a fight with a straight razor.”
“Your beard is gone. Before…I didn’t know…” She inhaled shakily. “Holy Zeus!”
“Cuts and bruises.” He shrugged. “It is not so terrible.”
“No,” she breathed. “Hence the whammy.” She bent to retrieve the spoon. “Ah…you’re still bleeding a little.”
He touched his fingers to his chin. “Nothing fatal.”
“I’ll get the first-aid kit.” She bolted from the room. Perhaps she was uneasy because the blood was an unpleasant reminder of the previous day’s battles.
“Are you all right?” he called.
“Yes. I’m just collecting my wits…um…the kit.”
“Don’t fuss. I’ll survive.”
“The last thing we need is for you to get an infection.” She walked back in and pulled out a chair at the table, which she’d set for dinner with white stoneware and a copper gardening pitcher brimming with red, orange and yellow chrysanthemums. “Sit. Now.”
Grinning, he complied. “An offer no gentleman can refuse.”
She opened a first-aid kit on the table, then placed her soft palm against his forehead.
“Che cosa?”
“Are you feverish? You’re having delusions of being a gentleman.” She nudged his knees with hers, and he spread his thighs so she could step between them to reach his face.
Her leg slid against his bare thigh and desire detonated inside him. He gritted his teeth against the white-hot explosion of need. “I am many things, bella. A gentleman is not among them.”
“Maybe not by Webster’s definition.” She poured peroxide onto a cotton ball and then leaned forward, inadvertently giving him an alluring view. “But you’re smart and brave and you’ve saved my life more than once. At great cost.”
Dante swallowed and closed his eyes. She had no idea what this was costing him.
The wet cotton ball dabbed his cheek. Her hair trailed over his shoulder in a silken caress. The satiny mound of her breast grazed his upper arm, and every muscle in his body tensed against the yearning to reach for her.
Sweat beaded on his upper lip. Years of discipline had taught him iron-clad self-control. He lived by a strict code of conduct devised to ensure that he stayed alive. He’d been wooed with beautiful women, priceless artifacts, money beyond his wildest dreams. And never veered from his purpose. Never questioned his ethics.
Until now.
Ariana’s fingertips brushed his forehead and he opened his eyes. Her mouth was a mere breath from his. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” His hands fisted. How much was he expected to endure? Her sensual torture was tougher to withstand than a beating.
“The soup should be done soon. You must be famished.”
“Ravenous.” His glance tangled with hers and he jolted, stunned to see his own desire reflected in her uncertain gaze. Mesmerized by the glowing blue depths, he flinched at the sting of antiseptic on his chin.
“Sorry.” She leaned closer, pursed her lips and blew on the cut. Her breath feathered over his mouth, intoxicating him with the scent of sun-ripened fruit and warm woman. “Does that make it better?”
“No,” he rasped. “But this will.” Her eyes flared in startled surprise as he tugged her into his lap, wrapped his arms around her and captured her mouth with his.
Ariana went completely still. Not resistance, but not response, either. He hesitated for a heartbeat. Then she uttered a quiet moan, her fingers tunneled into his hair and she kissed him with desperate demand.
Rational thought shut down and he became lost in sensation. Reveling in the heady taste of her acceptance, he forgot everything and found refuge in the lush haven of her mouth. Her flowery scent dizzied his senses as he slid his tongue into the welcoming warmth.
Coming home.
Until this moment, he hadn’t truly known what he was missing.
And from this moment on, he would never be able to forget.
A groan vibrated in his throat, and he deepened the connection, drinking her in. Ariana’s generosity quenched his loneliness. Her indomitable spirit silenced the demons of suspicion and doubt. She flooded his soul with light, with hope, filling the empty place deep inside where he hid the scars of cynicism and mistrust.
She danced to his rhythm as naturally as if they’d been longtime lovers. Giving. Taking. Breaths mingled in silent sighs. He’d intended to linger, but passion flamed inside him, and Ariana’s speeding pulse urged his to join her in the race toward pleasure.
He cradled her head in one hand, supported her body with the other and leaned her back, leaned into their kiss. Groaning, he savored the taste of her. Her fingertips stroked his nape, caressed his naked spine, and goose bumps shivered along his skin. Her palms slid over his shoulders, down his chest, as if learning the shape of him.
He ached to touch her in return. This wasn’t just desire. It was far more than lust. Need blazed through his veins in a fierce, primal drumbeat. He never wanted to let her go.
Dante scooped her up and shoved the flowers and dishes aside. He laid her down on the table and nibbled along her jaw to the t
ender spot beneath her ear. She gasped, and her nails bit lightly into his back, the slight pain heightening his pleasure. She was shaking. So was he.
He’d been starving many times in his life, but had never known such driving hunger. Consuming need. He tasted the curve of her shoulder, the delicate hollow of her throat. His fingers dipped into the valley between her breasts and tugged open the towel. “I am going to devour every inch of you, Ariana.”
“Yes. Please.” Her breathing rapid, she arched against him, and the spicy perfume of crushed chrysanthemums mingled with her unique feminine scent. Her pebbled nipples grazed his chest and her heartbeat galloped against his.
He skimmed his hands down her lush curves, teased her silky curls, and she moaned at his touch. She felt so right, so perfect. He was burning up. The only way he could satisfy his scalding need was by sinking deeply inside her.
He had to have her…had to make her his. He cupped her breast and bent his head to suckle the hard nipple.
“Dante!” Ariana gasped and yanked his hair hard, jerking him from the haze of pleasure. “Stop!”
Dante froze. Stop? He blinked in frustrated disbelief. Now? He struggled to draw a shaky breath that stung his lungs. Gritted his teeth. San Gennaro, mio bello, give me the strength.
Coughing, she shoved at his chest. “The soup is on fire!”
He dazedly looked up and his blurred gaze focused on the stove, where flames and smoke roiled from the pan. Snarling a phrase he hoped she didn’t understand, he lunged and yanked the pot from the burner.
As the hot handle singed his palm, he swore again, dropped it into the sink and ran the water over it. Blackened gunk sizzled and acrid smoke thickened the air.
Coughing, his eyes streaming from the noxious cloud, he turned away from the too-enticing sight of Ariana as her trembling hands fumbled with her towel. He stared furiously at the water pouring from the faucet. What in the name of all that was holy had gotten into him?
Water overflowed the pan, and he wrenched the faucet off. The whole damn cottage would have burned down around him.
Worse, the Camorra could have waltzed right in…and caught him with his pants down.
“Dante?” Ariana’s tentative touch on his shoulder made him jump. “Did you get burned?”
“No.” He snapped out the lie. He’d never been so badly burned…and he didn’t mean his hand. His emotions were as charred and smoking as the ruined mess in the sink. He was no randy schoolboy, but he’d never before been slammed senseless by passion.
Now that he’d reveled in the shared explosion of erotic energy between them, ached with the hunger, there was no going back. No way to salvage the wreck. Wrenching emptiness cut through him.
He could never again trust himself to touch her.
And the loss stained him with regret.
“Are you mad at me?” Her voice sounded as shaken as he felt.
Fury churned inside him. Not at her, at himself. He knew better than to get so carried away. “No.”
“Then why won’t you face me?” Her unsteady whisper stabbed him in the heart. “Are you offended by…I didn’t purposely—”
He turned and looked at her. Huge mistake. She faltered and bit her lower lip, plump and pink from his kisses. Her skin was flushed from the friction of his, her hair tousled by his hands.
The hungry lion of desire pacing within him roared and bared its claws. Surely she wasn’t that naive. The towel precariously riding his hips left nothing to imagination. He ruefully shook his head. “Do I appear offended by you, mia cara?”
Her glance flickered down his body and she blushed. “It was just first aid.” She gulped. “I had no idea. I didn’t think—”
He hadn’t been thinking, either, not with his brain. Dante shrugged in a casual manner he was far from feeling. “There are two of us at fault.”
And, he’d learned in his dealings, two sides to every person. His gaze lingered on Ariana’s quivering body…on her slender neck and bare shoulders. She didn’t have her iPod and notebook with her. He was hit by a sizzling flashback of how soft and inviting her body had felt beneath his, and his breathing hitched. He was sure of that. Instead of rolling around naked with her on the kitchen table, he should have just eaten and then searched the premises for evidence of Megaera’s identity. Then again, it was another no-brainer. He snorted. As if any red-blooded male would choose soup over sex.
She twitched the hem of her towel. “I’m sorry. Honestly, Dante, I wouldn’t lead you on. I’m not the type who starts something like this and then doesn’t follow through. Not that I start it and do go through with it.” She inhaled a choppy breath. “I mean…I’m not a prude, but I’m also not in the habit of…” Her expression dazed, she wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know what happened.”
“No need to apologize, bella.” He studied her appalled face. Even now, he wanted to pull her into his embrace and kiss away her hurt and bewilderment. “Our reaction is quite normal considering all we’ve been through. It has been documented before. People are genetically wired to preserve the species.”
“A response to danger?” She looked doubtful. “Some sort of biological imperative?”
“Sì,” he lied. The attraction between them was far more than mere biology. I won’t lose control again.” Both a promise and a warning. Was Ariana Bennett as ingenuous as she appeared? Or was she a calculating opponent using sex to distract him? If she had seduced him to divert him from obtaining information from her, she’d succeeded.
Skepticism snuffed out the banked embers, and he went cold. He’d learned the hard way to trust no one. If she had been an assassin, he’d be dead. As his friend Silvio’s lively grandfather had often warned him, wine, tobacco and women reduce a man to ashes. He stared at the travesty in the sink.
Ariana’s dubious gaze followed his. “So much for dinner. I never could cook well. I always seem to get distracted.”
The dejected slump to her shoulders roused his primal, protective urges, Dio help him. “A tutto c’è rimedio, fuorché alla morte.”
“There’s a cure for everything except death?” Her crooked smile banished his chills, wreathed him in renewed warmth. “Well, the patient looks terminal.”
He nodded with mock gravity. “More like cremated.”
Her wobbly giggle brightened her countenance and shot an arrow of triumph through his heart.
He trained his gaze on the shard-strewn flagstones. He’d better tread carefully. Dishes might not be the only things that got shattered if he forgot his role again. “If you handle the ah…destruction, I will tend to the meal.”
“Deal. But first, I’m going to get a fresh towel.”
When she scuttled into the bathroom, he conducted a fast sweep of the main area, but didn’t find her iPod and notebook.
Ariana returned before he could widen the hunt. Tendrils of newly damp hair told him she’d splashed her face with cold water. As for himself…there were not enough icebergs in the Arctic Ocean to bring down his temperature.
While she wielded a broom, he scanned the stone pantry that performed double duty as a primitive cooler. No hiding places among the meager supplies. He opened another can of lentil soup. While she reset the table, he measured flour, sugar, salt, water and olive oil into a bowl.
He and Ariana strained to act casual, as if they weren’t skimpily clad in squares of terry cloth. As if the lure of hot, naked kisses didn’t hum tautly between them. As if the temptation of forbidden pleasure wasn’t a siren call to recklessness.
Both failed miserably.
He was hyperaware of her bare limbs. Of the long, graceful line of her neck. Of the expanse of exposed creamy skin.
Especially now that he knew how sweet her warm mouth tasted. How her satin skin quivered beneath his caresses.
Ariana’s awkward movements revealed she suffered similar torture. She made a quick trip to the courtyard, and then stepped through the back door carrying another bundle of flowers. She peered aroun
d him. “What are you making?”
“Bread. Somewhat like focaccia. But flat, because we have no yeast, and smaller, to cook faster.”
“Dinner buns.” She was careful not to touch him, but her intriguing scent tantalized his senses.
“They are cheap and filling.” He’d never again smell chrysanthemums without becoming violently aroused. His arms stiffened as he fought to keep his hands in the bowl. “Without yeast, I hope they do not taste like rocks.”
A smile tinged her voice. “Then you don’t want me making them. Dad used to choke down my awful creations and pretend to love them, bless him.”
The perfect opening. He had to gain her trust in order to get the information he sought. Establishing rapport required careful finesse, like the dough beneath his fingers. A heavy hand would toughen the bread…and the mark. “The way you talk about him, I feel as if I knew him.”
“Everyone liked him,” she said softly. “Which made it even more terrible when people turned away from him after he was arrested on smuggling charges. Thanks to the relentless FBI.” She swallowed hard. “You’ve already heard it before. So, how did a tough guy learn to make bread?”
“Tough guys are made, not born.” He rinsed his hands and wiped them on a kitchen towel, then swiveled to stir the soup. Proving himself was easier with men. Violence often bought him membership into the inner circle. Women required emotional intimacy before giving trust. He would share with Ariana in order to coax her to share with him. The method was cold, calculating…and effective. He’d done it dozens of times.
“Do tell.”
He invented lies for a living. But lying to Ariana was different. He’d never before felt the sick weight of reproach in his stomach. Smelled the stench of fraud in his nostrils. Tasted the sting of treachery on his tongue.
Do your damn job. The sooner he got it over with, the sooner he’d be free of Ariana. Free of temptation. He’d learn to deal with the guilt.
Dante turned to meet Ariana’s compassionate gaze, and his heart stumbled.
Or perhaps both of them would be forever scarred by his betrayal.
