by Diana Duncan
She would pray for a passing ship. Hard. “Would you cut me one of those?” She measured with her hands. “About so big.”
Another thing she appreciated about Dante—as a man of action, he didn’t ask useless questions. She corralled her hair and used the rope to tie it into a high ponytail.
Disappointment grazed his sculpted features. “Your hair is truly your glory. I like it loose.”
Her stomach did a happy little jig. “You may not think it’s quite as attractive whooshing up in flames over a signal fire.”
His palm settled at the small of her back as he escorted her out of the shed. “I never wish to cause you hurt.”
Deeper, darker meaning lurked beneath the simple statement. She frowned. There he went, speaking in secret code again.
As she collected wood for the signal fires, he returned to the shed. She walked past the window and saw him stealthily searching the small enclosure, and realization clobbered her between the eyes.
Her steps faltered. There hadn’t been a spider in the bedroom. Dante had been casing the cottage for her notebook and iPod. He’d been focused since the beginning on getting his hands on the useless-so-far information. Why? Wavering, she bit her lip. Maybe he could help her clear her father’s name. She studied his strong, somber profile as he exited the cottage.
No. She trusted the cryptic man with her life, but wasn’t quite ready to entrust him with the only thing left of her father…his reputation.
As he came back outside, Dante shrugged off his leather coat and shoved up the sweater sleeves, revealing brawny forearms. Following his instructions, Ariana helped him stack wooden pyres into triangular distress signals.
He arranged logs. “I’ll get green branches, while you select gramophone records. The burning shellac will create black smoke, visible during daylight.”
She took his coat inside and chose a few chipped records.
Dante set kerosene and matches beside the back door for easy access. If…no…when they saw a ship, they could run out and ignite the fires.
“Dante, we should bring up the mirror. A mirror flash can be seen for fifty miles.” At his astonished expression, she shrugged. “I read it somewhere.”
After he wrestled the mirror up the cellar stairs, he dragged the boat from the shed. Daylight exposed splintered boards and gaping holes. Fear slithered up her spine. The unreliable craft looked like a floating coffin.
Dante carried out planks and constructed a makeshift sawhorse from logs and boards. He grasped the hem of his sweater and peeled it over his head before he began to slice wood with the edge of the ax.
She sighed. “As much as I hate to contribute to the making of Titanic, The Sequel, we could bleed sap from the stand of pines and coat the hull.”
His lightning grin flashed. “A watertight seal. Brilliant.” He shot her a look of male appreciation. “I suppose you have read how this is done?”
“Nice to be proficient at something, even if it is trivia.”
“You sell yourself short.” His warm murmur sparked along her nerve endings. “You excel at more than trivia, cara.”
Whoa. She left him carving wooden spigots to find containers. Then she collected the spigots and hammer and strode to the pine grove surrounding the cottage.
“Do not stray out of my sight,” Dante called.
The independent woman balked at his caveman attitude, but part of her was touched. And, okay, she got a little thrill from his protectiveness.
He worked doggedly on repairing the boat, trying to outpace the coming storm. Ariana returned to the cottage for food. Frowning, she perused the pantry’s contents. Dante was right, their food supply was dangerously low. She brewed coffee, then dished up smoked fish and sandwiched chunks of aged goat cheese between leftover bread. Grapes served as “dessert.”
She carried lunch outside, where Dante wolfed down the weird meal without complaint and swigged coffee while working.
He concentrated on the boat while she explored overgrown yellowing vegetation. At some time in the past, someone had planted a garden, and a few vegetables and herbs had self-propagated. She bent to glean what she could. The ocean thundered in the distance and the breeze sharpened as oily clouds loomed closer. The wind cut through the sport coat and sweater. Unlike Dante, she wasn’t toiling hard enough to stay warm. Shivering, she rubbed her hands together.
He looked up from hammering and frowned. “Ariana, you should go indoors before you catch a chill.”
She shook her head, amazed that he was still aware of her even when his attention was elsewhere. “I need to help you.”
“I would like some water, per favore. Then you should stay inside.”
He disappeared into the shed without waiting for her to protest, and she retrieved her iPod and notebook from a flowerpot of chrysanthemums on the back patio. A perfect hiding spot. Tough guy would never think to poke around in flowers.
Ariana took her things indoors, fetched Dante his water, and then returned to the cottage. She hung up his coat and hers. After stoking the fire, she lit lanterns and settled at the table with her iPod, paper and pencil.
Time passed quietly as she zeroed in on complex translations. A/K kept popping up. She chewed the end of her pencil. Athens? Her father had been in Athens two weeks before he was arrested. Why the K then? A key regarding artifacts bought or sold there?
This was tough without her dictionary. She rubbed her forehead. Maybe initials. But whose? They didn’t fit with dealer names and addresses she’d decoded.
“Ariana.” Dante’s voice was deathly quiet.
She guiltily looked up to see him standing in the doorway. His body was taut, his face bleached. Mind whirling with questions, she rose halfway.
Then she saw the blood.
His right hand was clutching his left forearm, and blood streamed from between his fingers and dripped onto the flagstones. “I need your assistance.”
“Dante!” Shock and panic erupted inside her. She surged to her feet and her chair clattered to the floor as she rushed to his side. “What happened?”
“The ax slipped.”
“Sit down.” She steered him to the nearest seat. He wasn’t as steady as he wanted her to believe, staggering when she guided him into the chair. She sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed dish towels, raced back. “Keep the pressure on.” Blood seeped through his fingers, through the towels.
She ran to the settee and gathered pillows. His breaths were choppy as she helped him raise his arm onto the pillows. “Prop your arm above the level of your heart.”
He was breathing too hard, too fast. His face was white, his skin clammy. Signs of shock. “Do you feel faint?” She piled on more towels. “Sick to your stomach?”
“No.”
“Hang in there.” She dragged another chair close and propped up his feet, ran to the bedroom for a blanket to drape around his bare torso. “You’re going to be all right.”
“I know.”
Her heartbeat stumbled. Was he too composed? Another sign of shock?
She gently held her fingers to the pulse point at his neck. Faster than normal, but strong and even. “The bleeding is slowing. Do I need to help apply pressure?”
“No.” He pushed down harder on the towels, grimaced. “Ariana, you have to stitch it.”
She blinked. “S-stitch it?” she repeated faintly.
“The cut went deep. A bandage will not stop the bleeding. It must be stitched.
“Oh, no.” She backed up.
“Ariana.” His voice was still lethally calm. “Do you wish me to bleed to death?”
Cold disbelief chilled her. “What kind of crazy question is that?”
“Get the sewing kit,” he said patiently.
Even as her mind shrieked in denial, she stumbled to the bathroom and collected the sewing kit, peroxide and first-aid kit.
She shoved her notebook and iPod to the floor and dumped the supplies on the table. There was a small package of ibuprofen inside the
first-aid kit. Dante inclined his head toward the kitchen. “The wine, per favore.”
“I have peroxide to sterilize the wound.”
He barked out a ragged laugh. “The wine is going on the inside.”
Ariana stood in the kitchen and stared dazedly at the bottles. Red or white with painkillers? She shook her head. She was losing it.
She snatched up a bottle of red and brought it to Dante. Her trembling hands fumbled with the corkscrew. “The cork won’t come out.”
Dante took the bottle and smashed the neck against the table, breaking the top off. “Problem solved.”
“What about glass splinters?”
“If any got into the bottle, they will sink to the bottom.”
“Save me from tough guys,” she muttered. She poured a full wineglass and fed him four ibuprofen tablets. He was a big man, and considering he was about to suffer amateur surgery hour, he’d need the extra boost.
He drained the wine and she poured him a second glass, then a third. He inclined his head. “Do it.”
Stiff with fright, she gingerly raised the wad of towels to reveal a gaping slice. She gasped. “That must hurt something awful.”
He laughed again. “I recommend you don’t take up nursing.”
“Believe me, not in the plan.” She swallowed the sickness welling in her throat and attempted to thread the needle.
Dante squared his shoulders. “Pretend you’re hemming a skirt.”
“Probably not the best time to inform you that between cooking and sewing, I nearly flunked Home Ec.” She swallowed again. “I sewed a blouse with one sleeve inside out.”
His lips twitched. “Just don’t attach my arm inside out.”
Ariana sterilized the needle in the lamp flame. Dante eased his arm from the pillows to the table. She uncovered the wound again, uncapped the peroxide. “I’m afraid this is going to sting like liquid fire.”
“It must be done.”
She tipped the bottle, and the antiseptic sizzled in the cut. Dante went rigid, silently clenched his jaw.
Her chest tightened as she picked up the needle and bent over his arm. She froze, hands shaking violently. The thought of stabbing the needle into his torn flesh iced her blood. “I don’t think I can.”
“I will be all right, Ariana. I’m not afraid of pain.”
“I am.” Clammy fear slicked her palms. Her stomach jittered. “But I’d rather be in pain than hurt you.”
“Look at me, tesoro mio.” His gaze embraced hers. The faith in his eyes, the confidence on his face arrowed into her heart. “You will do fine. I have complete trust in you.” Eyes locked on hers, he smiled. The world trembled, shifted on its axis. In that heart-shaking instant, she knew she would—she could—do anything for him.
Tears threatened to burst free. “How wrong is this? The patient is comforting the nurse.” She picked up the glass of wine and slugged it back. No time to indulge in fear. No time to fall apart. Dante needed her, and she would come through for him.
“Okay.” She steeled herself. “Ready?”
Dante nodded, and she forced her fingers to steady, forced herself to thrust the needle cleanly into his arm.
He jerked, hissed in air through gritted teeth. When she faltered, he briefly placed his uninjured hand over hers. “Continue. Do it quickly.”
Just get it over with. Don’t mess around with tentative jabs and hurt him even more. She blanked her mind and made herself sew stitch after stitch.
Dante sat silently. As she continued her dreadful task, sweat glistened on his skin. Perspiration beaded his forehead and upper lip. His good hand gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white, but he held himself as steady as stone. She couldn’t imagine the amount of self-discipline it took to sit immobile while she tortured him.
Finally, she cut the thread and dropped the needle. She poured peroxide over his arm again, then slathered the cut with antibiotic ointment and bandaged it.
“Done.” She looked at Dante’s grim, pale face and taut jaw.
He released a slow breath, and the tension drained from his body. “Not so terrible.”
“Sure, compared to root canal without Novocain.”
He smiled at her and poured the last of the wine into the glass. “You did an excellent job.”
“Glad you think so. Do you want to sit by the fire?” She hovered while he moved to the settee, but he seemed steady on his feet.
He sipped the ruby wine and color returned to his face. She touched his warm, bristled cheek. “You okay?”
“Sì.” He patted the cushions. “Sit with me.”
“In a minute. I…need a minute.”
Ariana stumbled into the bathroom, where she leaned against the closed door and fought a shaking, sweating battle with nausea. Her knees went weak, and she slid down to sit on the cold tiles. She pressed her forehead to her knees. Don’t give in.
But suppressed fear and pain hit her with a wave of dizziness. Her willpower couldn’t squelch the sickness, and she finally crawled to the commode and surrendered.
After long, beastly moments of misery, she felt Dante’s warm hand stroke her back. “Easy, tesoro.”
She moaned. “Oh, no. What are you doing up?”
“Just breathe.” He went to the sink. Water gurgled from the faucet, and then a cold wet washcloth settled on her nape. “Relax, it is all over. Take deep breaths.”
“I’m fine.” She carefully stood. While she’d been wallowing in weakness, he’d dressed himself in his own clothes. She wiped her face with the washcloth. “Please go away.”
He took the cloth and handed her a toothbrush piled with toothpaste. “That is not happening.”
“You have to be sore.” Perilously close to tears again, she turned her back and brushed her teeth, then soothed her parched throat with cool, minty mouthwash. The only thing holding her together was determination not to further disgrace herself. “Please, sit down.”
“You took care of me.” He pulled her into his embrace. “Now let me take care of you.”
Waves of cold shame slapped her. He’d sat stoic while she’d sewn him up, and she was tossing her cookies. She trembled, fighting to regain control. “It wasn’t the blood or stitching that got to me.” The words caught on a half sob. “I hated hurting you.”
“I know.” He smoothed a gentle hand over her hair. “But sometimes, you have to do what is best for a person in the long run, even if it hurts them.”
She looked up at his face. She didn’t know who Dante was. And yet, on a deep, primitive level, she knew the real man inside. He was intelligent, kind and held firmly to his own code of honor. Understanding staggered her.
She cared about him. Far more deeply than she’d cared for anyone, ever.
How, why…her intense feelings made no sense. But she had no say. No choice. No matter how hard she fought it, it was meant to be.
She slid her arms around his neck. She had played by the rules all her life. Played it safe. She’d still gotten hurt. Still ended up empty and alone.
Ariana stood on tiptoe and touched her mouth to his. She tasted wine and dark, heady desire. For the first time ever, she tossed aside logic. Didn’t care about reason.
Some things were worth the pain.
CHAPTER TEN
AS ARIANA SANK into the warm haven of Dante’s mouth, his fingers tangled in her hair and he took the kiss deeper. He groaned low in his throat, a fierce, male growl of pleasure and pain.
Breathless, she eased back from his taut body. “Sorry, did I jar your arm?”
“My arm is not the part of me causing discomfort.” His breathing was as frayed as hers. With a wry smile, he cupped her face in unsteady hands. “This is wrong.”
She frowned in confusion. “Why?”
“You have just experienced a difficult ordeal.”
“Me? You were the one holding solid as a rock under my shaky needle.”
“You are upset, your actions driven by emotion.”
&
nbsp; Darned straight, but she was shell-shocked from the emotional bombshell of how much she truly cared for him. “Rational thought is vastly overrated. Been there, done that, have nothing to show for it but regrets.”
Enigmatic shadows concealed the emotion in his dark eyes. “Further regret is what I wish to prevent.”
“More doublespeak.” She rested her hand on his chest, where his heartbeat hammered beneath her palm. She wasn’t the only one experiencing tumultuous feelings. “Let’s quit dancing around and put it out there.”
His mouth curved in a crooked grin. “My desire for you is no secret.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Come, sit by the fire with me. In one hour, if you ask again, I will not refuse.”
For once, she ached to indulge her impulses, and he was cautious? Her glance wandered over Dante’s tight shirt, and then lower to the straining fly of his jeans. Heat blossomed in her belly.
His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. “Keep looking at me like that at your own risk, cara.”
Consequences. Every action brought repercussions. Every choice would cost her. And him.
Though he disguised his pain, he was favoring his left arm. A clutch of remorse tightened her chest. Since when had she grown so inconsiderate as to put her wants ahead of Dante’s welfare?
She edged past him, through the doorway. His hand on her back vibrated with the same tension arcing along her nerve endings.
She perched on the settee beside him, but couldn’t keep still. Her fingers drummed, her foot tapped. Awareness of Dante sang in her heart, a libretto both joyful and sad. Would the ending to their saga be happy? Or tragic? Perhaps better not to know.
Ariana glanced out the window, startled to see darkness crowding the pane. “What time is it?”
His husky chuckles loosened the constriction inside her, flooded her with warmth. “It has not been an hour yet.”
“Wise guy.” She wrinkled her nose. “It seems early to be so dark.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s a quarter past seven.”
“Are you hungry?”
