by Day Leclaire
“And you blame that on The Inferno?” she asked in patent disbelief.
“No. I blame it on bad luck.” He couldn’t tell her the rest. Couldn’t admit that he blamed himself for what happened right before and immediately after his father’s death. That piece of guilt he kept locked tightly away. “I’d just graduated from college. The day after their funeral, I stepped into my father’s shoes. I spent the first year of my tenure dismantling Dantes and the last decade rebuilding it.”
“I’m so sorry.” She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. Just that, and yet it made all the difference. The connection between them intensified in some indefinable way. Before it had been sheer sex, or so he believed. Now another emotion crept in, one he resisted analyzing. She hesitated a split second before confessing, “I lost my mother, too. I know how painful that must have been for you.”
That might explain some of the sorrow he’d seen lurking in her eyes. “How old were you?” he asked.
“Five.” Soft. Abrupt. And a clear message that she had no interest in pursuing the conversation.
Not that he planned to drop it. He’d just approach the subject with more care. “It helped that my brothers and I were older, though at just sixteen, Nicolò had a tough time adapting. Fortunately, Primo and Nonna stepped in, which made a huge difference.” He paused. “What about you? Did your father ever remarry?”
“My parents weren’t together,” she admitted, avoiding his gaze. “I went into foster care.”
Oh, God. He tiptoed across eggshells. “Didn’t the authorities contact him?”
“They didn’t know who he was. I didn’t find out myself until after I’d graduated from college and hired someone to locate him for me.” She picked up the next picture in the line, putting a clear end to the discussion. A slight smile eased the strain building around the corners of her mouth. “Primo and Nonna on their wedding day, I assume?”
“They eloped right before immigrating to the U.S.”
The ancient black-and-white showed a couple arrayed in wedding finery. They looked impossibly young and nervous, their hands joined in a white-knuckle grip. But the photographer managed to catch them in an unguarded moment, as they gathered themselves for a more formal pose. They glanced at each other, as though for reassurance, and the power of their love practically scorched the film.
“Nonna didn’t want to escape The Inferno, did she?”
“No.”
Francesca returned the photograph to the table with clear finality. “Well, I do.” She paced restlessly toward the windows. Once there, she glanced over her shoulder. With the sunlight at her back, her expression fell into shadow. But he could hear the tension rippling through her voice. “I’m not interested in you or Dantes’ Inferno or having an affair with you. I just want to be left alone to pursue my career. This is a distraction I don’t want or need.”
“I wish it were that simple. That I could make it go away for you. But I can’t.”
He wanted to see her, to look into her eyes and know her thoughts. To touch her and reestablish the physical connection between them. Without conscious thought, he joined her at the windows. The instant he slid his palm across her warm, silken skin, his world righted itself.
“Why can’t I just walk away from you and never look back?” she demanded. He heard the turmoil that underscored her question, as hunger battled common sense. And he understood what she felt since it mirrored his own reaction to their predicament. “Why can’t I simply return to the life I built for myself?”
“You can. We both can. The minute we work this out of our systems.”
Sev swept Francesca up into his arms and carried her to the couch. She murmured a token protest, one lost beneath the series of tiny, biting kisses he scattered along her throat. They tumbled onto cushions that molded to their entwined bodies and enfolded them in a private world of suede-covered down. The buttons of her blouse parted beneath his hands, revealing a feminine scrap of lace that struggled to contain her breasts. He couldn’t help himself. He reared back, drinking in the sight.
Two nights ago he’d seen her by moonlight and thought it impossible for her to look any more stunning than adorned in shades of silver and alabaster. But now, with her hair and skin gilded in sunlit gold, she stole his breath with her beauty. Inch by inch, he lowered himself onto her. And inch by inch, the heat they generated soared, like a thermometer rising. Given the number of promises he’d made and broken, he half expected her to push him away. Instead, she basked in that heat and wrapped him up in an ardent embrace.
It was as though they’d never left off from the night before last. He reacquainted himself with her mouth, plundering inward. She moaned in welcome and met him with a feminine aggression that sent him straight over the edge. There were too many clothes between them. He yanked at his tie and the first few buttons of his shirt, but somehow he’d lost the ability to work past the knot imprisoning him. Instead, he turned his attention to her and unhooked the front clasp of her bra. He filled his hands with her breasts and her breath escaped in a fevered rush.
“We were supposed to have worked this out of our systems by now,” she gasped.
“We will.” Maybe in a decade or two. “But until then I need your hands on me. I need to be inside you again.”
He shifted a knee between her legs and slid the hem of her skirt upward, uncovering acres of smooth, creamy thigh and a tantalizing glimpse of butter-yellow panties. He itched to explore all that lay beneath that scrap of silk. To see those curls gilded with sunlight, as well. He ran a finger along the scalloped edging, stroking inward toward dewy warmth until he found the sweet heart of her.
Francesca groaned in response, a rich, deep, feminine sound that called to him on every level and drove him ever closer to the edge. He knew that sound, had heard her make it countless times during the night they’d spent together. But there was another sound he wanted to hear…needed to hear. The sound she made when she climaxed in his arms.
She shuddered against his stroking touch and he couldn’t stand it another minute. He needed her—now. In a single swift move, he skimmed her panties down her thighs and tossed them aside. Next, he ripped his belt free and unfastened his trousers, pausing only long enough to remove the protection he’d had the foresight to stick in his pocket before their meeting. Her hands joined his, helping to free him from the restriction of his clothing. And then she cupped him, her touch cool against the burning length of him. Instead of easing the raging fire, it only served to intensify it.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so desperate to have a woman that he’d been unable to make it to the comfort of his bedroom. But with Francesca…Nothing mattered except to have her, right here and now. He lifted her and slid deep inside. Her legs closed around him as she welcomed him home.
His groan of pleasure mingled with hers, the heavy pounding of his heart in perfect tempo with hers. The breath exploded from her and then he heard her siren’s song, signaling her scramble toward the highest of peaks. He joined her there, calling to her, mating with her, locking them together until he could no longer tell where her body ended and his began.
They moved in perfect harmony, continuing a dance that had begun their first night together. The tempo this time around quickened, turning fast and hard and greedy. He couldn’t get enough of her, not how tightly she clenched around him or how she cushioned him against the softness of her woman’s body or how she met each thrust with joyous abandon. Long before he was ready for the encounter to end, she spasmed beneath him, and he found he couldn’t hold back, couldn’t resist going up and over the peak with her before crashing down the other side, holding her tight within his arms.
Long minutes passed without either of them moving—maybe because movement proved a physical impossibility. Finally, the breath heaving from his lungs, he levered himself onto his elbows and gazed down at her. Heaven help him, but she was beautiful, her face delicately flushed with the ripeness of passion, her mouth
moist and swollen from his kisses, her eyes heavy-lidded and slumberous.
“I can’t walk away from you, Francesca. And I won’t.”
She closed her eyes with a groan. “I shouldn’t have agreed to have lunch with you. I should have known we’d end up like this again.”
He eased himself up and off of her. Holding out his hand, he assisted her from the couch and helped return a semblance of order to her clothing. “I didn’t give you a choice about lunch. And just so you know, I don’t plan to give you a choice in the future, either.”
She eyed him in open alarm, but didn’t ask the question he suspected hovered on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she asked, “Where’s the bathroom?”
He directed her, then excused himself long enough to freshen up, as well. He returned to find her fully tucked and buttoned and preparing to leave. “There’s something I want to ask you,” he told her. “Actually, it’s the reason I invited you to lunch.”
A smile flirted with her mouth, a genuine one that filled him with fierce pleasure. “You mean, you didn’t invite me so we could indulge in a wrestling match on your couch?”
He regarded her with a hint of laughter. “As delightful as that was, no.” He crossed to her side. Unable to resist, he slipped a hand into her hair. Cupping the back of her head, he took her mouth in a swift, hungry kiss, a kiss she returned without hesitation. “Come work for me,” he offered when they broke apart.
Her eyes were alight with a slumberous passion and he suspected she didn’t assimilate his offer immediately. He saw the instant words connected with comprehension. The passion eked away, replaced by astonishment. “Work for you?” she repeated.
“I can offer you a far better salary than you receive at Timeless, excellent benefits, your own studio. You’ll have the Dante name behind your designs.” He pressed, determined she see how much more he could do for her than the Fontaines. “I can assist you become one of the most sought-after designers in the world. Best of all, we won’t have to sneak around hiding our relationship from your employers.”
She took a hasty step away from him, pulling free of his hold. “Let me get this straight. You’re offering me a job so we can continue our affair?”
“Of course not.” Honesty compelled him to admit, “Okay, fine. In part. But mostly because you’re a damn good designer. Dantes would be lucky to have you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what happens when we’re no longer Infernoed?”
The word provoked a swift smile. “Infernoed?”
“Right now the hot, southern climes of your anatomy are doing your thinking. Once that brilliant mind of yours kicks in, you’ll regret any decisions you make while in the throes of this thing. And I’ll have thrown away a job I love for a position at Dantes as the ex-mistress of the owner. How long do you think that’ll work?”
He struggled not to take offense. Until two nights ago his southern climes had never before overruled the cooler, dispassionate northern half of his body. Yet, he suspected Francesca assumed it happened on a regular basis. It was part of the price he paid for having a Latin name. Emotion over intellect. Total nonsense, of course.
“I won’t compromise the family business for anyone or anything,” he stated. “My offer is genuine, Inferno or no Inferno. When our affair ends, you’ll still have your job, and it’ll be a hell of a lot more secure than your future at Timeless.”
He could tell she didn’t believe him. “Thank you, but I’m happy with the Fontaines.”
“Would you at least allow me to make an official offer?”
She dismissed the idea with a swift shake of her head. “I have my reasons for staying at Timeless Heirlooms, and money isn’t really one of them. I’m up for a permanent position there. In fact, I would have it already if I hadn’t ruined my reputation by spending the night with you. The only saving grace is that they don’t know it’s you.”
He thought fast. “We can be discreet. They don’t have to know.”
She cut him off with a swift shake of her head. “Forget it. I won’t make that sort of foolish mistake again or do anything to jeopardize my standing with the Fontaines. And just so we’re clear? Being with you could get me fired and my job’s more important than anything else.” She spared a swift glance toward the couch where the cushions still showed the imprint of their entwined bodies. “Even that.”
“Francesca—”
She waved him silent. “Forget it, Sev. I agreed to meet with you this one last time. I think you’ll agree it was a lovely way to conclude our affair. And that’s all this was. A brief affair, now concluded. Now, I really need to go.” She picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “If I don’t come back from lunch in a reasonable length of time, they’ll start asking questions I can’t answer.”
It would be pointless to argue, he could tell. Better to find out what Nic and Lazz had dug up regarding the gorgeous Ms. Sommers. That way he’d be in a stronger position to formulate a new plan, one with a better chance of success. And it had to be quick, before his North surrendered to his South.
“I’ll arrange for a cab,” he limited himself to saying. “And I’ll give you a call later this week.”
She gave him a remote smile. “There’s no need…on either count.”
He watched the delicious sway of her hips as she exited the room, the view threatening to bring him to his knees. “Damn, woman,” he muttered. “There’s every need. And I plan to prove it to you.”
But he’d better figure out how, and fast. Because if he’d learned nothing else as a result of the past few hours, he’d discovered how wrong he’d been about The Inferno and all matters related to it.
He’d been determined to woo Francesca away from the Fontaines and have her work for Dantes. To tempt her—not with sex—but with the financial advantages of working for Dantes. Or that had been his intention until he’d come face-to-face with one incontrovertible fact. A fact that sent his carefully laid plans crumbling to dust. There was no way in hell he could keep his hands off her now, or anytime in the near future. As of this minute, the plan changed.
Not only did he want to uproot her from Timeless Heirlooms so the company would be more vulnerable to a Dantes’ takeover, but he also wanted to transplant Francesca into his bed and keep her there…at least until The Inferno burned itself out.
Five
Foolishly, Francesca assumed she’d seen the last of Sev.
The delusion lasted right up until she decided to eat lunch at her desk, ordering from her favorite deli, a place that offered fast delivery service and thick sandwiches, stuffed with every imaginable delicacy. Within thirty minutes her sandwich arrived, along with a sprig of vivid-blue forget-me-nots, their delicate scent sweetening the air in her tiny office.
“Thank you,” she said to the delivery boy before burying her nose in the fragrant blossoms. “What a nice thing to do.”
He eyed her speculatively. “Do I get an extra tip for bein’ so nice?”
“Absolutely.” She handed it over with a smile. “And thanks again.”
“No sweat. The flowers weren’t from me, by the way. There’s a note that came with it. I stuck it in the bag with your sandwich.” With a cheeky grin he darted from the office.
She couldn’t help but laugh at his audacity. Then curiosity got the better of her. She opened the bag and found a business card tucked inside. To her dismay, her fingers trembled as she glanced at it. Sure enough, the linen-colored pasteboard had Sev’s name and business information typed on the front. On the back, he’d scrawled Remember.
Somehow he’d figured out where she usually ordered lunch and she spent the rest of the day sniffing the forget-me-nots as she struggled to do as he asked and remember…to remember that dating Sev promised a fast end to a short career. Worse, it would put an even faster end to her burgeoning relationship with her father. And she wouldn’t allow anyone—not even a man as sexy as Severo Dante—to interfere with either of those two goals.
The next
morning on her way to work, she swung into her favorite Starbucks, desperate for caffeine after a sleepless night of wishing she were in Sev’s bed once more. To her dismay, the line stretched long and wide and she schooled herself to patience. Far ahead, toward the front, she caught a glimpse of a distinctive set of shoulders and striking ebony hair. Unbidden, her heart kicked up a notch and the air escaped her lungs in a soft rush.
It wasn’t Severo Dante, she silently scolded, and constantly obsessing over him wasn’t going to help matters. She refused to see Sev in every man with an impressive build and dark coloring. She needed to get a grip. Deliberately, she forced her gaze away only to catch herself peeking at him as he finished paying and turned to leave.
This time the breath exploded from her in an audible gasp as she realized it was Sev. He came directly toward her with the languid grace so uniquely his, carrying a pair of cappuccinos. He handed her one with a warm smile and a quiet, “Tesoro mio,” before continuing out the door.
“Oh, God,” the woman behind her said with a groan. “Does that happen to you often?”
“No.” Francesca stared at the cappuccino, then at the door through which Sev had vanished, before glancing at the woman behind her. “At least…not until recently.”
“I don’t suppose you know what tesoro mio means?” Before Francesca could respond, the woman shouted out, “Hey, who knows what tesoro mio means?”
“Italian. It means my treasure,” an older woman toward the front of the line called back.
“Wow,” Francesca’s companion in line murmured. “Oh, wow.”
