Everything to Lose (Moonlight Dating Series #2)

by Owens, Natalie G.

  Holding on. This was what sucked the life out of him but he couldn’t help it. His father, his legacy. It was an obsession and Lissy wanted in on his secret. If she did, she’d see his strongest weakness.

  No.

  Ego gave the thumbs up as shame strangled him. His knees buckled at the power of its invisible rope; but the wood of the bed stopped his fall.

  “Lissy.” Her name hung on his lips, but he couldn’t say more in his own defense. His father’s face kept flashing before his eyes, tormenting him.

  Finally, he admitted, “You deserve better.”

  A muffled sound and she tentatively reached for his cheek, a gesture that brought with it a tide of relief.

  She smiled weakly in a gesture of reassurance. “Should I agree?”

  His courage bolstered, he sat down next to her, his back to the footboard, legs crossed, an arm around her shoulder.

  “Remember the time I had to work sixteen hours a day for a month to finish a company-wide project before the end of the financial year?”

  He felt her more than saw her smile as she leaned into his arm. “Dallas, and the VP from Nutty-ville.”

  “Bingo,” he chuckled.

  “I had the hardest time coping with that.”

  “It wasn’t all bad. You brought dinner to me every evening because you knew I wouldn’t make it out of there before midnight. That was the highlight of my day. It’s what I looked forward to.”

  “Now I can laugh about it,” she said with a grin. “I just wanted it to be over.”

  He squeezed her. “You and me both. What I mean is, sometimes you get used to something so much that you can’t live without it even if it’s not perfect. Ya know, like the thing about old couples slinging insults or grumbling at each other. It’s twisted but the heck I know why, it works.”

  “Marriage is not only about getting used to things. There’s a lot more to it than that, mainly to do with compromise.”

  She covered his hand with hers where it rested below her shoulder – at-ease affection in that act.

  “I guess when it ended, we stopped being husband and wife, we stopped being lovers. It meant we were nothing to each other anymore. I didn’t feel okay with that.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so? I had my faults but we didn’t have to go through hell, you know.”

  He paused to gather his thoughts. “I guess… I thought you’d be better off forgetting about me.”

  She sat up, her face curious, searching. “I don’t remember you being this honest in all the seven plus years I’ve known you.” She tilted her head. “But that doesn’t change reality, or the fact that you’ve shut me out of your past.”

  “Why should the past affect who we are now? It’s not that important,” he said. “We can make it work best by looking forward, into the future.”

  With vehement shakes of her head, she got on her knees and hooked a finger under his chin. “Look at me now,” she demanded. “You’re a stubborn ass and you know it. There are things that are stopping you from moving on. You’re afraid to leave this race you’re in. I’m no fool. I can see it, and until you face it nothing’s going to change.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” he said, arching an eyebrow.

  “That’s another thing. We get serious for a moment and you have to turn it into a joke. Hang on.” She sat back on her haunches and waved her hands. “Let me rephrase that. We speak about your past, and you dismiss it. Are you afraid I’d understand too much? Too little? Tell me, because I’m dying to solve this puzzle.”

  “You make it sound as though I have some sick problem. I don’t.” The razor-sharp edge in his voice was a warning mostly to himself to cool it down.

  “Then what?” If she were standing she’d be tapping her foot.

  He tamed a wave of panic. “I don’t know,” he murmured, his gaze averted.

  And in a sense he didn’t. He didn’t know the half of it – he’d been out of his father’s life for over two decades now.

  His dad always said that it was useless to cry over spilled milk; you’d still have to clean the mess.

  So he’d cleaned his mess and got in the real world, fought for a place with the best of them. That’s what life was about. He may have hated his son-of-a-bitch father but the man had some sense.

  Lissy moaned in frustration and fell back on the carpet next to him, one leg up and bent, the other pencil straight before her on the floor.

  As she rubbed her thighs in a distracting motion, he put his arm around her again. After a tiny resistance, she quietly leaned into him.

  “Talk to me,” he coaxed.

  The silence unnerved him when it never did. He didn’t remember having felt the need to fill a space with sound to feel comfortable but this time the dynamics were different.

  “I just don’t know, Dane. I’m so tired of thinking.”

  “Giving up is not like you either,” he said, feigning calm he didn’t feel.

  “But,” she added sadly, her tone composed but subdued. “I want to believe again.”

  She turned into his arms and he let his gaze roam over her cheeks, such sensitive skin still reddened by the marks from her knees.

  He followed the visual caress with his fingertips.

  “No matter what you say or believe, you’re mine.”

  Then he leaned farther and captured her lips.

  He held on for dear life as her mouth opened in silent invitation so he could pour two months of yearning and hunger into that kiss.

  Fierce, ruthless and all-consuming – that was his need. Like a cruel storm that left devastation in its path, he wanted to leave her no choice to refuse him.

  When it came down to the intimacy between them—the closeness of entangled limbs and heated caresses—nothing else came in the way.

  He was himself.

  He could give this to his woman for she still cared; he felt her pulse.

  Sounds of desire and impatience circled the room. He rejoiced in the way she clung to him, the way her body responded to his touch.

  Shifting her to his lap, he removed her sweatshirt and found her breast. He kneaded the underside through the white lace bra and let it fill his palm as he trailed his mouth across her shoulder.

  Her flesh came to life as he rubbed it in playful strokes. His thumb and forefinger aroused the distended nub. The dark rosy skin stabbed at the material.

  “Ah.”

  The lace was a barrier so he reached around to unclasp her bra and slide it off of her, along with her sweatpants and panties. He threw them to the side, on the carpet.

  Loosening his hold of her for a while, he made quick work of taking off his clothes and pulled her back against his naked body, skin against skin. He locked his arms about her and lowered her to the carpet.

  A groan escaped him when she licked the hollow between his collarbones and ran her lips upward over his Adam’s apple, forged a trail on his sensitized skin with her tongue.

  Intent on exploring her further, he trailed his mouth along the dainty curve of her jaw and nibbled on the skin just below her ear lobe.

  She whimpered, half way between a moan and a sob. Lost in the magnetic taste of her, he left gentle bites on the roused skin of her neck and shoulders and then soothed the sensitized spot with his tongue.

  He showered her sides, hips and belly with sensual caresses. The womanly curve of her hips and the slope of her thighs came alive under his palm as she writhed beneath him. He reached up into the silkiness of her hair and removed the elastic band to let it spill on the carpet. The simple act left him trapped in a whirlpool of raw desire.

  So beautiful. You’re still my wife in my mind.

  You belong to me.

  Moving his mouth upward, he put his lips to her ear and whispered, “God, Lissy, I love you. I want you.”

  She felt hot in his arms, her eyes dazed. She pressed her damp cheeks to his.

  “Dane…Dane, don’t do this to me. Don’t say that.” Her eyes shone with
unshed tears. “If we don’t change, we’ll clash. You’ll leave again. It would kill me.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Do you really want to make promises you can’t keep? Don’t ruin this.”

  Her mind was set; if he said anything more he’d ruin the moment. Keeping his mouth shut, he gave her a hard kiss to drive his unsaid message home, to reveal his commitment.

  His body would instead sing those words to her, would melt her heart and bring her back to him where she belonged.

  Her bottomless gaze coiled around him and made him tense to near breaking point. She dug her nails in his back like she always loved to do, lightly raking them over his skin and teasing his nerve endings. His muscles flexed as she pulled him to her.

  Capturing a swollen nipple, Dane drew in sharply until she threw her head back and cried out his name.

  A sound that urged him to fill her, so he did – he lost himself in her.

  He thrust deep, relentless because he wanted to take her high and keep her there. If he hesitated or turned too gentle, he feared he’d break the spell. And she could skitter from his grasp.

  Anticipation arced through him as he rocked back and surged forth, loving her hard and fast.

  He wished to give her so much more pleasure, to take his time with her, explore her. But for now, they both had a wild thirst that begged for slaking.

  It was primal, urgent.

  Sensation wove around them like the murky black filaments of a giant blue norther cloud, only this one rained fire, not an icy chill.

  The pressure built.

  Soon, too soon, she shuddered violently in his arms. As she arched her back with a keening moan and pressed her groin to his, her ecstasy became his own.

  He fell apart in her arms.

  With a fierce roar, he let go and jumped with her in the eye of the storm.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lisbeth got out of bed where they’d moved from the carpeted floor, while Dane slept the sleep of the dead. She covered a yawn and contemplated the beautiful creature beside her. Twilight had arrived but there was still enough light to afford her a good look at him without having to switch on the bedside lamp.

  His head rested sideways on his hand. The hard planes of his face had softened; the lines at the corners of his mouth and between his eyes eased into youthful evenness. It was true what she’d heard once – sleep reveals what a person should be.

  At this angle, the corded veins in his neck spread like slender tree branches embossed on his taut skin. She wanted to trace each one with her fingers first and then with her mouth, to learn and taste him once more.

  She desired nothing more than for him to touch her again.

  Biting hard on her bottom lip, she turned away from that sight and thought, and drifted to the kitchen.

  She switched on the pendant lamps with the dimmer. The yellow diffused lighting allowed her to gather her wits, one at a time, rather than rudely jar her into wakefulness.

  The box of Earl Grey called her name so she filled the kettle and switched it on, then popped a tea bag in her vintage Norman Rockwell coffee mug. She and Dane had picked it up at a garage sale in Florida. It was impossible to forget that strange day when it rained buckets of hail in Tampa in the heart of summer. Completely out of character.

  Like what she’d just done in the last few hours.

  What the hell was she thinking? After what he’d put her through, she just followed the yellow brick road to madness.

  She grabbed the mug and set it on the table, let the tea steep while she sat down and eyed Jeanette’s box. A whimsical Irregular Choice shoebox printed with colorful flowers and little rabbits.

  She laughed to herself and shook her head. Not a predictable choice for an older British lady. That style of shoe was more for trendy women with highly unique tastes. If that box originally housed Miss Lagrange’s footwear, the woman was even more of an enigma than Lisbeth thought.

  She opened the flap all the way. Looking inside, she hazarded a guess that Jeanette wasn’t the most organized of people, either. Countless bits of note paper, photocopied sheets and printouts made a wild mess like too many chickens in a tight coop.

  On top of the bunch was an envelope with Lisbeth’s name scrawled on the surface. Old-world style, regal handwriting with fancy curls and loops – similar to Edwardian Script on Word documents but with bigger flourishes.

  Unusual and bold. She wondered, who is Jeanette Lagrange? Creative, free-thinking, not easy to deal with… she could only guess as Lagrange never met with clients or business contacts, including those whose services she sought.

  Why did she want to stay alone, a phone or computer the perfect screen between her and the outside world? Did she go grocery shopping or out for a meal? Did she have friends in her town? Perhaps she was like this only in business, but over the last few years Lisbeth had formed an email friendship with Jeanette that took off when Dane finished his development project for her site. After she and Dane split, Jeanette had given her confidence and strength from afar. Their connection could easily have led to meeting face-to-face. Something that Jeanette never suggested.

  Lisbeth focused on the envelope while her traitorous thoughts drifted back to Dane.

  Swollen and bruised by his kisses, her lips burned.

  The last months were nothing she’d like to relive, but she’d come to grips with life in a sense. Although she hadn’t moved on as far as engaging her heart elsewhere, she’d gotten comfortable in her own skin, her own space.

  It took one visit from Dane to swipe down the flimsy house of cards she’d built in recent months.

  Fine now. So she’d given in to her weakness and had sex with him. How did this factor in the equation other than he had her brain in knots?

  She and Dane were divorced. That was supposed to be end of story.

  But he’d thrown her for a loop.

  What to do?

  She sighed heavily—let her frustration loose with the exhale—and leaned forward on the table, her forehead in her palm. The tea had cooled down. She took a sip and put it to the side; she didn’t want it any more. What she wanted was some peace.

  She let the calm seep into her, blotted out any surrounding sound that would remind her she was in the world.

  Moments were gone, moments she’d never get back, but phasing out in a sort of semi-meditation kept the gnawing anxiety at bay. The thoughts hovered in the background, though. They wouldn’t leave for good. She let them be while she bought herself a little bit of detachment.

  Surrendering to the temporary reprieve, she sat numb, alone, quiet, until her stomach gave an insistent growl, letting her know that she’d totally skipped dinner.

  She spooned some chicken, rice, and veggie salad she’d prepared earlier in a bowl and swallowed the first forkfuls without bothering to savor the food.

  Jeanette’s envelope still stared at her from the top of the messy pile. Probably a generic note.

  After she satisfied the initial pangs of hunger, she set the fork into the half-empty bowl and opened the envelope.

  She unfolded the A4 sheet of paper and read the printed words.

  Dear Lisbeth,

  If you still care for Dane and find it in yourself to look past your differences, please make sure to take him to the below address:

  Bottega Trasi

  Via del Trivio

  Ascoli Piceno

  Italy

  When you’re there, ask for Mr. F. Marsh.

  This is for you to find the way to unlock his past and, perhaps, reverse the damage.

  I must ask you not to show him this letter. Trust me as I trust you.

  Your future is in your hands.

  With my best wishes,

  Jeanette

  Lisbeth reread the letter four times, unsure she wanted to process that strange piece of information.

  Italy. Seriously?

  More importantly, had she gone out of her flipping mind?

  Jeanette wanted her to t
ake him out of country. Some kind of request. And how did she know things about Dane’s life, things that would affect them both, when Lisbeth didn’t have a clue?

  Better not ask that last question. After all, Jeanette’s entire business balanced on her lesser understood abilities, her uncanny knack for knowing things.

  When you’re there, ask for Mr. F. Marsh.

  That line jumped at her and looped around her brain. Odd that Jeanette didn’t provide the full name.

  Frank. That was Dane’s father’s name. The father that Dane hadn’t seen since he was eight. He’d mentioned this to her but never said much else about the man, avoiding the topic altogether. One of the main points of contention between them. She had no doubt that’s where their problems stemmed.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered to herself with a sharp intake of breath. F. Marsh was Dane’s dad. Had to be.

  On impulse, she rushed to the computer in the living room. Pulling up Google, she typed Bottega Trasi in the search box. Several links came up, the topmost one being the official business website. It was a dining venue.

  She clicked on the home page. It loaded with a picture of a restored fifteenth century palazzo, the name of the restaurant printed in gold lettering on an ornate wrought iron sign that jutted out from the stone wall beside huge, solid wood double doors. The rest of the surrounding was beautiful in travertine and a carved angel at the top, and the medieval style of the building was retained. Tall potted plants greeted visitors from both sides of the entrance.

  The interior stood out with a predominance of wood and brass, especially around the bar area. Both indoor and outdoor seating areas were shown, highlighted by a large dining hall and central courtyard. The place was stunning to say the least, and according to the site, was located a few steps from the main piazza of the city.

  There was no page dedicated to the owners or staff. What did Frank Marsh have to do with this outfit?

  Lisbeth pulled up another tab, sheer impulse hogging the driver’s seat. After a few clicks she was privy to possible itineraries to Ascoli Piceno—one would normally go for a flight to Rome or Florence and a train or bus ride to the Marche region. Ascoli Piceno had no international airport.