by Maisey Yates
“You haven’t messed everything in your life up,” he said, taking on that confident tone that was so familiar to her now. “You do well at your job. Exceedingly well. You lost your best friend and you carried on, both with work and with raising her child. Do you know how many people would have been content to simply let the State take over? So many, Paige. And you didn’t do that. You come through when it matters.”
“But I’m scared to want it,” she said. “I’m scared of how much I care for her.”
He frowned and looked out at the sea, the lines by his eyes deepening. “Emotion is the single most dangerous thing I can think of. The kind that controls you. Makes you do things you never thought you were capable of. But … I can see the way it pushes you with her. You told the social worker you were engaged to your boss. You were willing to do anything, take any risk, for her. There is power in that. And your love seems to have power for good. Trust that.”
His words were encouraging in a way, but so laced with a bitter sadness that they settled in her like lead.
“And what about your emotions?” she asked. “What power do you see in them?”
He looked at her, his dark eyes glittering. “I looked in myself, and saw the potential for terrible things. And since that day I haven’t felt anything. I find my power from somewhere else, a place I can control.”
She felt like someone had reached into her chest, grabbed her heart and squeezed it tight. “Dante … you’re helping me. I look in you and I see so much good.”
“Then you are blind.” He stood up and walked off the terrace into the house, and all she could do was stare at his back retreating into the shadows.
She’d seen that emptiness again. That same look he’d gotten in the hall just before he’d snapped at her. That same look he’d had in her office when they’d kissed. She’d taken it for emotionlessness but it wasn’t that.
It was something else. Something worse. Something she was afraid she couldn’t help him with.
CHAPTER NINE
HE heard crying. He moved to a sitting position in bed and swung his legs over the side, his feet planted on the carpet.
Ana was crying.
He stood and walked out of his room, striding down the hall. He opened the door to the nursery, casting a sliver of light into the room. He saw Paige, sitting in the rocking chair, holding Ana, rocking her, patting her back. Ana was crying still. And so was Paige. Glittery tracks down her cheeks.
His first instinct was to turn away. To walk away from the scene as quickly as possible, go back to bed. Shut down the strange emotions that were rising up, pressing on his throat.
“Is everything okay?”
“No,” Paige said thickly. “She’s been crying for an hour and she won’t stop. I’ve tried everything. I fed her, I changed her. I’m holding her. I turned the light on, I turned it off. I don’t know what else to do.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing you’re doing wrong.”
“What if it is?” she whispered, despair lacing her voice.
He took a step into the room, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “Babies cry, for no reason sometimes.”
He’d heard that said, though he wasn’t sure where.
“But Ana doesn’t, usually.”
“Does she have a fever?” That seemed a logical question.
Paige put her cheek down on Ana’s head. “I don’t think so.” She smoothed her hands over the baby’s brow. “She doesn’t feel warm to me. Does she feel warm to you?”
He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. She was a tiny creature, fragile. Small-boned. Delicate. He didn’t want to put his hands on her.
“I don’t think she’s warm,” he said.
Paige put her hand on the baby’s forehead. “No, you’re right. I don’t think she is. Could you sing to her?”
“Sing?” he asked.
“A lullaby.”
His breath stalled in his throat, got trapped there. “I don’t know any lullabies,” he lied.
“Oh … that’s okay.” She patted Ana on the back. “I tried to sing and she just cried harder so I thought maybe you could …”
“Sorry,” he said, curling his fingers into fists, fighting the urge to run from the room.
For that reason alone he had to stay. Dante Romani did not run. He would not.
Ana hiccuped, her tiny shoulders jerking with the motion. Her cries slowed, quieted, until they became muffled, sporadic whimpers.
He watched her for a few moments, silence settling between them as Paige continued to rock Ana until the whimpering ceased altogether.
“See, she was just crying,” he said, trying to sound certain. Trying to feel some control over the situation when the simple fact was, he had none. There was a nursery in his home. There was a baby here. A woman. She had her things in his closet.
No, nothing was in his control anymore.
“I guess she was,” Paige whispered.
She got up from the chair and walked over to the crib, placing Ana gingerly onto the mattress, then straightening, freezing for a second while she waited to see if the baby would wake up.
The room stayed silent.
“She seems like she’s asleep now,” Paige whispered.
“You should sleep, too,” he said. She looked tired. Sad.
She wrapped her robe around herself, a little tremor shaking her body. “No. I don’t … I don’t think I could sleep right now.”
The desolation in her tone did something to him. Made his stomach feel tight.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not really. But do you have chocolate?”
He let out a long, slow breath. Paige was upset, obviously, and while he would usually walk away and get back in bed without a twinge of guilt, he couldn’t do that now. He wasn’t going to take the time to analyze why. “We’ll have to go raid the cupboards and find out. I’m not certain.”
“How can you not be sure if you have chocolate?” They walked out of the nursery and left the door open so they could hear Ana if she woke.
“I’m not accustomed to raiding my kitchen at odd hours.”
“I guess that’s why you have washboard abs and I don’t.” Her eyes were trained meaningfully on his bare torso. Her complete lack of guile amused him, and aroused him. She didn’t try to hide her open appraisal of him. And yet, it was different than the sort of open gazes he was used to seeing. There was no extra motive with Paige, only admiration.
He looked back at her, treating her to the same, intense study she’d treated him to. Her T-shirt molded to her breasts, her pajama pants sitting low on her hips. Too baggy for his taste. He wanted to see the curves beneath. “I have no complaints about your figure.”
She stopped and turned sharply. “Oh, really?”
He shouldn’t have said that. There was no point in fostering the attraction between Paige and himself. It wasn’t good for either of them. She did something to him. Tested him in ways he’d never been tested before.
Detachment was normally simple for him. This time, not so much. But he couldn’t pull the compliment back now. He wasn’t the sort of man to lie to a woman, or charm her to get her into bed, but he still knew enough to know that this was a subject to tread carefully with. Could sense that the wrong words could break her, or lead her to believe he could give things he simply could not.
“Every inch of you is beautiful,” he said. It was the truth, not flattery. Though why he was compelled to speak it in that way, he wasn’t certain.
She flushed scarlet. “You haven’t seen every inch of me.”
“Yet,” he said, the word escaping without his permission and hanging between them, heavy and, he realized in that moment, stating the inevitable.
“No,” she said, turning away from him and continuing down the stairs and into the kitchen.
“No?”
“You and I both know it would be a very bad idea.”
“Why is that, Paige?” he asked. “What harm
could come from a bit of fun?” There was so much wrong with that sentence. He knew exactly what harm resulted from sex and passion. Which was precisely why his sexual encounters were void of passion. Passion wasn’t required for release. It was perfunctory. The right contact in the right place and his partners found their pleasure, then he was free to take his. Find a moment of blinding oblivion. But it had very little to do with the woman he was with, and even less to do with feeling.
And fun was a word he wasn’t sure he put any stock in. He wasn’t sure if he ever had any.
“Quite a few bits of harm, I think,” she said, crossing to the stainless-steel refrigerator and opening the freezer, rummaging through the contents. “What ho! Chocolate ice cream!”
She pulled the carton out and held it high like a frozen trophy before setting in on the granite countertop. “Get spoons,” she said. “And bowls.”
“And the previous discussion is closed?”
“Yep.”
He complied with her order and produced bowls and spoons. He set them out and scooped them both some ice cream. He pulled up on the edge of the counter and sat, and Paige did the same on the counter across from him.
“Maybe I won’t be such a terrible mother,” she said, eating a spoonful of ice cream.
“You won’t be. But what has led you to the conclusion?”
“I used my stern voice and got you to change the subject and dish my ice cream,” she said, her grin impish. But the impishness didn’t reach her eyes. She still looked sad. Scared.
“I want to tell you something,” he said. He lied. He didn’t want to tell her what he was about to say, but it seemed important. It was all he had to offer.
She nodded and took another bite of ice cream, her eyes trained on his.
“Do you know what I remember about my mother?” he asked.
She blinked hard, her eyes glistening. She set her bowl and spoon down on the counter beside her. “No.”
“I was six when she died. But I do remember her. How good it felt when she put her hand on my forehead before I fell asleep. The way her voice sounded, soothing, kind. The way she sang to me.” He cleared his throat. “It’s not about getting everything right. It’s about those things, those small things. That’s all that matters. You do that for Ana. You may make mistakes, but you’ll be the constant, comforting presence in her life. That’s what matters,” he repeated.
He remembered more about his mother. Her fear. When his father would come home from work in a dark mood. Her tucking him in, locking his door with a key. So he couldn’t get out and see. So his father couldn’t get in and cause him any harm.
And he remembered her lying on the floor, too still. Too pale. The sparkle gone from her eyes forever.
He remembered lying with her on the floor and singing her a lullaby until the police came. His hand on her head, stroking her hair, like she had always done for him.
Stella, Stellina. Star, little star.
He left that part out. If only he could leave it out of his mind. If only he could scrub the memory away. Hold on to the good, leave out the bad. But it wasn’t possible.
The good always came with bad. Always.
A tear slipped down Paige’s cheek. “She must have been wonderful.”
“She was,” he said.
“I have failed at so many things,” she said. “And I don’t know why. I don’t know why things are harder for me. I tried to do well in school … I just couldn’t. And my parents … I think they tried to be supportive of me, but I don’t think they really believed that I was trying. My brother and sister, they were extraordinary, and they worked for it. But I had to work for ordinary. I had to bust my butt just to be average. And that meant no college for me. In their minds … I suppose I was a failure. I mean, I had my art but art doesn’t translate to much, not to them.”
“And that’s why you moved.”
She nodded. “To find out what it would be like if I wasn’t surrounded by people who expected nothing from me. People who had given up on me. Shyla always believed in me. She said I was smart. No one ever said that. No one else. She encouraged me to go out for the position at Colson’s and I thought … I thought there was no way. I had no degree, no experience. But your hiring manager … she saw something in me, too. In my work. She took a chance on me, and the only reason I was brave enough to take a chance on myself was because of my friend. I can’t let her down,” she said, her voice shaky. “There is so much at stake here and I can’t fail. But failure is something I’m so good at, I’m afraid history will just repeat itself.”
“Tell me, are your bother and sister artists?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Your parents, are they artists?”
“No.”
“Could any of them imagine the window settings that you do? Not only that, could they find the materials, imagine the lighting, the colors, everything that you do, to make them a reality?”
“Probably not.”
“Then maybe you haven’t failed. You’ve simply succeeded in different areas. Areas that those other people couldn’t, and so don’t understand.”
“I …” She blinked rapidly. “You’re the first person who’s ever … said it like that.”
“It’s true, though. We can’t all be great at everything. I couldn’t design the windows for the store, so I hired you to do it.”
“Your hiring manager did.”
“Fine, but you get the idea. I don’t do everything. I don’t have the ability to do everything. Why should you?”
“It’s just that what I do has never been important to my family.”
“That’s their problem. You’re good at what counts. You stand firm when you’re needed. You’re coming through for Ana. Your instinct, when you were being interviewed by the social worker, was to protect her, to keep her with you no matter what. If that doesn’t prove that you’re strong enough to do this, nothing will.”
She slid down from the counter, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She took a sharp breath and crossed to him, standing in front of him, eye level to his chest. She reached up and put her hands on his cheeks, then tugged his face down as she drew up onto her tiptoes, pressing her lips against his.
He held on to the edge of the counter, letting her lead the kiss, letting her part his lips with her tongue. Letting her set the pace, the intensity.
He could taste the salt from her tears on her mouth, could feel the barely contained sadness in each shaking breath.
He ached to take control. To tug her up against him and to kiss her with every bit of pent-up passion, sorrow and pain that was buried inside of him. That was threatening to claw its way out through his chest if he didn’t find a way to release it.
But he couldn’t allow it.
This was for her, to have what she would. He would give it to her, and feel no sense of sacrifice. Whatever she wanted, she could have. As long as the true control belonged to him.
Paige pulled back from Dante, her heart thundering, her hands shaking. She didn’t know what she was thinking, if she was thinking. All she knew was that she wanted to feel something big. Something real and affirming. She wanted Dante’s actions to confirm his words.
She wanted to prove that she could want someone, and have them want her. That she wasn’t broken. That she wasn’t a joke. She wanted the unobtainable, beautiful man all for herself.
She didn’t want happily ever after from him. She didn’t want love. And she didn’t want to thank him. It was something else, a need so deep and raw that she could hardly understand it.
All she knew was that his touch would make things better. His kiss would heal so many wounds, be the confirmation for what he’d spoken.
To prove that she wasn’t a failure with men. That she wasn’t undesirable. That someone could want her.
She smoothed her hands over his chest, his muscles hot and hard beneath her palms, his chest hair crisp. So sexy and masculine. So different from her own body.
“I want you,” she said, her lips still pressed against his.
The silence that followed seemed to last forever. He might reject her. He probably would. But this was the first time she’d ever been willing to take the chance. It felt like a chain had been loosened on her, like she could move more freely.
He slid down from the counter, locking his arm around her waist and drawing her hard up against his body. “You want to kiss me? Or you want more?”
“M-more.”
“I have to hear you say it,” he said, his tone stretched, tortured.
“I want to … to sleep with you tonight.” A sudden, horrifying thought occurred to her, and her stomach sank to her toes. “Unless you don’t want to.” Why would he? He’d pulled away from every kiss they’d shared. He was a bronzed god of a man with a physique that looked too good to be real. A man with tons of sexual experience. A man who could have, and had had, any woman he wished. For a crazy moment she’d been convinced she could have this, could have him. But maybe she’d been fooling herself. Again.
He chuckled, rough and humorless. “How can you think I don’t want you?”
“I’m average, remember?”
He moved his hand up to her hair and pushed his fingers through it, tugging on a pink strand, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “I have never seen anyone quite like you. Which means the description cannot be accurate.”
“You hate my hair.”
He shook his head. “It’s growing on me.”
He pressed his other hand against her lower back and brought her into closer contact with his body. With the evidence of his desire for her.
Her eyes widened. “You do want me.”
“I’m sorry it’s so hard for you to believe. But by the end of tonight, it won’t be.”
She wished she had a witty reply, something to defuse the tension. Something to loosen the knot in her stomach and lessen the ache between her thighs. To lessen the importance of the moment. But there was nothing. Her brain was too busy spinning around all the ways he could show her.