Dark Heart of the Sun

by SK Ryder

  “Yes,” she said, eager to change the subject again. “It’s outrageous, isn’t it? The whole system is shot and needs to be replaced. I got a verbal quote from another company that was actually four hundred dollars more. Tomorrow I’ll call—”

  “I already signed this one. I will give you the rest of the money.”

  “You did? Just like that?”

  “This is basic maintenance of my property, non? It should be done. What did you expect?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I expected an argument. Can’t imagine why.”

  He flashed a quick smile that threatened to melt her insides. “I can see reason. When I want to.”

  “Then I’ll get it scheduled. Thanks.” She shook her head, as relieved as she was exasperated. “You drive me crazy, Nick.” She hesitated. No, he wasn’t a Nick. He was mysterious and raw, as surreal as he was charming, both obscure and blinding in the same breath. And he fit his beautiful, haughty name to perfection. “Dominic,” she amended.

  He crossed the kitchen to top off her glass, his expression not quite smug, but also not quite innocent. “I know,” he murmured. She could have sworn he purred.

  Nursing the wine and nibbling the bread, she watched him work the stove, adding ingredients, checking consistencies, adjusting temperatures. Her mouth watered with the delectable aromas swirling in the air. “Looks like you know what you’re doing.”

  “My family trained me,” he said as though digging for every word. “My parents studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. My sisters and I were raised in the kitchen of our restaurant. When we were old enough to hold a pot, we were put to work.”

  “Restaurant? Your family owns a restaurant on St. Barth?”

  “Oui. Maison de la Mer. On the beach. You can watch the sunset over the sea from the patio.”

  On the radio, right on cue, a woman made an announcement in rapid French, followed by the Radio St. Barth tag line and more music. Cassidy imagined a tiny dot of land in the sea, bathed in sunshine, surrounded by warm oceans, and frequented by visitors from the most glittering capitals of Europe. An island awash in comfort and peace. Paradise. “And you left that for . . . here? Why?”

  He didn’t respond right away. “Islands sometimes are too small.”

  “Ah. I see.” Relationship issues. Of course. “Think you’ll ever go back?”

  “I doubt it.” He picked up the bottle and added a measure to one of his pots. Then he filled her glass yet again.

  “Hey. If you keep this up, you may end up having to carry me to bed again.”

  “You are obviously enjoying it. I’m glad someone is.”

  “Or you’re trying to get me drunk so you can carry me to bed and take advantage of me.” Of course, saying that out loud was proof positive that she was just about there. Her inner censor—never the keenest to begin with—was packing it in for the night.

  Mischief drowned the shadows in his expressive eyes. “If I was going to do that, ma chèrie, I would not need you drunk on anything but me.”

  “Oh, you think I’m that easy, do you?”

  “No. I am that good. Seduction is my gift.”

  “Good God. Does that hurt? Being that full of yourself?”

  He grinned. “Here. Try this for me.”

  She sniffed at the sauce coating the steaming end of a cooking spoon he extended to her. The delightful seasoning made her mouth water and ignited irresistible wickedness. Two could play this game.

  Very deliberately, she put her lips around the tip and sucked. She closed her eyes, savoring the flavor, then moaned a little when the spoon slid out of her mouth. The taste was exquisite, both bold and delicate, and her senses writhed in culinary ecstasy. But she forced her face to remain at least somewhat neutral and made a huge show of tasting, licking her lips, frowning in thought, and sampling the spoon for seconds and thirds as though undecided. When she stole a peek at the chef, she was pleased to see the dark scowl and slack jaw. He looked like he had forgotten how to breathe.

  “Mmmm. I guess it’s all right.”

  “Liar.” He leaned across the counter. But instead of moving away, she froze, breathless with anticipation of she-knew-not-what. He came even closer.

  “It is a sweet, sighing orgasm on a spoon and you know it,” he whispered against her ear, his accent as thick as the sauce. The words curled down her spine in a tingling helix of sensation, engulfing her in liquid heat. When she shivered, he drew back. His face left no doubt that he knew precisely what effect he had on her. Maybe two could play, but only one could win.

  Cassidy cleared her throat with an awkward cough. “Okay. That, too.” His eyes were bottomless, drawing her in. Everything in her wanted to look away, back away, but she couldn’t move an inch, not until he turned. And then she had to hold on to her seat to keep from sliding out of it, every bone in her body having gone soft.

  “You’re not subtle, are you?” she said, feeling borderline senseless between the alcohol and a hunger for more than food.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Like hell you don’t. She drank more wine out of sheer frustration and confusion. Add ‘sensual force of nature’ to that list. Was there a woman alive who wouldn’t fall into his arms?

  His mouth continued to twitch with quiet amusement as he arranged the fish, vegetables, rice, sauce, and garnish on a plate in a display worthy of a foodie magazine cover and settled the serving before her with a flourish. “Et voilà. Bon appétit.”

  What’s for dessert? she thought and immediately chastised herself. Maybe it would be better if they kept arguing.

  But it took only one forkful to clear her mind of everything but the food. Tempting as it was to wolf it all down, the sheer rapture of the taste made her linger over every morsel.

  “You like it?”

  She nodded, honestly humbled and done pretending otherwise. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Oui. I thought it might be.”

  “Aren’t you having any?”

  He shook his head. “It is too early for me to eat. This is for you.”

  “All this? Just for me? I don’t know what to say.”

  “‘Thank you’ will suffice.”

  She savored another mouthful of the exquisitely seasoned fish and searched her limited French vocabulary; this food deserved nothing less. “Merci beaucoup.”

  “De rien,” he countered, looking pleased. “Do you think you will want more?”

  “Definitely.” These dainty gourmet portions weren’t going to cut it.

  Another fillet hit the skillet.

  Drunk with flavor and wine, she gestured with her fork. “This is better than sex. Hands down.”

  Dominic chuckled. “I am flattered. But if that is how you feel, you obviously have not had the right lover.”

  “Uh, huh. And let me guess. You’re volunteering to remedy that?” What the hell am I saying?

  He sobered a little. “You should not try so hard to seduce me, Cassidy. You would not like what you find.”

  “Me? Me trying to seduce you? Oh, that’s rich. I thought seduction is your gift.”

  “Then you underestimate yourself.”

  Cassidy tried to smother a grin as she mopped up the sauce with a chunk of flaky, perfectly done fish. Dominic, stunning male that he was, found her ‘seductive’? The idea made her giddy. Then again, she could blame the wine for that as well.

  “So?” she ventured when he refilled her plate a little later. “Are you trying to seduce me?” Yes, the censor had definitely checked out. It lay in a drunken, snoring stupor in the corner of her mind.

  “No. I’m not.” He sounded more serious than he had all evening.

  “That’s not what it looks like from here.”

  �
�Then I owe you an apology.” He set the plate back down in front of her and refilled her glass. Again. “Please don’t take this personally, but my . . . needs . . . are different.”

  He returned her questioning look with an air of detached expectation.

  “Oh,” she said, realization dawning. “Really.”

  “I’m sorry if I led you to think otherwise.”

  “Well, no, that’s good actually.” She cleared her throat and sipped the wine. “I mean, seriously. My life is upside-down right now.” Her gaze strayed to the ring now back on her right hand, safe from accidental loss and forgetting to wear it to work—and, whether she wanted to admit it or not, a constant reminder of Jackson and what they had once shared. Damn, this was getting complicated. “I’m here just for a bit. No telling where I’ll end up. I really can’t afford to get carried away . . .” She clamped her mouth shut and nodded to herself. Stop babbling, Cassidy. “You’re not into women. That’s . . . fine. All good.”

  Completely fine, she assured herself and blamed the wine for the odd pang of disappointment in her chest.

  Chapter 11

  Alliances

  Dominic busied himself cleaning utensils in the sink while her rampant desire swirled in the air like a rogue wave, threatening to suck him under, cave in his skull, and crush his reason.

  Without warning.

  While she made love to his cooking spoon, his imagination served up vivid scenes of pushing her across the kitchen counter, climbing on top of her, and claiming her body, her blood, her mind. Her life. His canines and cock both ached in readiness. Nothing but the pulse in her throat and the sweet scent of her arousal filled his awareness.

  She had caught him off guard in the worst possible way.

  His fault, all of it. What was he thinking, plying her with this much wine, whispering of sweet orgasms, and speaking of exquisite lovers? Just watching her enjoy what he prepared for her made him delirious with pleasure. By also encouraging these flirts, he couldn’t push his own limits any harder if he tried.

  And he had shattered hers.

  Cassidy bolted for her phone when it rang on the living room table, a desperate grab at distraction. Her gait was a bit unsteady as was her greeting to the caller. Dominic had no trouble picking up the male voice on the other end, demanding to know if she was all right.

  She sagged into the sofa cushions and buried her face in one hand. “Really, I’m fine. Just in the middle of dinner. Wasn’t watching my phone for texts.”

  “You’re not eating right, are you,” the caller challenged, and Dominic’s nerves rippled with mild irritation.

  “Jackson, please don’t lecture me. I get enough of that from Nick—” Her face twisted into a hideous grimace as she half curled into a fetal ball. The caller, Jackson, wanted an explanation. “Nick-e,” she croaked, hand over her face. “Nicky. My roommate.”

  Dominic froze, ambushed by memories of the last time someone called him by that name. His family. His world split open wide and slammed shut again like a clap of thunder, lashing him with an agony so immense, were he human, he would die of it on the spot. He forced himself to focus on Cassidy’s awkward explanation of her living arrangements.

  “You don’t need to worry about my diet. Nicky . . . is a chef, so . . . she cooks for us. Gourmet food. It’s delicious.” She glanced in his direction, her wide, blue eyes beseeching him to understand.

  He did, but he didn’t like it, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose in agitation when Jackson asked to see her before leaving on a business trip. Dominic leaned across the kitchen counter, straining to hear every nuance of their conversation. Tightly controlled irritation in Jackson’s tone, uncertainty in hers as she stared at the ring on her finger. As the back and forth continued, she turned over her hand, hiding the diamond.

  “I’m sorry, Jackson. My schedule is pretty full right now. Maybe when you get back.” She cut the connection without waiting for a response and flopped into the cushions, head thrown back.

  Dominic admired her invitingly bared throat before recalling himself. “Do you love this man?”

  “I really don’t know anymore,” she said, sitting up. “Right now I . . . can’t be near him.”

  “Why?” he asked with studied casualness and made careful note of her teeth catching on her bottom lip.

  She broke into a fit of giggles. “The mansion got too small.”

  As Cassidy finished eating, her story poured out in a torrent. At the center of it all was Jackson, the man whose ring she wore with such uncertainty. Their connection ran deep, forged in a shared understanding of grief and recovery that Dominic couldn’t help but envy. For all his passionate but ultimately superficial relationships, he had never known anything even close.

  Everything changed once she arrived at Jackson’s home and encountered his wealth and family. They frowned upon her common aspirations and the life she imagined for herself and Jackson. Cassidy spoke in vivid detail how it all came to a head the Friday before her arrival at the cottage when the Striker family patriarchs took their heir’s future wife to task over the main course.

  “It was like the Spanish Inquisition, and nothing I said was right. It became obvious that the last person they want Jackson to marry is a middle-class career girl who is in no hurry to procreate.”

  “But . . . Jackson asked you to marry him, non?”

  “He seemed to have forgotten that bit.” She hesitated, hurt edging her face. “He just sat there, right beside me, and didn’t say a thing. I needed him to be there for me, and . . . he didn’t even look at me.”

  “Espèce de cul,” Dominic said softly. “Asshole,” he clarified at her questioning look.

  “That’s what I said.” She laughed and wiped at a moist eye. “Although I probably shouldn’t have shouted it at all three of them before storming out of the dining room. I think Jackson’s mom was on the verge of fainting. Her, I actually like. His sister . . . half-sister, too.”

  Dominic smiled, admiring her spirit and wishing he had been there to see it, wishing even more he could have defended her. He had known scores of women—and a few men—who would have conveniently forgotten their principles in favor of a life of plenty.

  “Jackson later apologized, and I couldn’t stay mad at him. He said his father and uncle are traditionalists, but as long as we didn’t go out of our way to upset them . . . or call them names”—she groaned—“there was no reason we couldn’t live the life we wanted. Everything was . . . good.”

  Dominic finished turning off the stove and setting the dishes to soak in the sink. Leaning back across the counter, he emptied the final shot of wine into her glass. “Then why are you here?”

  Her hand surreptitiously reached for her neck as she met his eyes. Dominic waited.

  “Something happened,” she began. “I woke up with this and . . . I have no idea how it got there.” A small shrug and a wave of one hand. “I can’t even think about it. It’s like my mind bounces off something when I try. Like it was so traumatic I’m blocking it out.”

  He said nothing, silently encouraging her to go on even as renewed anger at Serge scraped at his nerves. The old fool was stronger than this. There was no excuse for leaving a mark like that on her skin and such turmoil in her mind.

  “Jackson knows what happened. I can see it in his eyes. His whole attitude toward me changed overnight. He got so distant. I . . .” She shook her head.

  “What did he tell you? About that night?” Dominic wondered in a tone of almost disinterested calm. Inside he seethed. What else had that imbecile blood-drinker done?

  “He didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask.” She swallowed before adding, “For all I know, he did this to me.”

  He did not! Dominic bit his tongue to keep those words from escaping, words he had no way of explaining. She radiated pain a
nd confusion, and he ached with the need to ease her anguish.

  “Maybe he does not know what happened,” he offered. “Otherwise why wouldn’t he tell you? If he loves you?”

  She looked unconvinced.

  “Love knows no secrets, non?” Dominic said, wishing he would have no secrets from her.

  Cassidy held his gaze as though she sensed his deeper sentiment. “No. It doesn’t.”

  For a while she fell silent, deep in thought and in her glass while he finished tidying the kitchen, lost to his own speculations and drifting on the lyrical rhythms from the radio.

  “Tell me about yourself, Dominic. You’ve listened to my tale of woe. Let me return the favor.”

  He hung up the towel and apron, and retrieved two bottles of Perrier before replying. “No one should have to hear my . . . tale of woe. It is not fit for”—humans, he thought and set one of the bottles before her—“a friend.”

  The smile curving her beautiful mouth soaked into his skin like the warmth of the sun. “Then tell me what you would tell a friend.” She took his offering and broke the seal. “I’m a good listener.”

  Sometime past midnight, Cassidy found her bed—under her own power—and drifted off to sleep. Dominic sat for a while in his corner of the sofa downstairs, listening to her sleeping breath, reluctant to break the spell by stepping onto the front porch and finding what he knew lurked there for an hour already.

  He had told her about his life before, in sketchy terms at first, then in increasing detail as he allowed himself to remember the warmth of a life he would never know again—the smiles of his family, the voices of his friends, the electric-blue of the Caribbean under a mid-day sun. Strange how speaking of these things made them almost real again and less the echoes of insufferable loss.