She captured his wrists in her hands, intending to tug his hands down, but she couldn’t find the strength to do so. In the end her hands merely rested there, her thumbs caressing the warm, hair-roughened skin of his wrists as that one, tender kiss rewrote their entire relationship and took it from antagonistic and familiar to this. Whatever this was.
Cleo finally found the strength to jerk her head back, breaking the contact between them. Her breath came in gasps, and her body was shaking badly. A quick glance at him confirmed that he was as shaken and shocked as she.
“That was . . . it was . . .” She shook her head, frustrated with her inability to verbalize her thoughts. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“I know,” he said.
“I’m serious, Dante.”
“Me too.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “It shouldn’t have happened. Don’t worry. I’m leaving. Take care of yourself, Cleo.”
He was gone seconds later.
In the end, Dante called Nicki and canceled their date. He wouldn’t have been very good company anyway. He didn’t know why he was being so weird about the situation with Cleo. They had reached an amicable agreement. She was happy enough; he didn’t have to worry about being held accountable for a mistake that neither of them could possibly have foreseen. After one slight hitch, his life was smoothly on track again.
Dante’s phone buzzed as he stepped into his apartment, and he groaned when he saw the message—in Spanish—that had popped up onto his screen:
Must Skype immediately, Papa
Great, just what he needed after an already difficult day. He headed up to his study and set up the Skype call. He had other, more efficient means of making face-time calls, but his father couldn’t quite grasp the technology involved. This was the easiest method for the older man. Dante really only used this program to contact his father, and as such, the man was the only contact on his list. Which made it easy to spot that Enrique Damaso was already online. As soon as Dante was logged in, the familiar ringtone came up. His father really was in a rush to speak with him tonight. The last time they’d Skyped had been months before.
“Ah, Dante. It’s good to see you, son,” his father said in Spanish as soon as they were connected. “You are good? You look good.”
Dante was so far removed from good that it was actually quite funny, but he merely nodded.
“All good here, Papa,” he lied. Their relationship wasn’t one that encouraged confidences.
“Ah. Wonderful,” the man said jovially. “Listen, Dante, I have someone I want you to meet.” He ushered someone off-camera to join him, and a stunning young brunette stepped into view and sat down on his father’s lap. Dante sighed inwardly, already knowing where this would lead.
“Dante, this is Carmen, your new mama-to-be.” Dante tried not to wince at the introduction; the girl looked a full decade younger than Dante’s own thirty-two. “Carmen, this is my boy, Dante.”
He planted a kiss on the giggling woman’s cheek and did something—thankfully out of the camera’s view—to make her squeal.
“We’re getting married,” he announced unnecessarily. “Carmen is the one, Dante. She makes your papa so happy.” And the sixty-three-year-old man was probably going through shedloads of little blue pills and truckloads of pretty trinkets to keep her equally happy.
“Congratulations,” Dante said woodenly, knowing from experience that trying to talk his father out of making yet another colossal error would simply end in failure—much like the marriage itself inevitably would. His father’s marriages never ended amicably, and each divorce had involved protracted and ugly legal battles. But it was useless reminding his father of past mistakes; it was easier to just make polite noises, buy a gift, and stay the hell out of it.
The old man was both cynical and a hopeless romantic. He hated all his exes with a bitterness that had easily poisoned Dante’s own mind against women, and yet he loved every new opportunistic bitch that flitted her way into his life with a passion that was borderline obsessive.
“Will you come to the wedding?” his father asked eagerly. “Carmen and I are having a beach wedding in Tenerife. Carmen wanted the most romantic destination. And I will give my beautiful Carmen everything she wants. Also, I think it’s closer to you, right? Off the African coast?”
“That’s northwest Africa, Papa. I’m in South Africa. Pretty far away.” Dante tested his acting skills by pulling the most regretful expression he could muster out of the bag. Clearly, geography was not his father’s strong suit. But the old man had never understood why his only son had chosen to move so far away, and because he was still waiting for Dante to “come to his senses,” he hadn’t really bothered to learn much about the place that had become Dante’s adopted home.
“I sometimes regret sending you to that university when you were a boy, Dante,” his father said with a shake of his head. It was a familiar refrain. “But I thought, let the boy go, he can learn to be a man far away from his home and comfort. But then you had to go and live there.”
Enrique Damaso felt that Dante going to college in another country, far away from everything familiar to him, would be a good character-building experience. And the old man had happily handed over the reins of the company immediately after Dante received his MBA, but his father hadn’t counted on Dante staying in that country and forging a completely new life. Worse, Dante had “rebooted” the Damaso hotel brand in Cape Town and had completely distanced himself from his father’s influence.
“Now you’re so far away you can’t visit your old papa regularly. All because I wanted my boy to have a good education and some valuable life experience,” he said despairingly, but Dante remained unmoved by the theatrics. It was a little act his father liked to put on for the benefit of his future brides. The old Look at how devoted I am to my ungrateful and uncaring only child shtick.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the wedding, Papa,” Dante interrupted firmly, knowing his father could go on for ages about what an ungrateful son he had. Best to nip it in the bud now. “I’m completely swamped with work.”
“You don’t even know when it is,” his father pointed out, and Dante suppressed a scowl at the rookie mistake. But he was happy to have diverted the conversation away from his own shortcomings, at least.
“I’m sorry I assumed it was soon,” he backpedaled quickly. “I’m tied up with the Tokyo build, and you know the Dubai project is starting to gain momentum. Now wouldn’t be a great time to take a vacation. But, of course, if you’re talking about months down the line, I’d be happy to attend.”
“Aah, no . . . we’re in love, we cannot wait months. The wedding will be in two weeks,” his father said with a regretful sigh. “I really wanted you there, son. I was hoping you could be my best man.”
“I’m sorry, Papa,” he repeated. Carmen pouted prettily. “And Carmen. I would come if I could.”
“It’s okay, Dante,” she giggled, her voice painfully shrill. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to get to know each other in the future.”
Yeah, right. Dante wouldn’t bet on that. His father would be on to wife number next in no time. Dante had lost count of how many—progressively younger—stepmothers he’d had so far, and he had no interest in even trying to keep track of them. His father never kept mistresses or lovers, he kept wives, and out of the many he’d had after Dante’s mother had died of leukemia, one had committed suicide, another had died of an accidental drug overdose, and the rest had all divorced him.
Thankfully, Dante didn’t have dozens of half siblings scattered all over Europe, as his father had had a vasectomy after Dante’s tenth birthday. Which was a mixed blessing, since Dante wouldn’t have minded a brother or sister. It would have made his childhood a little less lonely.
He watched his father neck with his child bride for a few minutes longer before deciding that he’d done his familial duty.
“Well, congratulations again. Please send me the wedding
pictures.”
“Okay. It was great talking with you, son. We should touch base more often,” his father said. The man ended every call with the same words, and Dante always agreed that they should, but they both knew they probably wouldn’t talk again for months. They were both okay with that.
After ending the call, Dante wandered from room to room in his vast penthouse apartment, which overlooked the yacht basin at the V and A Waterfront in Cape Town. It was the perfect bachelor apartment and offered a less impersonal way of life than simply staying in one of his hotels, which was the way he’d lived up until his thirtieth birthday. That was when he bought himself this multi-million-dollar gem just a stone’s throw away from both his office and his flagship hotel in Cape Town.
But the Waterfront wasn’t exactly a peaceful environment; it was trendy, noisy, and bustling with sightseers. The property values were through the roof, and it had been a sound investment to purchase this apartment. The glossy finishes, marble floors, slick glass walls, and minimalist interior were designed by the same team that did all of his hotels. The décor was beautiful but left the place feeling sterile and cold. He often felt as if he was still living in a hotel or one of those places they use for interior-design catalog shoots. It didn’t feel like home. Not that he’d ever known what one of those felt like.
When he’d been a child living at home with his father, he’d never felt a sense of permanence or place. Not with the interchangeable “mamas” traipsing through Dante’s life from his sixth or seventh birthday onward.
Because Enrique Damaso believed that each new wife was the Real Thing, he’d never seen the necessity of a prenup. For a wealthy man, Dante’s father could be incredibly stupid. He thought prenups were unromantic and set the wrong tone for a marriage, and with each ex-wife he lost sizable chunks of money. Only one of those ex-wives had remarried and no longer received alimony from him; the others still enjoyed their lavish lifestyles, thanks to his father’s gullibility.
Dante had given up thinking that his father would ever learn his lesson, and had proceeded to protect himself against a similar fate. He’d seen what loving a woman could lead to, and he wasn’t going to allow himself to be used like that. He would choose his future wife with care; she would come from a background of wealth and privilege and would comport herself with grace and dignity in public. There would be no mad, passionate love involved in his choice. It would be an intellectual process, not an emotional one.
He wandered out onto the balcony and stared down at the yachts neatly lined up in the bay beneath his apartment, their masts pointing up at the purple-and-pink dusk sky like accusatory, skeletal middle fingers. His own fifty-foot sloop was berthed down there, but from this distance, in the fading light, it was difficult to spot the Arabella, which he’d named after his first dog.
He could smell the faint scent of fried food drifting toward him on the breeze, hear distant laughter—carried to him on the same breeze—and see people wandering around on the dock. Just living their lives. Some happy, some not. Husbands and wives, lovers, families.
He sighed, trying to shove aside the uncharacteristic surge of melancholia. He needed to shake this off. He needed a beer and time with a friend. The only person who sprang to mind was probably the last person he should contact. How the hell was he supposed to look Lucius in the eye after learning that Cleo was pregnant with his baby? She had inexplicably attempted to preserve his friendship with her brother, and Dante supposed he could be grateful for that. Still, facing Lucius on the same day he’d received the paternity-test results wasn’t something Dante was prepared to deal with just yet.
He mixed himself a strong drink, indulging himself with a couple of fingers of twenty-year-old single-malt scotch on the rocks. He carried his tumbler out onto the balcony and sat down in one of his comfortable patio chairs with his bare feet propped up against the railing. The sky had gone a deep, velvety blue, with just a few hints of magenta still bleeding into the ocean on the horizon.
He dug his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his messages and e-mails, and after replying to a few of the semi-important ones, he gave in to temptation and Googled week-by-week pregnancy guides.
He was fascinated to learn that peeing and making faces weren’t all that week fourteen had to offer. The baby had also developed a pelt of hair all over its body. Dante couldn’t help but visualize a weird simian-looking thing curled up in Cleo’s womb. He shuddered and continued to read. He wondered if she could see any difference in her body yet? She still looked exactly the same to him, and the top of that leotard had been quite form-fitting, so surely he would have noticed any swelling in her midsection. Maybe her breasts had been a little bigger? He couldn’t be sure; the leotard had unfortunately flattened them a bit too much for his liking.
And why had he even been looking at her breasts in the first place? Why was he thinking about them now?
His thoughts drifted to her ultrasound and wondered what the baby would look like.
He tilted his head back and imagined a little girl with black hair and snapping emerald eyes like her mother’s. He had no experience with kids, and for some reason he couldn’t quite picture an infant. In his mind the child was a toddler, two or three, wearing a little pink tutu and white leggings. He could see her clumsily twirling until she got dizzy, and when she inevitably lost her balance, he was there to . . .
He sat up abruptly, feet hitting the deck and drink nearly spilling.
Mierda! What the hell was he doing fantasizing about some kid who would have no place in his life?
He tossed back his drink and hurried inside to change into his loose training shorts. He needed a good workout. He needed to straighten his head out.
He padded, on bare feet, into his private gym and warmed up with a vigorous jump-rope session and a few stretches before dragging on his boxing gloves and proceeding to beat and kick the hell out of the heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling. Less than half an hour later, he was too mentally and physically wrung out to think about anything other than the abuse he was putting his body through, and after his workout was complete, the only things on his mind were shower and sleep.
Not Cleo and her inconvenient pregnancy.
He was done with that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Heeey!” A super chirpy voice screeched into Cleo’s ear and she cringed slightly. “Guess who’s back in town?”
“Hi, Coco,” she said faintly, one eye still defensively squeezed shut as her brain tried to adjust to the sugar rush Coco’s high-pitched, syrupy voice always sent screaming through her bloodstream. “When did you get back?”
“Last night! Did you miss me?”
“I did.” And she meant it. Coco had been one of her best friends throughout dance school, and even though they’d drifted apart after Cleo’s accident, she always made a point of visiting whenever she was in town. She was a member of a well-known dance troupe and had even been doing a few solos on their international tours. Cleo had always been a better dancer than Coco, and they both knew it, so Cleo couldn’t help feeling envious of her friend, which made things awkward between them, so it was probably a good thing they rarely saw each other these days.
“Well, I’m back, and so’s Gigi,” she squeaked, while Gigi’s equally high-pitched voice screeched a hello in the background. Gigi was another former classmate of theirs, a ditzy girl who was happy just being in the corps de ballet. She simply wanted to dance and receive a regular paycheck. She was also one of the nicest people Cleo knew. “Want to come out for a drinkie?”
“How long will you guys be in town?” Cleo asked, glancing at the clock. It was nearly eight in the evening, and she had her ultrasound in the morning. Not the best time to be going out.
“For a couple of weeks,” Coco replied.
“Great, then can I take a rain check? I really can’t make it tonight. I have an important appointment tomorrow,” she said, genuine regret deepening her voice.
“Wha
t about tomorrow night?” Coco asked.
“That’ll be cool. Sure.”
“Yay! I’ll text you the deets! See you then!” Coco always spoke in exclamations; it was a little draining chatting with her sometimes, especially without any forewarning.
Cleo headed into the living room, where Cal was stretched out on the sleeper couch. His glasses, which he was too vain to let anyone but her see him wear, were perched on his nose as he read one of the gory thrillers that he loved. He peered up at her over the top of his glasses as she went to the kitchen to get herself some juice.
“Coco and Gigi are back in town,” she said after sitting down at the kitchen table and taking a sip of her drink.
“Great,” he muttered. “Don’t forget to take an insulin shot before you go out with the Saccharine Sisters.”
She giggled. “Stop it,” she admonished, her laughter belying her words. Cal and Coco didn’t get along, not since they’d both fallen for the same guy a few years back. To make matters worse, the guy had gone for Coco despite the fact that Cal was still convinced—all evidence to the contrary—that the guy batted for his team.
Cleo’s laughter faded as she continued to stare at her longtime friend. She had to tell him about her decision to move in with Luc and Blue; he would need time to make other arrangements.
“Cal?” she whispered, hating the necessity of what she had to do but not seeing any other way. He dropped his book to his chest and smiled at her sadly.
“I know, hon.” Her eyes flooded with tears at the understanding on his face, and she sat hunched at the table, silent sobs shaking her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to do.”
“You have to do what’s best for you, Cleo. And right now, you can’t afford to live here supporting my lazy ass and coping with a pregnancy too. But on the positive side, having to move out might light a fire under said lazy ass and get me motivated to find work again. I’ve been getting a little too comfortable here, you see? Living a life of leisure, like the kept man that I am.”
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