“James could drive me back to my place,” she suggested. “I promise to rest when I get home.”
“We’re already here. You might as well enjoy the quiet and take a nap. I’ll be heading back to the office, so you’ll have the place to yourself. Help yourself to anything, and if you need something, contact James. He’ll see to it.”
Cleo figured it was a good trial run for when she moved in and decided not to argue any further. She was genuinely tired. The emotional outburst of that morning, combined with the overall lethargy she still felt, resulted in a powerful urge to just sleep.
Dante escorted her back into his penthouse, going through all those high-tech security procedures before they found themselves facing each other in the middle of his living room. He dug a pen out of his breast pocket and scribbled a four-digit number on the edge of a discarded newspaper on the coffee table.
“This is the code for the elevator, should you decide to go home later.” He took hold of her hand and held it palm up before dropping her car keys in it. “If you choose to leave, please let James know that you’re going. I’ve left him with explicit instructions to ensure you get home safely.” She didn’t say anything to that, even though she was doing some serious mental eye-rolling. She’d been getting herself home safely for years now, but this was Dante’s paranoid world, and while she was in it, she supposed she’d have to adhere to the weirdness.
He was standing so close to her that she could feel his torso brush against her chest with every inhalation of breath. He lifted his hand and oh-so-tenderly brushed her hair back from her face. His fingertips grasped one tendril, and an enigmatic smile played about his perfect lips.
“Love the blue,” he murmured. “I prefer it to the pink. Pink’s not your color.”
“I was thinking of going p-purple next,” she heard herself saying inanely, and he looked at the strand he held captive in his fingertips for one long, evaluating moment.
“It might clash with your eyes a bit. The purple would have to be subtle,” he announced, and she nodded, wondering why they were standing here discussing her hair. He seemed to snap out of whatever spell he was under and blinked a couple of times before shaking his head and dropping her hair.
“Anyway, I . . . uh . . . I should get back to work. Try to rest, dulzura,” he said, his voice soft. “It’ll do both of you the world of good.”
The word both reminded Cleo that the main reason she was here and that he even wanted her close was because of the baby. He’d kicked her out of his life before they’d known about this pregnancy, and the baby was the only reason she was back. She’d better not lose sight of that fact, and she had damned well better not start weaving dangerous fantasies around this man. Especially now that she was starting to see other—likable—aspects of his personality.
She watched him leave and waited for a few moments before she trudged up to one of the spare rooms. She kicked off her shoes on her way up the stairs and shrugged out of her denim jacket. By the time she fell into the closest bed, she was wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of boy shorts. She dragged a comforter up to cover her body and was asleep in seconds.
Cleo’s wreck of a car was still parked in the underground garage when Dante returned home that evening. He had—uncharacteristically—finished work at the stroke of five, leaving a lot of speculative glances and raised eyebrows in his wake. He had ignored everybody’s blatant curiosity and rushed to get home. According to James, Cleo hadn’t yet left, and Dante wanted to assure himself that she was okay. Considering her stubborn nature, he would have expected her to leave hours ago. The fact that she was still here was a little concerning.
He let himself in, and a quick glance around the lower level of his apartment told him that it was empty and quiet as a tomb. He could feel his heart start up a heavy bass beat in his chest as panic began to edge its way into his consciousness. He didn’t know what the hell he was expecting to find, but he wasn’t sure it would be good.
He headed up the stairs and told himself that he was being ridiculous, even while his breath caught in his throat. He was so focused on reaching the top of the single flight of stairs that he didn’t see the shoe on the step in front of him and tripped over it. He glanced down incredulously and picked up the small white sneaker, feeling a little perplexed by its presence there. The shoe’s twin lay two steps up. And a denim jacket was carelessly thrown over the banister just above the second shoe.
He picked up the items as he went along, feeling like someone following a particularly naughty trail of bread crumbs . . . denim skirt, T-shirt, and even a bra were scattered on the staircase and landing, and Dante found himself wondering if this was an attempt to seduce him.
A rueful glance down at his straining erection told him that if it was an attempt, it was wholly successful so far. He reluctantly acknowledged that the thought of a half-naked Cleo in one of those huge beds was more than enough to make his dick stand up and go “Yes, please.” There he stood—making an incongruous picture—with an armload of decadently Cleo-scented clothes, rampant and ready for her. He glimpsed a tiny sock discarded outside the middle door and followed it blindly, knowing that Cleo was probably behind that door.
Naked and as primed for him as he was for her.
Hopefully.
He tossed her clothes aside and stumbled toward the door, opening it without knocking and without further thought. The sight that met his eyes stopped him dead in his tracks. She lay in the middle of the huge bed, curled up in a tight ball, fast asleep. He could see that she had attempted to drag the comforter up over herself, but the thing had slid half off the bed and only covered her slender thighs. She was wearing a pair of those damned boy shorts he so loved—Daisy Duck again—and a white tank top. She must have dragged the bra out from beneath the tank. She had one hand tucked beneath her cheek and the other curled over her abdomen in an unconsciously protective gesture; her knees were tucked and drawn up almost to her chest. For such a tiny thing in such a huge bed, she took up a surprising amount of space.
Asleep she presented a picture of innocence, yet that didn’t dampen his desire for her one bit. Thank God she was sleeping, or Dante might have made a huge mistake. Bringing sex into this confusing situation would complicate things exponentially. He would have to ignore these baser urges, especially if she was moving in here.
He walked over to the bed, unable to take his eyes off her. Completely relaxed like this, without that challenging look in her eyes and the combative tilt of her jaw, she was goddamned beautiful. The revelation stunned him. He had never really seen this beauty before and couldn’t be sure why he was seeing it now. She still had those same odd features that in no way seemed to go together. Most of the time she could probably be described as pretty in an offbeat way, but at that moment, she was nothing short of breathtaking.
He didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to evaluate this change of heart, and instead dragged the comforter back over her and tucked her in securely before turning and walking out of the room.
When Cleo woke up, she was completely disoriented and panicked. Where was she? A glance around didn’t help matters when she saw not one familiar item anywhere. She took a deep breath and tried to remember what had happened before she’d fallen asleep. When she recalled where she was, she groped around for her phone, which was tucked beneath the pillow, to check the time. It was just after eight in the evening, and she’d slept for nearly nine hours.
There were half a dozen missed calls on her phone from Blue and not a single one from Luc. She sat up quickly and speed-dialed Blue’s number.
“Cleo? Thank God!” Her friend’s voice throbbed with relief, and Cleo felt guilty for making her worry. “Where are you? And what’s going on? Luc isn’t making any sense. He slammed his way into his study and refuses to talk to me about whatever it is that’s bugging him. All I know is that you’re somehow involved.”
That was unusual behavior for Luc, who always told Blue everything. C
leo tried not to think about what it could possibly mean if he refused to even talk to Blue about this.
“Dante Damaso went to speak with Luc this morning,” Cleo said quietly, her voice thick after nine hours of disuse.
“Dante Damaso? Why?”
“He’s my baby’s father. He told Luc that I’d be living with him until the baby’s born.” Blue was completely silent at the other end of the line. “Blue?”
“Oh my God,” Blue moaned. “Cleo.”
“I feel horrible. I know what good friends they are . . . were.”
“You could still come and stay with us. You don’t have to live with him,” Blue said.
“I know that, but he is this baby’s father, and I think this is the best move for everyone. Most especially for my baby.”
“Luc will come around, Cleo,” Blue told her.
“I ruined their friendship, Blue,” Cleo said, tears running down her cheeks.
“It’ll work out,” Blue said, always the optimist. “He’s going to need time, though.”
“I’m at Dante’s right now, but I won’t be moving in for another couple of weeks yet. Do you think I should come and talk to Luc before then?”
“Let me talk to him and try to get him over the worst of it,” Blue suggested. “I’ll keep you updated.”
“Thank you.”
“Cleo are you . . . do you . . .” Blue framed hesitantly. “Do you have feelings for him?”
“No.” Cleo ignored her annoying internal voice, which had been silent for so long, as it called her a heinous liar.
“Okay.”
“It was just something that happened.” Cleo felt the need to explain the inexplicable, mostly for her own benefit. “In Tokyo. A thing. He was there, I was there. It happened. We used protection, but how does that quote from Jurassic Park go? ‘Life will find a way.’”
Blue giggled, and Cleo could hear the tears in the bubbly sound.
“Only you would compare the conception of your baby with dinosaurs procreating in a fictitious park.”
“It’s a badass saying, you have to admit it,” Cleo said with her own wet little giggle.
They chatted for a while longer before Cleo reluctantly dis-connected the call and thought about heading downstairs and back home. The place was eerily quiet, and she wasn’t sure if Dante had returned yet. She knew the crazy hours he worked, and with the current project in Tokyo and a new one starting up in Dubai, she doubted he’d be home before midnight these days.
She glanced around the room for her clothes before remembering that she’d discarded them on her way up the stairs. Jeez, she’d really have to curb these messy tendencies of hers if she was going to live in this squeaky-clean place. Something on the dresser caught her eye, and upon closer inspection, she saw that it was her clothes, immaculately folded and neatly placed on the dresser’s smooth wooden surface.
Someone had been in here while she was sleeping! The thought gave her the heebie-jeebies. Did Dante have a maid? Could it have been James? She doubted that. Could it have been Dante himself?
She pulled on her clothes and tentatively made her way down the stairs. The lights were on, music played softly on the high-tech sound system, and when she walked around the kitchen to the living room, she found Dante sprawled out on the uncomfortable-looking couch. He was wearing faded jeans and a gray T-shirt, and his sneakers had been toed off. Cleo had never seen him dressed like that before. Three-piece suits and nude, that was all she knew of Dante Damaso. This was a completely different man slumped in front of her right now. He had one long leg on the couch and the other bent at the knee, with his foot on the marble floor. His head was resting on the hard, small arm of a couch that just wasn’t designed for relaxation. A sheaf of papers was spread on his broad chest, pinned down securely with one hand, and his glasses were perched on his nose and dangerously close to falling off. His mouth was ever-so-slightly open, and he was snoring quietly.
Dante Damaso was a handsome man, an outstanding specimen of manhood that other men envied and most women desired, but Cleo had never found him more irresistible than at that moment. He looked young, vulnerable, and completely disheveled, and Cleo felt like she was only really seeing him now for the first time.
She felt confused and desperate to leave before he noticed her. But she wasn’t even halfway to the door before she heard him sigh and the papers on his chest crinkle as he moved.
“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice husky with sleep, and Cleo’s back straightened as she shot him a guilty look over her shoulder.
“I was heading home. I didn’t mean to sleep for so long.” She turned to face him and swallowed when he sat up and stretched, his T-shirt tightening over his chest and abs. He had stubble growing in, and he briskly rubbed his hand over his jaw as if the hair growth bothered him.
“Stay,” he invited. “Have some dinner. I cooked pasta. There’s some in the microwave for you.”
Reluctantly charmed by the fact that he’d gone to the trouble to make a plate for her, she hesitated, and he offered her a sleepy smile.
“I would prefer it if you stayed over,” he said. “Safer than driving this time of night.”
“It’s eight thirty,” she pointed out. “Hardly midnight. I’m sure I’ll manage to get home without much trouble.”
“Stay.” He stood up and walked toward her, and even in his socks he towered above her. “Please.”
Okay, so she was a sucker, but it was the “Please” that did it. She nodded and dropped her bag in the middle of the floor before heading for the kitchen.
Sure enough, there was a foil-covered plate in the microwave for her. She removed the foil and set the timer to a minute and a half.
“There’s freshly baked bread in the tin and a salad in the fridge,” Dante advised, as he sat down at the island to watch her flit about the kitchen. He seemed content just to watch her and didn’t have much to say.
She set her plate and utensils down on the island beside him before fetching her salad and bread and sitting down next to him to enjoy her meal. She ate ravenously. As was usually the case these days, once the nausea disappeared, she found herself eating like a horse, and Dante watched her pack it away in fascination.
“That’s a hell of a lot of food for such a little thing,” he observed after a long silence, and Cleo peered at him before shrugging.
“Eating for two,” she reminded him past a mouthful of bread, and he grinned. She could get used to him grinning like this all the time.
“So you were a professional dancer?” She sighed. Small talk. How . . . inevitable.
“Yep,” she said, mopping up some of the delicious tomato sauce on her plate with a chunk of soft, fresh bread and stuffing it into her mouth. “This is delicious.”
“Thank you.”
“You made the bread too?” She didn’t care if she sounded like a Neanderthal, talking with her mouth full; this was a divine meal.
“I did.”
“What happened when Cal dropped you?” he asked, and she glared at him, wishing he hadn’t asked that question. Good thing she’d nearly finished her meal, since her appetite had completely disappeared.
“We don’t have to go through these little getting-to-know-you rituals, Dante,” she dismissed coldly. “Don’t worry, I won’t think less of you for not really knowing anything about me. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Okay,” he said, picking up her plate and utensils and carrying them to the sink. She watched him tidy up and shook her head at how completely different they were. “So, I’m an only child.”
“What?” Why did he feel the need to tell her that?
“I’m an only child,” he repeated patiently. “My mother died of leukemia when I was five and a half. My father remarried soon after that. And then he divorced and remarried again. And so on and so forth. I’ve lost count of how many there were. And he’s getting remarried to a woman about a decade younger than me in a couple of weeks’ time. He always falls
head over heels in love, marries without protecting himself or his assets, and then is surprised when he gets taken to the cleaners a year or two later.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, horrified and fascinated by the story he was telling her, but not at all sure why he would choose to divulge this to her, now or ever.
“You might not want me to know about you, but I think it’s time you learned something about me.”
“Why? That makes no sense,” she said.
“Not yet,” he said enigmatically. “Anyway, my father is an idiot when it comes to matters of the heart, and I have decided never to be like him.”
Was he warning her off? Trying to tell her that he would always protect himself and his assets? She already knew that about him. So this warning was moot.
“Right,” she nodded. “Well, you can take great comfort in the fact that you’re not like him at all. You with your nondisclosure agreements and your bloodless little relationships, or whatever you call them.”
“Hmm.” That was his only response. “You’re probably not sleepy at all. Want to watch a movie or something?” Trying very hard not to think about what that “or something” could entail, Cleo firmly opted for the movie.
“I have a lot to choose from,” he informed her, following her into the living room. He picked up a tablet from the table and showed her how his system worked. “They’re all digital copies, and if there’s anything on here I don’t have or you would like to see, you can purchase them here.”
Once she had a rudimentary knowledge of how the system worked, he left her to flick through the movie choices while he went back to his work. Cleo curled up in a hard, angular, horrifically uncomfortable chair and settled back to watch.
A few bloodcurdling screams later, Dante looked up, his face pale and focused on the gigantic screen.
“What the hell are you watching?” he asked hoarsely.
“It’s one of the latest horror films,” she said, naming the movie, which had been a surprise hit the previous year. “Ssh. I’m trying to watch.”
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