[Fontaines 01.0] The Sweet Taste of Sin

by Ember Casey

  “I want you to call me immediately.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I mean it, Ash. Call me.”

  In spite of everything, I find myself smiling. “Look at you, getting all protective on me.”

  “Did you ever doubt I would be?” The edge is gone from his voice. “I love you, Ash. I would do anything to protect you.”

  Now that the tension has lessened, I decide to tease him a little. “Anything?” I can think of a few things I might suggest.

  But Dante doesn’t give me the chance to elaborate. “Anything.”

  There’s no hesitation, no hint of jest in his voice.

  “I mean it,” he continues. “I made the mistake once of hurting you. Of driving you away from me. I won’t make that error again. And I’m going to do everything in my power to make it up to you. That includes protecting you from anything that might cause the look in your eyes I saw that day.”

  “You remember the look in my eyes?”

  “It has haunted me ever since.” He sounds haunted, even now. “I tried to forget you, Ash. I tried to distract myself. Sometimes with work. Sometimes with alcohol. Sometimes with other women. But somehow you were always there in my mind. Always calling to me, even when I was doing everything in my power to drive you out of my head. Do you know what that does to a man?”

  “No,” I whisper. “But I know what these years did to me.”

  * * *

  Preparing for my date with Dante is nothing like preparing for my date with Dean. On the one hand, I already know that Dante is in love with me—a thought which still makes me tingle from head to toe—so I don’t need to stress too much about how I look. On the other, this is still my first public dinner with the guy, and I desperately want to make him drool.

  Even though I didn’t go into work today—which means I’ve had plenty of time to stress about what I’m going to wear—I’m still running late. When my doorbell rings, I’m only halfway through my makeup and I haven’t even decided what shoes to pair with the dark blue dress I finally settled on. I curse and swipe on a bit of lipstick called Blood Orchid Red before running to the door.

  “I’m almost ready,” I tell him as soon as I swing it open. “Just give me five minutes and I’ll—”

  He grabs me and pulls me against his chest, crushing me to him. His lips come down on mine. His tongue slides into my mouth, both demanding and pleading, and I’m only too happy to oblige him. My mouth falls open beneath his. I find myself gripping his shirt, sinking against his body. It’s only been a few days since the last time I saw him, but that’s far too long. And after the unexpected stress of the last two days, I need him more than ever.

  Somehow we make it off my doorstep and into the house. He manages to press me up against the wall without breaking the kiss. I’m not sure if seconds or minutes or even hours have passed. I only know that kissing him is life. It’s an explosion of passion that threatens to consume me.

  When he finally pulls back, I’m dazed and fuzzy-minded with pleasure. I lean my head back against the wall, eyes still closed, as he brushes one last soft kiss against the corner of my mouth. There’s a brief pause, and then suddenly he lets out a laugh.

  God, that laugh. That rare, beautiful sound makes me go soft all over. I open my eyes to see what’s causing that marvelous, heart-swelling, intoxicating reaction, but when I do, my eyes go straight to his lips—and the enormous smear of Blood Orchid Red across them. His entire mouth is smudged with it. And the skin surrounding his mouth. And his chin. And even parts of his cheeks, though I don’t remember my lips ever going there.

  He’s still laughing. But now I’m laughing, too.

  “You sweet thing,” he finally manages to choke out. “You have lipstick all over your face.” He brings up his hand to try and brush it away, but I’m laughing so hard that I can’t imagine his efforts are very effective.

  “You should see your face,” I say, wiping the tears out of the corner of my eye. I grab him by the upper arms and turn him around to face the mirror on the wall. His grin widens when he sees his reflection, and he pulls me back against his chest.

  “What a mess you’ve made,” he says.

  “I can clean you up, if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he replies, turning me back around and kissing the corner of my mouth again. “Not yet, anyway.”

  He kisses his way along my jaw. Up my cheek. Over my temple. On one eyelid and then the other. Probably spreading the lipstick even further across my face, but I don’t care.

  “I could have warned you, you know,” I say. “You didn’t even let me finish my sentence when I opened the door.”

  “I couldn’t help myself,” he murmurs against my skin between kisses. “It had been far too long since I’d kissed you.”

  “I don’t disagree. But—”

  He kisses me on the lips again, stealing the words right out of my mouth.

  “You taste sweeter every time I kiss you,” he says.

  “Do I?”

  “As sweet as one of those cakes of yours. Though between your red face and your red hair, you look a lot more like a strawberry.”

  My cheeks burn, and I’m sure that only adds to the effect. “I am not a strawberry.”

  “What’s wrong with strawberries?” He holds my face close to his. “I happen to think that they’re the best of fruits.”

  I’m laughing again, drunk on his kisses and his sweetness.

  “We should go,” I say. If we don’t stop this now, we’ll end up naked on the floor of my foyer—with the front door still wide open. After tonight, we can stay home as much as we like. But this dinner is an important step for us, one I’m not ready to skip.

  “We should,” he concedes, but it still takes him a full five minutes to release me again.

  After that, it takes a little time for the both of us to clean up, but eventually, we find ourselves at Bistro Julia, a small, luxurious restaurant that Dante claims has the best mussels in town.

  He must come here a lot because the hostess doesn’t even blink at the celebrity walking through the front door. And I think I hear her say something about his “usual table” as she leads us across the floor. None of the other patrons give us much more than a passing glance, either. I wonder how many other celebrities are tucked away at the semi-secluded tables along the walls? How many of these other diners are huge media moguls or studio executives who see people like Dante Fontaine every day?

  Halfway across the restaurant, Dante stops.

  “Excuse me,” he says to the hostess. “I see a friend. I’m going to go say hello, but I’m sure we can find our way to the table when we’re done.”

  “Of course, sir.” The hostess gives a nod and a smile as Dante’s arm slips around my waist, guiding me gently to the left.

  “I’ve spotted someone you should meet,” he says in my ear as he guides me across the floor.

  He’s leading us to a table against the wall where a couple sits. The man looks about Dante’s age or a couple of years older, and he’s incredibly handsome and sharply dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my entire closet. The woman is younger, late-twenties or so, with thick, dark hair that hangs loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are even darker, and they gleam when she looks up and recognizes Dante. Her gaze doesn’t linger on him long, though. Her eyes snap right to me, and she breaks into a smile as she looks me over. It’s a friendly expression, but I’m suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

  By the time we get to the table, the man has looked up as well, and though he also smiles, there’s something a little more controlled about his expression.

  “Good evening,” Dante says. Then, to me, “Ash, this is Felicia Liddle. And this is—”

  “Roman,” the man interrupts, rising. “Roman Everet. A pleasure to meet you.”

  I take the man’s offered hand, wondering why his name sounds vaguely familiar. He’s certainly attractive enough to be some sort of actor or
musician or other celebrity, but I don’t recognize him.

  “Felicia writes for Celebrity Spark,” Dante continues as the woman also rises. “And Mr. Everet recently acquired the magazine.”

  I was reaching to shake the woman’s hand, but my arm freezes in midair as this sinks in. Celebrity Spark. That’s the name of the magazine that published Dante’s recent interview, the one that led to us getting back together. Dante brought me over here to talk to people who work at a tabloid? To talk to the man who owns that tabloid? That's how I know Roman Everet’s name—his recent purchase of the magazine was a highly publicized deal.

  If the woman—Felicia—notices my reaction to the name, she pretends not to. Instead, she takes my hand and gives it a friendly shake. And Dante goes on as if introducing me to an old friend.

  “This is Ashlyn,” he says to them. “She owns and runs Ashlyn’s Bakeshop.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ashlyn,” Felicia says. She’s still smiling at me, and even though there’s nothing particularly ruthless about that look—nothing like what I saw in the faces of the reporters and photographers who followed me to my car yesterday—there’s still an eagerness in her expression that makes my stomach tight. The man’s face is harder to read. And he seems more focused on Dante than on me—in fact, he’s fixing Dante with a wary look. He places his hand against his date’s lower back—a subtle way of staking his claim—and I suddenly find myself looking closely at Felicia again.

  She’s very pretty. Her generous curves are quite obvious in the gold cocktail dress she’s wearing, and her face is sweet and appealing. Her dark hair shines in the restaurant’s flickering candlelight, and her eyes are large and bright. In fact, her hair and eyes are similar to those of Emilia Torres, who I know from firsthand experience caught Dante’s eye. My gaze flicks from Felicia to Dante, and the possibilities that swirl through my head make me sick to my stomach. Is this someone he dated? I’m not sure which is worse—that Dante would introduce me to a tabloid reporter, or that he would introduce me to someone who’s been in his bed.

  “Ashlyn’s Bakeshop… that’s the one on Vesper Street, isn’t it?” Roman is saying. “I’ve heard of the place. My assistant raves about your pumpkin chocolate chip muffins.”

  “Those are definitely a customer favorite,” I say, flashing what I hope resembles a smile.

  “We’ll have to go by there and try one sometime,” Felicia says. “I—well, if that would be all right with you, Ashlyn?”

  I find it almost funny that a tabloid reporter would ask to come by my bakery, especially after my experiences yesterday. In fact, this woman looks almost nervous, as if she actually wants to make a good impression on me. I don’t know what to make of it. None of the people who camped outside my bakery yesterday—or called, or harassed me online—seemed to have that concern.

  “Sure, come by if you like,” I say. “But you’ll have to call ahead if you want one of those muffins. They tend to be gone by lunchtime.”

  Felicia’s smile widens.

  “Well, we don’t want to keep you two from your meal,” Dante says. “I just wanted to give my greeting.”

  Roman nods. “It was nice to meet you, and I wish you a pleasant meal. Might I recommend the mussels? They’re the chef’s specialty.”

  “If you ever want to do an interview, I’d be happy to chat,” Felicia says to me. “Dante can vouch for me.” She’s still looking at me like she wants to be friends, but I’m not sure whether that makes her offer better or worse. Honestly, the whole situation is making me uneasy.

  “I’ll consider it,” I say, just to be polite. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “Good evening,” Dante says, before turning and guiding me away.

  I don’t say anything as he leads me to our table. But Dante seems to sense that something is wrong.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks.

  “I… I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Why did you introduce me to those people?”

  Dante frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “It just seems weird. We’re on a date and you’re introducing me to tabloid reporters.”

  “It was just one,” Dante says evenly. “And I do vouch for Felicia. I’ve worked with her in the past. She’s honest. She won’t twist your words.”

  After the past couple of days, talking to any reporter, honest or not, is the last thing I want to do.

  “I’m not doing any interviews,” I say. “I don’t want to talk to Celebrity Spark or anyone else.” We’ve reached our table, but I’m suddenly feeling too wound up to sit. I look up at him. “Is that what you want? For me to start speaking with reporters?”

  He’s still frowning. “I thought this was what you wanted—to be open with the press.”

  “I just didn’t want to hide this. Hide us.” I try to keep my voice down, but I notice a woman glance over from the next table. “I mean I just…” I lower my voice. “I wasn’t expecting to… I didn’t think…”

  Suddenly his hands are on either side of my face. For a long moment, he just stares at me, searching me, and though I want to look away, I can’t tear my eyes from his.

  “You told me this morning that everything was okay,” he says gently. “That you could handle this. I think you weren’t telling me the whole truth.”

  “I can handle this, I promise.”

  But he isn’t buying it. His eyes get darker. “What did they do?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing I shouldn’t have expected, at least. I’m just not used to this.”

  His mouth is tight. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. And then, “I was afraid of this.”

  “I can handle it,” I tell him again. “But this is all happening so quickly. I never thought it would be easy, but I also wasn’t expecting everything to change so drastically overnight. To go from a nobody to… to whatever I am now. In only a few days my whole life has changed, and we’re only just getting to know each other again, and I just want… I just want…” A few moments to think. Some room to breathe, away from the curious eyes of the press and public. To run away with Dante to a place where they’ll never find us. “This is what you were trying to avoid back then, wasn’t it?”

  He gives a single nod, but though I’ve just admitted that he was right, he doesn’t look the least bit smug—or even satisfied.

  “Why don’t we go?” he says softly.

  I shake my head. “This is supposed to be our first real dinner date.”

  “And that means we can’t spend it alone with each other?” He brushes a loose wave of hair back from my temple. “We aren’t hiding anything just because we want to enjoy each other away from the judgment of the world, Ash. We’re still rediscovering each other. That’s hard enough without a spotlight on us.”

  My eyes fall closed as I nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  I don’t realize how much tension I was holding in my body until I say those words and relief flows through me. Yes, let’s go be somewhere alone. Let’s figure out our relationship with each other before we try to figure out our relationship with the rest of the world.

  I lace my fingers through his as we move back through the restaurant. The hostess looks surprised as we pass, but neither Dante nor I say a word, and I’m strangely grateful that he doesn’t feel the need to explain or justify our sudden departure to anyone. I squeeze his hand, overwhelmed with wonder at how well this man seems to understand me, even after all this time. The perfect first date of my dreams is falling apart around us before it’s even truly begun, but something about this still feels just right.

  Or at least… on the way to being right.

  I try not to notice the woman who snaps a picture of us with her cell phone as we wait on the curb for the valet to bring around Dante’s car. At least she tries to be subtle about it.

  I can deal with minor inconveniences, I tell myself as Dante drives back to my house. But it will be easier once Dante and I have had more time to reconnect. Once I’m feeling stable again. Or
at least as stable as you can feel when you’re dating a man who makes your insides turn to mush every time he glances your way.

  Now that I think about it, I’ll probably never feel stable again. Neither my heart nor my body is a match for Dante. But I’m hopeful, and that’s enough for now. At least until Dante turns onto my street.

  “Shit,” he says under his breath.

  “Hm?” I sit up, glancing down the road. Instantly, my gut clenches.

  There are people outside of my house. Paparazzi or reporters or others, I can’t tell from here. But it doesn’t matter. They found my house. They found my house.

  Dante has stopped the car. He’s looking over at me, probably waiting for a cue as to what I want him to do, but I feel like someone has dumped a bucket of ice over my head. It was one thing when they came to my bakery—at least then I could tell myself that I might eventually get some extra sales for my trouble. But this…

  My home was my retreat when I was too overwhelmed to face the press. But now that’s been taken from me.

  “Can we go to your place?” I ask Dante, my voice sounding too small. “I can’t do this.”

  His answer is to swing immediately into the nearest driveway and turn around. I glance back over my shoulder, unable to look away from the small group of people gathered on the street in front of my home. I should probably call the cops, I know, but right now I’m not sure I can manage even that. I just want to get away.

  We drive in silence. My hands are shaking again, so I curl them into fists to keep Dante from noticing. But that simple gesture seems to stir something in me. The sick feeling in my stomach melts away, and in its place is anger. Pure, raw anger.

  By the time we get to Dante’s house, I can’t hold it in anymore.

  “They can’t do that!” I blurt the minute I step out of the car. “They can’t just show up at people’s homes and camp out and take pictures and—God, they won’t try to break into my house, will they?”

  “There’s a reason so many celebrities prefer gated properties,” Dante says grimly. “Though even that doesn’t always keep the worst of them out.”