He made a noncommittal sound. ‘I’m not sure whether being close to Enzo would be a good thing or not. If you think I’m controlling, you haven’t met him.’
‘And will I?’ She put her hands over his where they rested on her stomach, trying to ignore the doubts. ‘Meet him, I mean?’
‘You will. At our engagement party.’
Of course. Dante had made sure not a breath of what was happening between them made it into the media. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know, or at least not until he was ready. Luckily it had only been a week, so no one had noticed his absence from the entertainment circuit.
She didn’t much care about the media—wouldn’t a press release do the job? But he’d told her to let him handle it his way. He’d decided on an engagement party as the best way to announce their circumstances, as the media tended to be less intrusive when they thought they were being given the whole story rather than a carefully selected portion of it. He’d made the observation that it would allow news of what was happening between them to reach her family, so she wouldn’t have to deal with them.
She appreciated that. She’d told him about her worries concerning her father and what he might do once he’d found out she wasn’t going through with his revenge plans. Dante’s response had been to send a couple of his representatives to Monte Santa Maria to inform her parents that she was now under his protection, as she would be marrying him. He’d also included a payment of a ridiculous sum of money to keep Santo quiet, plus a warning that if he tried to contact Stella again the police would be called and he would be taken into custody.
Stella was fine with that. She didn’t want to hear from her father. She’d made peace with Matteo’s memory as much as she could and with her own failure to go through with her father’s vendetta.
Except that weakness, that need for love, is still there.
‘You are going to invite him, aren’t you?’ She kept her tone neutral, hiding the doubt that tugged at her.
‘Of course I will. He’s my brother.’ Dante nuzzled her neck, pressing a kiss below her ear and making her shiver deliciously. ‘Except we might keep the fact that we met while you were trying to kill me to ourselves for a while, hmm? Enzo’s very protective.’
And so was Dante—she knew that for a fact.
‘Are you afraid he’ll do something to me?’ she asked, curious.
Dante gave a low laugh. ‘No. He’d be dead before he hit the floor if he tried to hurt you.’
Stella thought he was probably only a little serious. ‘So why not just tell him?’
‘He’ll be angry and we really don’t want an angry Enzo. We need to build up to that.’
Her heart ached at the affectionate warmth in Dante’s voice. Yet another reminder that, despite what he’d told her, he cared. He cared about his brother, for example, and quite deeply. Why else would he have chosen to look at this palazzo—the one near Enzo’s?
But he won’t ever care about you.
Emotion clogged her throat. She didn’t need him to care about her, though, did she? He was going to give her everything else: a place to live, financial support, help in bringing up their child and all the physical pleasure she might want. Did she really need him to care about her too?
You know the answer to that question.
Yes. She did. That was all she’d wanted all her life: someone to care about her. Someone she mattered to. But her parents had only ever wanted Matteo, not her. No one had ever really wanted her.
And now she was going to tie herself for life to a man who didn’t really want her either.
Restlessness filled her and suddenly she didn’t want to stand there with the warmth of his arms around her like the promise of something she was never going to get. She pushed his hands away and stepped out of his arms, moving over to the window and looking out.
Her heart thumped painfully in her ears and she felt oddly cold.
A silence fell, though she could feel the pressure of Dante’s gaze from behind her.
‘Kitten?’ he asked after a moment. ‘Is there something wrong? Something to do with my brother?’
‘You care about him.’ Stella turned from the view and looked at the man she was supposed to marry. ‘Don’t you?’
Dante stood there in one of his expensively tailored suits—no jacket today, and no tie either, his black shirt casually open at the neck, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Her favourite look on him.
He had his hands in the pockets of his trousers and the look on his handsome face was guarded. ‘He’s my brother,’ he said, frowning, as if that was all the explanation required. ‘Why do you ask?’
Stella swallowed, not quite sure herself why she was asking. It was just...she couldn’t stop thinking about his refusal to acknowledge the fact that he did care. About quite a lot of things. Was it only her he denied that to? Did he ever say that to his brother too?
‘So you can care about people, Dante.’
‘If you’re wanting—’
‘Will you ever care about me?’ The words slipped from her before she could stop them and she knew she shouldn’t have asked as soon as they were out.
But she couldn’t take them back even though, as his expression hardened the way it had back on the terrace in Rome, the darkness of his eyes becoming absolute, she desperately wished she could.
It was a door shutting in her face.
No, he wouldn’t care about her.
But you want him to.
The realisation opening up inside her was like a sunflower blooming, shining in her heart, bright and beautiful and golden, reflecting glory everywhere.
She’d always wanted someone to care for her, wanted an acknowledgement that she mattered to somebody. But she hadn’t known she’d wanted that acknowledgement from Dante. No one else. Just him.
Dante, who wasn’t the irresponsible playboy she’d first assumed, but who was warm and caring and protective. Who’d taken care of her, no matter that she’d tried to kill him. Who’d challenged her and pushed her. Who’d held her when she’d been vulnerable and broken, and who’d given her strength when she’d needed it. Not to mention the indescribable pleasure he also gave her every night.
Dante, who didn’t want to care, not about anyone.
The sunflower began to wither inside her, its golden brightness fading as cold whispered through her, the icy breath of winter.
‘It’s okay,’ she said suddenly, before he could speak, because she didn’t want to hear him say the words out loud. She didn’t think she could bear it. ‘Forget I said anything.’
But he didn’t look away and the set expression on his face didn’t fade. His gaze was dark, his beautiful mouth hard, tension gathered in every line of his powerful body. ‘Then why did you ask?’
He was angry with her, of course, and why wouldn’t he be? They were here to view a house, not have a deep and meaningful discussion about their relationship.
Stella glanced out of the window again, not wanting to meet the anger in his gaze, wishing she’d never said anything. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It’s about what I said to you in Rome, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t need you to—’
‘Because if you want the truth then here it is. I will care for you, Stella.’ His voice was nothing but cold, hard steel. ‘But, no. I can never care about you.’
The words felt like stones thrown at her, each one jagged and sharp, leaving a bruise where they landed. And the fact that they were the truth only made the pain worse.
Did you really expect anything different? He told you not to care about him.
He had. Yet she cared anyway.
No, it was more than that, wasn’t it? More than simple caring.
She loved him. Because that glory inside her, the warmth, the brightness she felt whenever she looked at him, was love. The pain she
experienced herself whenever he hurt, that was love too. The longing to touch him, have his arms around her, have him be the one to fill the void inside her...
What else could it be?
Only love.
Nothing else would hurt as much.
She stared hard out of the window at the cypresses that lined the grand, sweeping driveway, trying to force away the prickle of tears. ‘You won’t, you mean.’
‘Can’t, won’t. What does it matter?’
‘It matters to me.’
‘Fine.’ His voice was expressionless. ‘I won’t.’
The trees wavered in her vision as she lost the battle. Two weeks ago she would have blinked the tears back, pretended they weren’t there, but now she made no effort to hide them. What was the point when she’d already given her own feelings away?
‘I’m not your mother,’ she said, though why she was arguing with him she didn’t know. Was she hoping to change his mind? ‘I’m not an alcoholic battling addiction. I’m just a woman who wants someone to care about her. You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘Of course I understand that.’ Anger threaded through his voice. ‘But this isn’t about my mother. This isn’t about the past. It’s about the choice I made for the future years ago and I’m not about to change it.’
The tears ran down her cheek, but she made no attempt to brush them away. She wanted to ask him whether he would change it for their baby’s sake, except they’d already had that discussion, and besides she couldn’t—wouldn’t—use their child that way.
So all she said was, ‘Not even for me?’
There was a heavy silence and then footsteps came from behind her. Dante’s hands were suddenly on her shoulders, turning her round to face him, his expression tightening as he saw the tears running down her face.
‘Stella,’ he demanded roughly, something that looked like pain in the depths of his eyes. ‘Why does this matter to you so very much?’
She looked up at him, lifting her chin, because even now, even here, she couldn’t resist the challenge. ‘Why do you think? Because you matter, Dante. You matter to me.’
His expression tightened, his fingers digging into her shoulders almost painfully. ‘I told you not to care, kitten. Remember? I told you not to.’
She swallowed, her throat aching, everything aching. ‘Too late.’
* * *
Dante could hear his own heartbeat loud and heavy in his ears, and something was cracking right down the middle of his chest, breaking him in two.
Who knew a woman’s tears had the power to do that? His mother had been able to turn hers off and on, depending on what she wanted to get him to do. But there was nothing feigned about Stella’s. They rolled slowly down her cheeks, one after the other, pain glowing in her silver-blue eyes.
Silly, silly kitten. She cared about him. Dio, why on earth would she go and do that? After the warning he’d given her back in Rome? After he’d dismissed all that caring nonsense and showed her that their physical connection could bridge any gap?
It was her own fault, of course. Not his. He’d been very clear about his feelings on the subject. He wasn’t going to care about anyone or anything, not again, and he’d told her he wouldn’t. She’d known that from the beginning.
So why the sight of her tears and the anguish in her gaze made him feel as if she really had taken that letter opener and plunged it into the centre of his chest, he had no idea.
He tried to dismiss the pain, but it wouldn’t go away, and that made him angry. Made him want to crush her to him, cover her lovely, vulnerable mouth with his, make her forget her ridiculous decision to care about him, to give her pleasure instead.
But almost as soon as the impulse occurred to him and he began to pull her close her hands came up and she pushed them hard against his chest, holding herself away.
‘No, Dante,’ she said, hoarse and shaken. ‘Not this time.’
Tension coiled in him, the sharp, restless need to do something—anything—to stop her from saying the words he so desperately did not want to hear. To take away her pain. ‘You said you’d never turn me away.’ His own voice sounded as rough as hers. ‘That you’d never refuse me.’
‘I know.’ Bright determination glowed in her eyes despite the tracks of her tears. ‘But that was before I knew I was in love with you, Dante Cardinali.’
Love. That damn word again. The word he’d tried to strip down over the years so that it had lost all meaning, become nothing. But he hadn’t been successful, had he? Because of course it meant something.
Guilt. Pain.
‘I don’t want you to be in love with me,’ he said viciously. ‘I didn’t ask for it.’
‘I didn’t ask for it either.’ Her chin lifted higher, a challenge. ‘And quite frankly the last thing in the world I want is to be in love with a man who doesn’t give a damn. And yet here we are.’
His jaw was tight, his whole body stiff with tension. She was so warm against him, and so soft. All it would take would be the right touch, a kiss, and she’d melt the way she always did. He knew how to do it. He knew how to make her forget.
‘So?’ He slid his hands down over the delicious curve of her bottom, fitting her more closely against his hardening groin. ‘It doesn’t change anything.’ And it wouldn’t. Because he wouldn’t let it.
‘Dante, no.’ Stella pushed harder against his chest, her palms little points of heat on him. ‘You don’t understand. It changes everything.’
A growl escaped him. He didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to keep holding her, because he had the awful suspicion that if he let her go he’d never get to hold her again. ‘Why?’
Colour had risen in her cheeks, flushing her pale skin a delicate rose. She was so beautiful and yet the pain in her eyes hurt him in ways he didn’t understand. ‘Let me go.’
‘You’re going to leave, aren’t you?’ He couldn’t stop himself from asking stupid questions, when what he should have been doing was crushing her mouth under his. ‘As soon as I let you go, you’re going to walk away.’
She looked vulnerable and yet there was something strong in her too, a determination he’d seen the night she’d tried to take his life. Only this time it wasn’t the brittle strength of a woman forcing herself to do something she knew was wrong, it was the enduring strength of a woman knowing she would do the right thing, no matter the cost to herself. No matter her own pain.
‘All I wanted was for someone to put their arms around me.’ Her voice was very soft, the edges of it frayed and ragged like torn silk. ‘To hold me and tell me that I was loved. But no one ever did.’ Her gaze remained steady on his, a terrible knowledge glowing there. ‘And Dante, if I marry you, no one ever will.’
Such simple words to have such power. It felt as if she’d plunged not just a knife into his heart but a sword sharp enough to cut through stone.
But she was right. If he married her, if he tied her to him, she would never have that. Because he could never give it to her.
Would never give it to her.
No. He wouldn’t. And it was a choice. He understood that much.
He’d had a choice back when he’d been a teenager and his mother had told him to go, to leave her alone. And he had. Because he’d been done with her and her constant refusal of everything he tried to do for her. Done with trying to love a woman who’d only dragged him with her because she hadn’t wanted to be alone.
Who had never wanted him.
Because, if she had, she would have tried, wouldn’t she? She would have made some kind of effort to be the kind of mother he’d needed, surely?
Ah, but that was useless to think about. Those questions had no answers and he’d never get them, because she was dead, denying him to the last.
If you hadn’t walked away, things might have been different.
And that was th
e hell of it, wasn’t it? Because he had walked away. And he would never know if he could have changed things if he’d stayed.
He’d never know if he could have saved her.
Guilt twisted in his heart, but he shoved it away, buried it deep.
This wasn’t the same situation and Stella wasn’t a fragile, bitter addict, but the choice he had to make was still the same. And he knew he would make the same decision, because he knew exactly how this little story played out.
He would give her everything she wanted, everything that was in his power to give, except that one little piece of himself. And it wouldn’t be enough for her. And eventually that would turn to bitterness and anger. It would turn to pain. It would destroy what relationship they did have, and it wouldn’t only involve him and her, it would involve their child as well.
The anger inside him, the fire that never went out, flared hot and bitter.
Yes, this was her fault. She was ruining what they had with her constant need for more. And she was ruining it for their child too.
That’s right. Blame her for your own cowardice. Remind you of anyone?
Dante ignored the snide voice in his head. Instead he opened his arms, letting her go and stepping back, the warmth of her body lingering against him in a way that nearly broke him.
‘There,’ he said, his tone acid. ‘If you want to go, go. I won’t stop you.’
She looked so small standing there by herself, the silky dress she wore his favourite colour, a pale, silvery blue the exact same shade as her eyes. ‘So that’s really the way it’s going to end?’ she asked quietly. ‘You walking away again?’
‘Does it look like I’m walking away?’ His voice echoed with a bitterness and he couldn’t hide it. ‘No, darling, you’re the one who doesn’t want what I have to give.’
Her mouth trembled. ‘I do want it. I just want all of it. I want to be loved, Dante. I want to be loved by you.’
It felt as if she’d swung that sword again, cutting through his chest, through sinew and bone, right into his heart.
Claiming His One-Night Child Page 15