Dante's Girl (The Paradise Diaries)

by Courtney Cole

  “I’m not jealous of Nate,” Dante answers. “I just know Nate better than you do, sir.”

  “Dante!” Dimitri snaps, his face a thunderous storm cloud. “Apologize at once. This is ridiculous. Nate has apologized. It was an accident.” He turns to me. “My dear, I sincerely apologize that you have been injured here in Caberra under my watch. I will make it up to you. I do hope you won’t hold Nate liable. I believe his intentions were true.”

  No, they weren’t.

  But Dimitri is waiting for me to speak, to agree, so I nod.

  “It’s fine. It’s just a little bruise.”

  “It’s not fine,” Dante interjects, but his father grabs his arm.

  “Dante,” he hisses into Dante’s ear. “Enough. We’re in public.”

  Dante goes still.

  “Now apologize,” Dimitri instructs. Dante clenches his jaw so tightly that a little muscle ticks by his mouth. His beautiful mouth. I cringe inside at the thought that Dante has to apologize to this beast.

  “Apologize,” Dimitri says again.

  Dante sighs, squaring his shoulders reluctantly as pulls his arm away from Dimitri. He is resigned to doing his duty. I can see it on his face. It’s a role that he has played in his life many, many times. And once again, I don’t envy him for it.

  “I apologize,” he says icily to Nate the beast. He takes two steps toward me to walk past Nate and as he passes him, he leans in and says, “For nothing,” in Nate’s ear.

  I’m not sure if anyone but Nate and I hear, but the look on Nate’s face is priceless. He’s pissed and he can’t say anything.

  Dimitri and Nathaniel are already nodding and walking back inside as if the matter is closed. I doubt they truly care as long as public image isn’t harmed. They are good people, I am sure. But they are public figures. They have been conditioned to always think about public perception. I can’t blame them for that.

  Nathaniel turns when they reach the doors.

  “Are you coming, Nate?”

  I realize that he doesn’t want to leave Nate out here. He doesn’t want to take the chance that Nate will do something regrettable. I can see that on his face. He knows his son. And he probably knows that Nate purposely bruised my arm. I stare at him. His gaze flickers to me and it almost seems apologetic. And then the expression is gone. He patiently waits until Nate joins him and then he nods at Dante.

  Then they’re gone.

  Dante and I stare at each other.

  “I’m sorry, Reece,” he tells me. “Nate will get his. Trust me.”

  His voice is assured and calm with a promise in it.

  “I don’t want Nate ‘to get his’,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t want conflict. I just want to go on with life, okay? Thank you for standing up for me. No one has ever done that for me before. And I’ll never be alone with Nate again. I know he’s your friend, but there’s something about him…”

  Dante nods. “I know.”

  We start to walk back into the palace, but Dante stops and looks at me.

  “I don’t want to go in there. Not right now. Want to take that tour of the groves?”

  Do I ever. I don’t even want to be in the same building as Nate Geraris.

  “That would be lovely,” I smile. I’m so grateful that I can’t even see straight.

  Dante leads me into a different direction. And before I even know it, we are descending on wide concrete stairs into a basement of some sort.

  “The garage,” Dante tells me when he sees the question on my face. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  He gets no arguments from me.

  There are so many cars in this garage. There are gleaming luxury cars. Shining sports cars. Aggressive looking military trucks, even. And nestled next to a shiny blue Jaguar, there is a sleek black convertible. I have no idea what kind of car it is, but it is so sexy that it absolutely has to be Dante’s. Has to be.

  And sure enough, he walks right to it and opens the passenger door for me. I slip into the luxurious butter-soft leather of the seat and it immediately engulfs me in cushioned luxury. Dante gets into the driver’s seat, shoves a key into the ignition and revs the engine before he punches at a button and the top slides soundlessly down.

  Dante revs the engines again and it roars, then purrs quietly. I don’t know a thing about cars but even I can tell that there is a lot of power under this shiny black hood.

  “What kind of car is this?” I ask curiously. There is a fancy trident on the glove-box, but I’ve never seen that emblem before.

  “It’s a Maserati,” Dante tells me as we glide out of the parking space.

  “It’s beautiful,” I tell him. And it really is.

  It feels like we are floating on air. That’s how smooth the ride is. This car is perfect for Dante. It’s classy, expensive, powerful. Back home, the boys drive Jeeps with jacked-up tires or pickups with rifle racks in the windows. My own car is a little used Honda Civic. My parents and grandparents had all gone in together and bought it for me for my sixteenth birthday. This is just another glaring reminder of how different we are.

  “It’s a car,” Dante shrugs.

  He’s oblivious to the incredible things that he is blessed with. He’s used to them. He’s not arrogant or stuck-up. But you can’t grow up in a family like his and not become accustomed to it. It’s just human nature.

  But still.

  A little piece of me is panicked by this.

  My heart feels fluttery about his car, by his attitude to his car.

  By the fact that his father is a Prime Minister.

  By the fact that his world is so glaringly different from mine. Just when I think I’ve got a handle on it, that I’m used to it, something jumps out at me that reminds me all over again.

  Our differences are striking and real and this isn’t a fairy tale. And sometimes, in real life, differences sometimes can’t be overcome.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The countryside is beautiful. I can hardly take my eyes from it as we wind our way through the smooth country roads. Being from Kansas, it is hard for me to believe that there are no dirt roads here. But even the country roads are paved and immaculate, perfect like everything else.

  The landscape is rugged and green, with rocks dotting the hills and tall grass waving. The highway that we are on winds above the ocean and below us, the blue sea crashes against the rocks. Above us, the sky is just as blue. It’s truly breathtaking.

  The wind blows my hair and the air smells like the sea. It’s salty, vast and earthy. I know that I will never forget this smell. It smells like Dante.

  He looks over at me.

  “What do you think?” he asks with a smile.

  He is happy now, now that we are racing away from the Old Palace. I can see it on his face, by the way he is relaxed in the driver’s seat.

  And I’ve not been out of Valese, so this is the first time I’ve seen the country here in Caberra. He knows what I think. I can see it in his smile.

  “I think it’s beautiful,” I confirm. “You are so lucky to live here. It’s so pretty. It’s perfect.”

  “It’s only perfect when you are here,” he tells me seriously. And I laugh. Dante has the ability to say so many corny things without seeming corny at all. It’s a true gift. He reaches over and grabs my hand, nestling it within his on his leg.

  I suck my air in.

  My fingers are on Dante’s thigh.

  It seems so intimate.

  It is so intimate. OhMyWord.

  My lungs have a spasm and I practically choke.

  Have I mentioned to him that I’m a virgin?

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Why am I such an idiot?

  We’re simply holding hands.

  On his thigh.

  He looks over at me and grins an ornery grin. And then he guns the engine. We whirl down the winding road and my hair twirls above my head, whipped by the wind. I clutch the handle on the door, but I don’t say a word. Th
e car hugs the ground and Dante drives it expertly.

  “If you think you’re scaring me, you’re crazy!” I call above the wind. “I grew up sliding around dirt corners in farm trucks.”

  Dante laughs and shifts gears and we race even faster along the silvery road. I clutch the door handle harder, but I’m really not afraid. I just don’t want to slide around in my seat. I trust him. He’s too responsible to get out of control with the car.

  We breeze onto a side road and the landscape around us became twisted and viney and even more rugged, but still gorgeous. It looks like orchards line the road. But I look closer and see that tiny olives are on the tree branches. They look almost like pebbles from here.

  “Are these yours?” I ask, motioning around us.

  Dante nods and I realize that the car is slowing down. I futilely mess with my hair but it’s a lost cause. So I give up, wrapping it up in a ponytail holder. I’ll deal with the tangles later.

  We pull up to two massive wrought-iron gates that are standing wide open. There are G’s on each gate.

  Giliberti.

  I look at this majestic arched iron gate and then picture the old faded white wooden fence that lines our property back home and sigh. The only gates that we have are to keep the cows and horses in. They are fastened together with a thick chain and the cows chew at the fence, so there are bite marks everywhere.

  There are no bite marks here, of that I am certain. What I am looking at is surely a scene straight from a painting. A four feet high stone wall frames in the property and even though it is probably very old, it is in immaculate condition.

  As we pass under the arch, trees line each side of the shady lane now, but not olive trees. These are trees with white blossoms of some sort. The blossoms drift peacefully down and flutter along the road, beautiful and tranquil.

  “Callery Pear trees,” Dante tells me before I have a chance to ask.

  I can smell the sweet scent all around me. It’s in the air, permeating my clothes, soaking into my hair. Combined with the cool breeze that brings in the scents of the ocean, it’s amazing. The leaves on the trees above us rustle soothingly and I reach over and grasp Dante’s hand again.

  “Your home is beautiful,” I tell him. “It’s like paradise.”

  “I know,” he answers. His golden hair is fluttering in the breeze and his face is so happy, so perfectly serene. I can truly see that this is where he belongs. Not in the Old Place in Valese. But here. In the cool, calming olive groves. He even looks at home here. He might say that he wants a choice in his future, but I know right here and now, that his choice will always involve this estate.

  A house looms massively ahead of us on the left. It looks like something you would find on an old Southern plantation, except it is made from white stucco. And it’s bigger. It’s beautiful, like everything else here. It sprawls far and wide and has tons of windows facing us. It looks warm and welcoming.

  It looks like Dante’s home.

  I look at him and he’s practically glowing as he noses the car into a parking slot in a semi-circular parking area in front of the house. The tires crunch on gravel and the car comes to a smooth stop.

  Dante leaps from the car and flies around to open my door in two seconds flat. He’s anxious for me to see his home and I think that’s sweet. And honestly, I’m sort of anxious to see it too. I want to learn more about Dante and I have a feeling this is where I will learn it.

  It sounds stupid to say, but I can feel him here. In everything around me, I feel Dante. And while I know it sounds stupid to say, it’s the truth.

  We walk up to the house and the white stone steps are wide. The porch wraps around most of the front of the house, which is unusual for this type of home. There is wicker furniture here with white silk cushions and large antique looking rugs. The front doors are huge and heavy and mahogany, also unusual for this type of home. It’s clear that this home was personally designed by someone and it has an eclectic, unique feel.

  Dante pushes the front doors open, bows slightly and gives an “After you” motion with his arm.

  I step ahead and pause inside, looking around.

  And I stare, practically wonderstruck.

  It’s beautiful here. Warmth and sunlight swirl around and it feels like I’m wrapped in a cozy, peaceful blanket. The feeling around me is serene and soft, like I’ve stepped into a beautiful painting or an enchanted place. I feel instantly at home, instantly at peace.

  “Welcome to Giliberti House,” Dante says with a proud grin. “This is the foyer. The wood on the banister there,” and he points to a huge staircase spilling into the foyer, “Is made from six hundred year old trees. The marble that you are stepping on right now was brought in by hand hundreds of years ago by Gilibertis. Gilibertis built this house and there has been a Giliberti in it ever since.”

  The pride in his voice makes me feel warm all over. It’s so refreshing. I want to reach over and brush the hair out of his eyes, but I don’t.

  A tiny elderly woman with gray hair walks in and Dante greets her with a hug and a kiss on each cheek.

  “Marionette,” he grins. “It’s been too long, mami.” He turns to me. “Marionette is French. She moved to Caberra long ago to marry her young groom. And they are still happily married today. Her husband, Darius, is the foreman here. He’s worked for us for a very long time.”

  Marionette nods, her wrinkles crinkling around smiling blue eyes.

  “Oui,” she nods. “My husband worked for Dante’s grandfather. That is how long my Darius has been with the Giliberti’s. Me and him, we’re like family.” She reaches a tiny arm around Dante’s shoulders and squeezes him. “I knew his grandmere before she died.” With this last statement, Marionette makes the sign of the cross on her chest. “May she rest in peace, God bless her kind soul.”

  “Also, you should know that Marionette knows fluent English,” Dante tells me. “She may pretend not to from time to time, but don’t let her fool you.”

  Marionette slaps at his arm and she looks so funny because she’s so small and Dante is so big.

  “You are not too big for me to beat, Mr. Giliberti,” she tells him. “But tell me, who is this pretty girl that you are showing off for?”

  “Where are my manners? I’m sorry, Mami. This is Reece Ellis. She will be working for Giliberti Olives for the summer. Reece, this is Marionette Papou. She runs this entire estate with a steel fist. Don’t cross her. She’s as mean as they get.”

  She slaps at him again and I have to laugh. She’s ancient and tiny and adorable. And it’s clear that she loves Dante. And he loves her too. Does Mami mean mom in French? I’m so clueless. But I decide that it is safe to assume. He must be very close with her. I make a mental note.

  They show me the rest of the main floor and it is apparent that they are both very proud of Giliberti House. As well they should be. It’s beautiful. And perfect. Just like its owner. Well, owner-to-be. I’m assuming that it will all be Dante’s someday. After the tour, Marionette leaves to get us fresh lemonade. And I stand still, soaking in the atmosphere here. It is truly peaceful and refreshing.

  It’s beautiful and silent.

  Almost reverent.

  Dante is standing directly inside huge double glass doors leading out to one of the numerous porches. The sun shines onto him, illuminating him with golden, brilliant light. As he turns to smile at me, with his broad shoulders and slip hips, he truly seems otherworldly. He’s just that beautiful. And suddenly, I feel speechless and tongue-tied again. This all seems so unreal again.

  You don’t belong here, a tiny voice whispers in my head.

  Shut the hell up, I silently whisper to my stupid inner voice. What do you know anyway?

  “What do you think?” Dante asks, walking to my side. I can’t help but stare at him as a million thoughts speed through my head.

  “It’s lovely. Absolutely lovely. I never want to leave here. And I can’t believe you do! If I were you, I’d stay here all of the tim
e.”

  He grins ruefully. “I’d like to, to be honest. Should I tell you a secret?”

  He steps closer to me and talks even quieter, low and husky in my ear.

  “I feel my mom here,” he says. “I feel her all around me. She decorated many of the rooms and my dad hasn’t changed them. It’s one of the reasons that I love being here so much, because I know that she is here, too.”

  I look at him and my insides melt. How could anyone’s insides stay intact after hearing someone say such a sweet thing? It’s impossible. I’ve heard other girls complain that their boyfriends are Mama’s Boys and how annoying it can be. But this boy, this beautiful boy, never had a chance to be a mama’s boy. It breaks my heart.

  And this time, I do reach up and brush the hair out of his eyes. He leans into my hand and his face is cool under my fingers. I can feel the slight stubble on his cheekbone and the flutter of his eyelashes as he closes his eyes.

  I want to kiss him.

  I want him to kiss me.

  Something.

  Anything.

  But his impossibly blue eyes pop open.

  “Hey, would you like to stay here instead of the Old Palace?” he asks, excitement apparent on his face. He’s animated now, energetic. Hopeful. “We’d have to drive out here every day anyway.”

  He looks at me and there’s no way I could ever say no.

  “Of course,” I tell him. “I’d love to stay here. Who wouldn’t?”

  Dante grins happily and reaches for a nearby cordless phone handset. He calls his father and asks for permission and while he is talking, I wander around the large room looking at the various wall-hangings and paintings. Two minutes later, Dante is by my elbow.

  “My father approves,” he tells me. “We’ll stay here for the summer. It will be perfectly respectable, I promise,” he says. “Darius and Marionette sleep here in the house, so we won’t be alone.”

  That was the furthest worry from my mind.

  In fact, as he leads me upstairs to show me the bedrooms, I’m silently hoping that mine is close to his. And then I feel scandalous for thinking such a thing, but it’s the truth. I want to know that he is sleeping somewhere close to me. I just like the thought, the idea, that his bed is close to mine.