by Day Leclaire
His hold tightened, locking them together from abdomen to thigh. Heat exploded, and even knowing she may have destroyed her career thanks to one night of stupidity, desire awoke with a renewed ferocity that left her stunned. How was this possible? She squeezed her eyes shut. Why, oh why, did this temptation have to hit last night of all nights? And why hadn’t their time together satisfied the unrelenting hunger that accompanied it?
Well, she knew one thing for certain. If she hesitated even one more second, she wouldn’t get out of this bed anytime soon. Taking a deep breath, she planted both hands against his chest—Lord help her, what a chest—and shoved. To her surprise, she succeeded in freeing herself. One minute she lay cocooned in warmth and the next she stood beside the bed, naked, cold, and vaguely self-conscious. Sev lifted onto an elbow and studied her through narrowed, watchful eyes. Tension rippled through him, and a hint of something dangerous and predatory lurked in his expression.
“I have to get to work,” she explained. “Assuming, after last night, I still have a job. I made a huge mistake leaving with you.”
His tension increased ever so slightly, and he continued to remind her of a watchful panther debating whether or not to take down his prey. “Which was your mistake? Leaving with me?” He tilted his head to one side. “Or leaving with a couple mil worth of the Fontaines’ jewelry? I suspect both the Fontaines, as well as your agency, won’t be too pleased. If you’d like, I can place a couple of calls and get you off the hook.”
Francesca frowned in confusion. “What agency?” she asked, before waving that aside. “Oh, never mind. More to the point, where’s the jewelry?”
Sev gestured toward the diamond-and-amethyst pieces glittering on the bedside table. “Relax. Everything’s safe and sound, and more importantly, undamaged.”
“Thank God.”
She scooped up the set with exquisite care. Since she didn’t have the jewelry cases on her, she could only think of one safe place to put them, and swiftly fastened the pieces to her neck, wrist, and ears. It wasn’t until she finished that she sensed Sev’s gaze on her. His hungry look deepened and made her acutely aware that she stood before him wearing nothing but the designs she’d created. Tension filled the room, heating the air between them.
Her job! How could she have forgotten again? The thought propelled her to action. She caught a glimpse of lilac panties peeking from beneath the pleated edge of the dust ruffle and snatched them up before exiting the bedroom. To her dismay Sev followed right behind, wearing even less than she.
The instant they hit the living room, Sev’s cell phone emitted a faint buzz from the direction of the coffee table. This time he picked it up and answered it. “What?” His gaze flickered in her direction. “Say that name again? You’re certain?”
She spared him a swift glance, concerned by the sudden grimness lining his face. “What? What’s wrong?”
He closed his phone with a snap and came after her. “Who are you?” he demanded.
She stepped into her panties and looked around for her dress. “I already told you. Francesca Sommers.” She spotted her dress heaped in a silken pool a few feet shy of the couch. A vague memory of Sev’s tossing it toward the cushioned back came to her. Clearly, he’d missed.
Before she could snatch it up, Sev caught her arm and spun her to face him. “You’re not a model. You’re Timeless Heirlooms’ new designer.”
His statement sounded more like an accusation. She carefully disengaged her arm from his grasp and bent to pick up her dress. It was ridiculous to feel self-conscious after the night they’d spent together. But something about the way Sev stared at her caused her to hold the gown tight against her breasts. “I never claimed to be a model. You must have jumped to that conclusion.” She frowned. “What difference does it make, anyway?”
“Did the Fontaines put you up to this? Is that why you followed me onto the balcony last night?” The questions came at her, fast and sharp.
She stared at him in utter bewilderment, combined with a bubble of irritation. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. All I know is that if I don’t report in to work within the next twenty minutes, I won’t have a job. Now, do you mind? I’d like to—”
He cut her off with a sweep of his hand. “I’m talking about a TH employee falling into bed with one of the owners of Dantes five minutes after meeting. I’m talking about you using the oldest trick in the book to gain inside information for the Fontaines.”
She jerked backward as though slapped. “Dantes? You work for Dantes?”
“Sweetheart, I own Dantes.”
The connection hit and hit hard. Her dress slipped from between fingers that had gone abruptly boneless. “You’re a Dante?”
“Severo Dante. CEO and chairman of the board of Dantes.”
“Oh, God.” She was so fired. “I thought you were a buyer.” She managed to add two and two, despite working with only half a brain. “You were at the showing last night to scope out the competition, weren’t you?”
He looked around. Finding his trousers between the living room and the bedroom, he snatched them up and yanked them on. The man who stood before her now bore little resemblance to the one who’d made such passionate love to her only hours before. With the exception of the unbuttoned trousers riding low on his hips, he wore nothing but an endless expanse of bare flesh.
Desire still hummed between them, calling to her with even more strength and power than the night before. And she might have answered that call, too, if he hadn’t used that one word, that single, appalling word—Dantes—that had her itching to run in the opposite direction as fast as her wobbly legs would take her.
She wriggled back into the dress she’d chosen with such care for her first showing. She didn’t bother trying to hand-press the wrinkles. Nothing would salvage this mess other than a trip to the dry cleaner’s. But at least now she could face him on an even footing, or at least on a somewhat even footing.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Okay, let’s have this out. You think I came on to you last night so I could find out your plans in regard to TH?” she demanded. At his nod, she glared at him. “How about the possibility of your coming on to me so you could get the inside scoop on TH’s plans? After all, you’re trying to buy out the Fontaines, aren’t you?”
He studied her for a long silent moment. “It would seem we have a problem.”
“Oh, no, we don’t.” She found her shoes kicked under the wet bar and shoved her feet into the spiked heels. At the same time, she thrust her fingers through her hair in an attempt to restore order to utter disaster. “It’s very simple from here on out. We avoid each other at all costs and we don’t mention last night to anyone. Anyone,” she stressed. “If I’d known who you were last night, I’d never have taken off with you.”
“Liar.”
She closed her eyes, forcing herself to admit the painful truth. “Fine. That’s a lie. But I wouldn’t have gone with you because you’re Severo Dante. It would have been despite that fact.” She opened her eyes and fought to keep her gaze level and not betray the profound effect he had on her. “I owe the Fontaines more than I can possibly repay. Betraying them with their chief competitor isn’t the sort of repayment I had in mind. So, from now on, we’re through. Got it?”
He came for her again, closing the distance so that no more than a whisper of space separated them. It would have been so easy to push aside that cushion of air and take another delicious tumble into insanity. Just the mere thought had her body reacting, softening and loosening in anticipation. He was a Dante, she struggled to remind herself. She hadn’t realized that fact before, and therefore couldn’t blame herself for what happened the previous night. But now that she did know, she had a duty to keep her distance.
He brushed aside a lock of her hair. Just that slight a touch and she came totally unraveled. “It would seem we have a problem,” he repeated.
No question about that. “I’ve been consorting with the enemy.” Stil
l consorted. Still wanted to consort. And then consort some more.
He shook his head. “It’s a hell of a lot more complicated than that. Whatever this thing is between us? It isn’t over.” He traced his hand along the curve of her cheek, leaving behind a streak of fire. “It’s only just begun.”
Chapter Three
Severo left Le Premier, stopping at his apartment only long enough to change, before continuing to Sausalito to confront his grandfather about the events of the previous night. He had questions, questions only his grandfather could answer.
“Primo?” he called, stepping through their front door.
Silence greeted him, which meant Nonna was out and he should continue on toward the gated garden behind his grandparents’ hillside home if he wanted to find the object of his search. Sev headed for the kitchen at the rear of the house and stepped from the cool dusky interior into a sunlit explosion of scent and color.
Sure enough, he found Primo hard at work on a bed of native Californian wildflowers. Thick gray hair escaped from beneath the brim of a canvas bucket hat and surrounded a noble, craggy face. At Sev’s approach, Primo rocked back onto his heels, grunting in pain from the arthritis that had begun to plague him in recent years.
Fierce golden eyes, identical to Sev’s own, fixed on him. “Do me a favor.” He spoke in his native tongue, his Italian seasoned with the unique flavoring of his Tuscan birthplace. “Grab one of those bags of mulch and bring it over here. My ancient bones will be forever grateful.”
Sev did as ordered. Stooping, he split the bag with a pair of gardening shears and set to work beside his grandfather. Memories from his childhood hovered, other days that mirrored this one, days filled with the scent of cool, salt-laden air combined with rich loamy earth. Long, industrious moments passed before Sev spoke.
“I’m in the mood for a story, Primo.”
His grandfather’s thick brows lifted in surprise. “You have a particular one in mind?”
Sev spread a generous layer of mulch around a bed that combined the striking colors of golden poppies, baby blue eyes, and beach strawberries. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He paused in his endeavors. “Tell me what happened when you met Nonna.”
“Ah.” An odd smile played across the older man’s face. “Are you asking out of simple academic interest, or is there a more personal reason behind your sudden interest?”
“Tell me.”
Primo released a gruff laugh at the barked demand. “So. It is personal. You have finally felt the burn, have you, nipote?”
Sev wiped his brow before fixing his grandfather with an uncompromising stare. “I want to know what the hell happened to me and how to make it stop.”
“What happened is what your ancestors always called the Dante Inferno,” Primo answered simply. “Some consider it a family curse. I have always considered it a family blessing.”
The name teased at a far-off memory. No, not a memory. More of a childhood story, carrying a grain of truth amid the more fantastical elements. “Explain.”
Primo released his breath in a deep sigh. “Come. The story sits better with a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other.”
Brushing plant detritus from his slacks, he stood and led the way into the kitchen. Cool and rustic, huge flagstones decorated the kitchen floor while rough-hewn redwood beams stretched across the twelve-foot plaster ceiling. A large, scarred table, perfect for a substantially sized family, took up one end of the room, while a full complement of the latest appliances filled the other. After washing up, the two men helped themselves to bottles of homemade honey beer and took a seat at the table. Primo produced a pair of cigars. Once they were clipped and lit, he leaned back in his chair and eyed his grandson through an aromatic haze of smoke.
“I did try and warn you,” he began.
“You didn’t issue a warning. You told us a fairy tale when we were impressionable children. Why would we put credence in something so implausible?”
“It was real. You just chose not to believe. Not to remember.”
The quiet words held an unmistakable conviction, one that threw Sev. “So now I’m supposed to accept that you and Nonna took one look at each other and it was love at first sight? A love inspired by this . . . this Inferno?”
His grandfather shook his head. “No, youngling.”
Youngling? At thirty-four? Sev just barely managed not to roll his eyes. “Then what happened?”
“I took one look at your grandmother and it was lust at first sight.” He studied the burning tip of his cigar and his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “And then I touched her. That is when The Inferno struck in force. That is when the bond formed, a bond that has lasted our entire lives. Whether you are willing to believe it or not, it is a bond our family has experienced for as long as there have been Dantes.”
“Lightning bolts. Love at first sight. Instant attraction.” Sev shrugged. “All names for the same spice. How is our story any different from thousands of others? What makes it The Inferno versus the simple chemistry most lovers experience?”
Primo took his time responding. When he did, he came at his answer from a tangent. “Your grandmother belonged to another man. Did you know that?” Bittersweet memories stirred in his distinctive eyes. “She was engaged to him.”
Aw, hell. “Not good.”
“Now that is an understatement if ever I heard one,” Primo said dryly, stabbing the tip of his cigar in Sev’s direction. The ring drifted between them like the period to an exclamation point. Sev clenched his hand. Or like the ring of itchy fire centered in his palm. “You need to understand that all those years ago an engagement was as much a commitment as marriage vows, at least in our little village. So, we fled the country and came here.”
“Have you ever regretted it?” Sev asked gently.
Primo’s expression turned fierce, emphasizing the contours of his strong Roman nose and squared jawline. “Never. My only regret is the pain I caused this other man.” His mouth compressed and he lifted his beer for a long swallow. “He was mio amico. No, not just my friend. My best friend. But once The Inferno strikes . . .” He gave the sort of shrug only a true Italian could pull off. “There is nothing that can stop it. Nothing that can come between those who have known the burn. Nothing to douse the insanity but to make that woman yours and keep her by your side while The Inferno burns evermore, never to ebb or douse. She is your soul mate. Your other half. To deny it will bring you nothing but grief, as your father discovered to his great misfortune.”
Sev wanted to refute his grandfather’s words, to dismiss them as an aging man’s fantasy. But he hesitated, reluctant to say anything now that Primo had mentioned Sev’s father. And one other fact held him silent. Everything Primo said precisely matched his reactions last night, which created a serious dilemma for him. He had plans for Francesca, plans other than taking her to bed. To restore Dantes to its former glory, he had no choice but to steal her away from the Fontaines.
“When you first saw Nonna—before you touched—what was it like?”
Primo hesitated as he considered and dug bony fingers into his right hand, massaging the palm. Over the years Sev had witnessed the habitual gesture more times than he could count, long ago assuming it resulted from arthritis or some other physical complaint. Now he knew better. Worse, he’d caught himself imitating the movement over the past few hours. Even now he could barely suppress the urge.
A far away expression entered Primo’s ancient gaze. “I had been away at university and returned for mio amico’s engagement party. I cut through a meadow on my way home and there she was, gathering wildflowers.”
The mention of wildflowers made Sev think of Primo’s garden. As long as he could recall it had overflowed with local flora. “That must have been a sight.”
“You have no idea, boy.” The long-ago memory dampened his eyes and his voice grew rough with longing. “She crouched beneath an orange tree in full blossom, singing beneath her breath, her hands like litt
le, graceful hummingbirds darting among purple hyacinth and daises and brilliant, red poppies.” He moved his own gnarled hands in slow, clumsy imitation. “So young. So young and innocent I thought God would stop the beat of my heart for daring to gaze upon such beauty and virtue.”
Sev could see the image as though it moved before him. “Then what?” he demanded.
“The wind whispered to her, sending a shower of orange blossoms raining down on brown ringlets that tumbled all the way to her hips. She wore a thin cotton dress and the afternoon sun shot it full of golden rays, outlining—” Primo broke off abruptly and glared at his grandson. “Never you mind what it outlined, nipote. Suffice to say, the minute I set eyes on Nonna, it was as though we were connected. As though a ribbon of desire joined us. The closer we came, the stronger it grew. When we touched, the ribbon became stronger than a steel cable, binding us together so we could no longer distinguish my heartbeat from hers. We have beat as one ever since.”
The story affected Sev more than he cared to admit, probably because it rang with such love and adoration and simple sincerity. True or not, Primo clearly believed every word. Not that the origins of his grandparents’ romance helped with his current predicament. Okay, so he’d felt that connection, the shock and burn when they’d touched, that ribbon of lust, as he preferred to consider it. But ribbons could be cut.
“How do I get rid of it?” he demanded.
Primo drank down the last of his beer before setting the empty bottle on the table with enough power that the glass rang in protest. “You do not,” he stated unequivocally. “Why would you want to?”
“Because she’s the wrong woman for me. There are . . . complications.”
Primo released a full-bodied laugh. “More complicated than her belonging to your best friend?” He swept his hand through the air, the gesture leaving behind a smoky contrail. “It is impossible to cut the connection. The Inferno has no respect for time or place or complication. It knows. It chooses. And it has done so for as long as there have been Dantes. You either accept the gift and revel in the blessing it offers, or you walk away and suffer the consequences.”