CS-Dante's Twins Page 2

  But the tension in his tall frame had betrayed him for all that he lounged so casually against the terrace bal-ustrade and declined to look at her, choosing instead to stare out to sea. Behind that veneer of indifference he was as conscious of her as was she of him.

  The intense awareness that had sprung to life the mo-ment their eyes met continued to writhe between them, its threat not if it would strike, but when. It left her heart pulsating unevenly and the palms of her hands clammy with foreboding.

  But if some parts of her had shrunk from the danger of him, other parts had thrilled to it. Underneath her clothing, in places no man had ever seen let alone touched, her flesh grew warm and alive. For the first time in her life she had found herself in thrall to an attraction so uncontrollable, it left her breathless.

  He was the most compelling, the most exciting man she’d ever met. That she should have leaped to such a momentous conclusion in a matter of minutes had made not a whit of difference. She simply knew, as surely as she knew her own name. He was her destiny.

  "I came across your company ad in a trade magazine and decided to apply for the job," she’d said, somehow managing to disguise her inner commotion with a calm that was as superficial as the smile shaping her mouth.

  “Why?”

  Money and the debts she’d undertaken to honor were too squalid a topic to mention when magic swirled in the air. "Because," she said lightly, "it sounded inter-esting and I was ready for a change." He favored her with a slow, engaging grin. "You must also like a challenge. From what I understand, you’ve not had much experience in the Canadian import business."

  "No," she admitted, warmed to the soul by his smile,

  "but I’m willing to learn. I do speak Mandarin fluently, and I’m intimately acquainted with the way business is done in the Orient."

  "Intimately ?" He’d purred the word with such a wealth of meaning that, fleetingly, she wondered if she’d misread his interest in her. She knew that some of her male colleagues, in particular Carl Newbury, believed it had taken more than talent for her to come by her job.

  "I was born and raised in Singapore and have traveled extensively through the Far East," she’d said rather stiffly.

  "How would you describe that?"

  He’d brushed his fingers up her arm, the way one might soothe a nervous animal. "What does it matter?

  The important thing is, you made the move to

  Vancouver and you’re here now. Why did you, by the way—leave Singapore, that is? It’s a beautiful city."

  "My mother wanted to return home after my father’s death."

  "She’s Canadian?"

  "Yes."

  "And your father?”

  "Was half English and half Sri Lankan." But the pride she’d once taken in speaking about her father had been swallowed up in disappointment. As had become her habit since his death, she veered the conversation else-where. "Is there some point to all these personal ques-tions?"

  "I like to know about the people who work for me. If l’d been present at the time of your final interview, l’d have asked you then."

  "Your partner seemed more than satisfied that I could handle the job, Mr. Rossi."

  "He was obviously right. And the name, by the way, is Dante."

  "But you’re still not entirely sure he made the right decision in hiring me?"

  His gaze had drifted over her again. "I wouldn’t go that far. The simple fact is, l’m intrigued by you, Leila Connors-Lee. Women seldom perform so well on for-eign assignments, especially not their first. They find the travel too demanding, intimidating even. Their ambitions lie closer to home as a rule."

  He’d made ambition sound like a dirty word. "Is there something wrong with a person wanting to succeed?" He’d shrugged, an elegant shifting of his shoulders beneath the exquisite Armani jacket. "The degree of wanting might be a problem?

  "Why should it be, as long as the company benefits?"

  "Theoretically, it shouldn’t," he’d said, his glance taking inventory of the blush—pink Thai silk of her dress, the Sri Lankan sapphires at her ears, "but if other factors enter the picture .... "

  For a moment, her poise had almost shattered. Was he really telling her that he paid attention to the sort of innuendo Carl Newbury apparently was not above

  spreading around, or did a more subtle text underlie his words: one which acknowledged the sexual attraction pulsing between the two of them and, at the same time, that he rebelled against it?

  "Other factors being the objections voiced by some of your executives at my appointment?" she’d said, and when he once again shrugged dismissively and turned away, went on, "We1l, Mr. Rossi——Dante—I’d like to voice a few objections of my own, most specifically to your judging me on the strength of idle gossip. I know what’s being said and I find it only a little less insulting than your willingness to accept as truth something which has absolutely no basis in fact. Frankly I expected a more enlightened attitude from a man of your presumed intelligence."

  That had cured him of his urge to study the incoming tide! "The day I come to depend on the ofiice grapevine in order to form an accurate assessment of any employee will be the day I retire from business," he said sharply, swinging back to face her. "I’m not sure who’s been talking or what’s been implied, Leila, but let’s get one thing clear from the start. I consider myself a good enough judge of character to arrive at my own conclu-sions without relying on input from other people." She’d been very firmly put in her place, no doubt about it, but before she could respond, one of the native Caribbean houseboys had appeared at the top of the steps leading into the house and banged a dinner gong. Its tones had rolled over the guests, cutting melodiously through the noise and laughter.

  Barely able to contain his resentment at being ex-cluded from his employer’s conversation with the upstart newcomer, Carl Newbury didn’t waste a second of the opportunity to intrude. Like a trained Rottweiler out to protect its master, he’d insinuated himself between her and Dante. "We should move inside, Dante. Nobody else is going to sit down to eat until you do," he’d brayed, all false amiability. " So sorry to interrupt your little chat with the boss, Leila."

  "Don’t be," she said, ignoring him and staring at Dante. "Mr. Rossi and I have finished everything we have to say to each other, haven’t we?"

  Dante had flicked a minute speck of lint from his other-wise immaculate jacket cuff and shot her a glance from beneath the sweep of his lashes. ‘ ‘Not quite, Leila," he’d said ambiguously, "but it will have to do for now." The same dinner gong which had brought that first con-versation to an end echoed through the old plantation house again, now summoning stragglers to that night’s formal banquet and reminding her that almost an hour had passed since she’d stepped out of the shower. Dante would be waiting, wondering what was keeping her. Yet how could she go down to meet him as planned, knowing that to do so would be adding fuel to the gossip already spreading like wildfire? He deserved better. On the other hand, to remain in hiding suggested a guilt neither of them had reason to feel. They were con-senting adults, free to pursue a relationship if they chose. Granted, it would have been easier, wiser even, had they not been employer and employee. But love didn’t acknowledge such trivial obstacles. Still, perhaps they should wait until they returned to Canada. Unlike Poinciana, the city of Vancouver was large enough that they could conduct their love affair away from the pry-ing eyes that followed their every move here on this tiny island.

  The sudden shrill of the telephone brought an end to her indecision. "Leila, what’s keeping you?" Dante asked when she answered.

  "I was...daydreaming," she said, for want of a better word. "I’ve done a bit of that myself in the last hour or two." Even from a distance, his voice made her ache with longing to see him again, to be possessed by him.

  "Hurry down, sweetheart. The cocktail hour’s over and the banquet about to begin."

  "I’m afraid I’ll be a few more minutes," she said, searching through a drawer for fr
esh lingerie. "Don’t wait for me."

  "I’ll keep a seat at the head table." And set the tongues to wagging more furiously?

  “No!”

  "Leila?" An edge decidedly more suited to a CEO

  sharpened his tone. "Is something wrong?"

  "No," she repeated more moderately. "But singling me out that way will raise more than a few eyebrows."

  "I can handle raised eyebrows?

  "I’m not sure I can,?’ she said. "Not quite yet."

  "Our being seen together isn’t hurting anyone, Leila. We’ve done nothing wrong."

  "I know. It’s just that I’m new here and... " And there are some in the company who ’ve made it pretty clear they think 1’m prepared to sleep my way to the top. But if she told him that, he’d insist on names and he’d act on the information. And she’d got off to a bad enough start with some of her colleagues without making matters worse.

  A moment of silence hummed along the line before Dante said, "Okay, we’ll do it your way for now. Come down as soon as you can. If I can’t sit next to you, at least let me be able to look at you."

  "Of course," she said, her fears somewhat allayed. Who was she going to listen to, after all: the man to whom she’d given herself in love and trust—or Carl Newbury and his misplaced moral indignation?

  CHAPTER TWO

  NEWBURY divided the dinner hour between shoveling food down his throat and harping on the fact that Leila had elected to sit at a table other than theirs.

  "Glad to see you’ve managed to pry her off, Dante," he leered, swabbing a chunk of bread through the re-mains of his fish soup. "The way she gravitated toward you the first chance she got, I thought we were going to have to call in the troops to rescue you. It’s no wonder the guys are up in arms about her. A woman like that can undermine the stability of the whole company."

  "To put it mildly," Dante said, deliberately misun-derstanding the last remark. Company be damned! In the space of a few days, she’d rocked the foundations of his entire life. Even now when he ought to have been oc-cupied with other things, he couldn’t keep his eyes—or his mind-off her.

  She sat four tables removed from his, with her back toward him. Each time she turned her head to speak to the people seated beside her, the hurricane candle in the middle of her table illuminated her profile, emphasizing its exotic cast and highlighting the upswept coil of her black hair. She was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.

  "...Beginner’s luck, that’s all it is. Things just fell into place for her. That she should wind up enjoying a week here in the Caribbean when there are guys in the office who’ve been plugging away for years and never made it-"

  She sat like a queen, dark-eyed, dark-haired, and so beautiful it was unnerving. Ethereal, almost. Like a dream that couldn’t possibly live up to reality. Or was it the blend of shy reserve and elegant dignity that lent such mystery to her? Or the fact that she seemed obliv-ious to her impact on those around her?

  "Nobody bent the rules for her," Dante said, contin-uing to observe her. "The top thirty employees get in-vited to Poinciana, the rest stay and run things on the home front. The standard remains the same regardless of who’s on the payroll."

  "Ah!" Newbury pounced on the remark as eagerly as he attacked the stuffed land crab entree placed before him. "It’s the way she accomplished it, swanning in and taking over a plum assignment which was my right to assign, that soured me on her. But is she grateful? Not her! She treats me to the royal brush—off with her cool smile and snotty attitude. As if I’m not good enough to polish her shoes."

  Considering Carl at times displayed all the charm of a sewer rat, her instincts were, in Dante’s view, right on target. But the guy was married to Gavin’s goddaughter, which made him family of a sort, and Dante set great store by family. So he kept his opinion to himself and hoped Carl would tire of the subject.

  He didn’t. "Her appointment’s upset more than a few people, Dante. There’s a discord present that wasn’t there before she came on the scene. Knowing that, can you honestly sit there and tell me that, if you’d been there when she applied for Hasborough’s job, you’d have agreed to hire her?"

  No, he thought. I’d have proposed to her instead be- fore some other man beat me to it. But the presumption behind Newbury’s question was too blatant to go un-checked.

  "Are you questioning the chairman of the board’s business acumen, Carl?" He phrased the question pleas-antly enough, toying idly with his wineglass the whole time, but Newbury heard the warning and took heed.

  "Not at all! Gavin’s a fine man-experienced, well respected in the import business. But he’s ... "

  "A pushover for a pretty face?’ ’ Dante laced his smile with phoney sympathy.

  Newbury took the bait without a second’s misgiving.

  "Well, aren’t we all, Dante, if a woman plays up to us?’ ’

  "No," Dante said, his smile disappearing along with any semblance of congeniality. "Especially not Gavin Black and especially not where business is concerned. We’re talking about a man who’s already forgotten more about running an import company than you or I will ever learn, and who’s a devoted husband, father and grand-father to boot. Yet unless I’ve misunderstood where all this talk is leading, you’re suggesting he allowed his professional judgment to be swayed by what could well be interpreted as sexual discrimination?

  "No!" Newbury practically choked in his haste to extricate himself from the hot seat. "I’m not saying that at all. Anything but!"

  "That’s good," Dante said. "Because if you were, Carl, I’d have to question very seriously if you really belong in a vice president’s position."

  "I worked hard to get where I am, Dante, you know that."

  "And I applaud your dedication. However, I value loyalty more."

  "So do I. The company always comes first." Newbury began to sweat.

  It wasn’t a pretty sight and reason enough for Dante to cast his gaze elsewhere. It zeroed in on Leila with the accuracy of a missile seeking its target.

  Something the man on her left said had amused her. Dante watched, fascinated by the flash of her smile, the graceful arch of her throat as she tilted her head back in laughter. Everything about her was small, elegant, re-fined. Beside her he felt clumsy, unfinished. Too big, too earthy, too ordinary.

  And he wanted her in a way that both startled and elated him.

  As if she’d read his mind, she swiveled suddenly in her seat and stared at him expectantly. He realized then that she was not alone, that conversation throughout the room had died to allow one of the senior partners to give the annual morale-boosting spiel. This year, it was his turn.

  Wrenching his mind back to business, he stood up and acknowledged the applause. "Thanks," he said, "and a belated welcome to Poinciana. We’ve already wrapped up two days of seminars and before the week is over I’m confident we’ll have resolved some of the problems we’ve faced over the last year. But we don’t fly our brightest and best to the Caribbean to spend all their time indoors."

  Her eyes, dark gray and almond—shaped, fixed on him earnestly. Returning her gaze, he lost the thread of what he’d been saying, recalling instead the image of her lying beneath him that afternoon. His body responded accord-ingly. In danger of finding himself seriously embarrassed in public, he looked away and scanned the room at large.

  "Classic Collections," he said, falling back on lines he’d repeated so often he could recite them in his sleep,

  "bought Poinciana five years ago but although it’s the company name on the land title, the island really belongs to all of you. Your effort, your support, made its pur-chase possible. There are no bosses here and no em-ployees, just people with a common interest and a com-mon goal--to meet the challenges ahead with energy and a united effort to keep Classic Collections at the top where it belongs."

  He indicated Gavin, his one-time mentor and for the last five years, his partner. "We hope," he said, and despite himself, found the was focusing on her again, sp
eaking directly to her, "that you’ll take advantage of the beaches, the trails, the weather and the excellent food, to recharge your batteries. Except for when you’re in seminar, you’re on island time. Make the most of it and enjoy."

  Right on cue the steel band on the terrace started its nightly gig, the rhythm pulsing through the applause in the dining room.

  "Wonderful," Newbury murmured obsequiously in his ear. "You always say exactly the right thing, Dante."

  "I try," he replied, stifling the inclination to tell the man to can it. Instead, he turned to Gavin’s wife who sat on his other side. "Shall we start things rolling, Rita?"

  "Might as well," she said, smiling up at him. "There are a lot of ladies who’ve waited all year to dance with you, Dante, and I wouldn’t like to get trampled in the rush."

  Across the table, her husband laughed and held out his hand to Maureen Vickers, the fifty-six-year-old head of personnel who, like every other employee present, had gone the distance and then some in her devotion to the company over the last twelve months. "Let’s give them a run for their money, Maureen."

  The small dance floor filled quickly, forcing couples to spill out to the terrace. Above the coconut palms fringing the beach, the moon rose bright and full. The sea rolled ashore, seeming to be drawn as much by the hypnotic rhythm of the steel band as the pull of the tide. A summer paradise beside which February in

  Vancouver sank into cold damp oblivion, it was

  Poinciana as he’d never seen it before, its beauty made all the more memorable because of Leila Connors-Lee. Automatically, his gaze swung over the crowd, seeking out her ivory-clad body swaying in the arms of a junior accountant whom Dante decided he’d never much liked. There was something about the man’s soft white hands and the way they moved up and down that straight el-egant spine....

  "You’re very quiet, Dante," Rita Black said. "Some-thing on your mind‘?"

  "No," he lied, spinning her around with more energy than style so that he could keep an eye on the accountant with the roving hands. "Suffering from jet lag, that’s all. I got back from Italy only a couple of days before flying down here and seem to be caught in some sort of mid-Atlantic time warp."