CS-Dante's Twins Page 3

  "You work too hard, dear." Rita patted his arm sym-pathetically. "I sometimes wonder how you manage to stay abreast of things in the office, given the amount of time you spend on the road."

  "It’s as much a part of the job as making a point of dancing at least once with every woman in the room tonight." He steered her back to their table. "You’ll forgive me, Rita, if I hand you over to Gavin now?"

  "Of course." She smiled and waved him away. "Do your duty by the rest of the ladies waiting to take a spin around the floor with you, then sneak away. You deserve a little quiet time away from the spotlight once in a while." And he intended to take it—although not alone. Conscientiously, he danced with Meg, his super-efficient P.A., with the head warehouseman’s pregnant wife, with a junior payroll clerk who was so nervous at finding herself boogying with the top brass that he thought she might wet herself. .

  Finally, as the moon slid down toward the horizon, he’d danced with every woman in the room except the one he most wanted to hold in his arms. Straightening his bow tie, he scanned the room, hunting her out. Just as she’d known from the moment the music had begun that eventually he’d ask her to dance, so she knew to the moment when he decided the time had come. A sharp stab of expectation struck, puckering the skin of her bare shoulders mere seconds before he came up be-hind her, rested his hand lightly at her back and mur-mured with amused formality, "Would you care to dance, Ms. Connors-Lee?"

  She inclined her head. "I’d be delighted, Mr. Rossi." He led the way, threading between the tables to a spot where the polished wooden floor gave way to the tiled surface of the terrace beyond. She followed, aware as she had been all evening, of Carl Newbury’s unremitting observation. How happy he must be that, at last, he had something worth watching!

  Turning a deaf ear to the voice of caution that warned there’d be a price for the self-indulgence, she slipped into Dante’s arms and let him draw her closer than was strictly proper.

  "It’s about time I had you back where you belong," he murmured.

  But before they’d taken more than a step or two, the music stopped. Other dancers drifted apart, wandered back to their tables or chatted quietly with each other, and she knew she and Dante ought to do the same. Vice president Newbury wasn’t alone in his scrutiny; they were all watching, those people who were his cronies and who thought she had no business being there, and she was fueling their resentment by remaining within the circle of Dante’s arm, her gaze locked with his.

  "I think we’ve left it too late," she said, reluctantly dropping her hand from his shoulder. "The band’s packed it in for the night."

  Refusing to let her go, he shook his head. "No. They’ll play ’til dawn if we ask them to."

  Then please let them start soon, she prayed, unable to slow her racing heart. Please distract me from losing myself in his eyes, from leaning into his strength and finding heaven in his arms here, in full view of such a judgmental audience.

  The gods heard and responded kindly. The first bars of "Begin the Beguine" filled the night. Couples came together and picked up the rhythm. But Dante remained still, the message in his glance luring her ever deeper under his spell.

  "Have you changed your mind about dancing?" she practically stammered, desperation threading her voice. Didn’t he see the attention they were attracting?

  Couldn’t he feel the curiosity, the undercurrents of hos-tility?

  "Not in the least, Leila," he said. She gave a little shrug to reassure herself that she still retained some measure of control over her body. "Then what are we waiting for?"

  "Not a thing," he assured her, moving smoothly out of range of the watchers and into the tropical night. He drew her closer, steering her with a nudge of his thigh, directing her with the subtle pressure of his hand in the small of her back and, as the deep shadows at the edge of the terrace swallowed them up, inching his arm so far around her that she could feel the tips of his fingers brushing the side swell of her breast. "In fact," he mur-mured against her hair, "I think I’ve displayed amazing patience in waiting this long."

  She didn’t need to ask what he meant. She knew, and once again she marveled at the sense of rightness, of certainty, that swept over her, silencing her reservations. This was what her mother had been talking about the time she’d described meeting Leila’s father.

  "I knew the moment I set eyes on him," she’d said.

  "There was never the least doubt in my mind that he would be the love of my life. People were shocked, of course. I was the private governess to one of Singapore’s most prominent families, expected to be respectable and, at forty-two, supposedly past the age to behave so reck-lessly. Falling in love with a man eight years younger, and of mixed racial origin, as well, created quite a scan—

  dal in those days, I can tell you, but that was a minor sin compared to my becoming pregnant within two

  months of meeting him."

  "How dreadful that must have been for you," the seventeen—year—old she’d been at the time had said.

  "Were you terribly unhappy and embarrassed?" Her mother had laughed. "You’ve yet to give your heart or you wouldn’t ask me that! When a woman loves a man as I loved your father, Leila, nothing they share makes her ashamed or afraid. Finding him was the best thing that ever happened to me. Having his baby was a miracle, a gift beyond price. If there is one wish I have for you, my darling daughter, it is that the right man will someday come along and fill your life with the same kind of happiness that I found with your father."

  "Even if I should be that lucky, how can I be sure I’ll recognize him?" Leila had asked doubtfully. "How will I know he’s the one?"

  Her mother had touched a hand to her breast. "You will know here," she’d said. "And you will be as sure he is the one as you are that the sun will rise in the morning. He will be the sun in your morning, the moon in your night."

  Yes, Leila thought now, recognition binding her ever more securely to Dante with an inevitability that defied time or place or reason. That’s it exactly! Now I under-stand. The question was, did he? A sliver of uncertainty laid a chill over her bare shoulders.

  Oh, he had made love to her with tenderness and pas-sion, and he seemed not to care what others might make of their association. But when she had told him she loved him, he had not returned the sentiment. Was she naïve to think that mattered? Didn’t actions speak louder than words?

  She looked up at him, seeking assurance that she wasn’t in the grip of some self—indulgent fantasy. In the flame of the kerosene torches dotted among the palm trees, she saw the same awareness in his eyes, and heard it when he spoke.

  "Perhaps I should have asked this before, Leila," he said, the words drifting over her face like a caress, "but there isn’t anyone waiting for you back home in

  Vancouver, is there?"

  "No," she told him, glad that she’d brought things to such a definitive end with Anthony Fletcher just before he left for Croatia well over two months ago. The one letter she’d received, a few weeks after his arrival in Europe, suggested he bore no scars from her rejection.

  "No special man in your life?"

  She shook her head. "No."

  "There is now," he said, and this time the words touched her mouth a millisecond before his lips closed over hers to seal the promise.

  Misgivings forgotten, she drowned in his kiss, reveled in the urgent straining of his body against hers. In the darkness of the balmy night, time stopped briefly and that other world, of ordinary people leading ordinary lives, faded into nothingness.

  But not for long. Soon the steel band, the voices too close to go ignored, the hushed sigh of the surf rolling ashore, flowed over her, reminding her that, however much she wished it, she and Dante were not alone on this exquisite island. She remembered the suspicion of her associates which had dogged her from her first day at Classic Collections; worse still, she recalled the con-versation she’d overheard only a few hours ago.

  "Is this wise, Dante‘?" she whispered, p
ulling back and dispelling the enchantment with a stab at sound common sense.

  "No," he said hoarsely, "but what the hell has wis-dom to do with anything?" It had to do with returning to the office when this magical week was over; with being able to stand proud and unashamed when he was away, conducting business on the other side of the world as he so frequently did, and she was left alone to face her critics.

  She had come to Poinciana not just to learn more about the company but to show herself as a dedicated career woman, one deserving of the responsibilities in-herent in her new job. Falling for the boss did not exactly strengthen her credibility in the eyes of those she was most anxious to impress.

  Yet here she was regardless, helplessly in love with a man she hadn’t known a week ago, and try though she might to negate the fact, it remained as fundamentally right as rain being wet or blood being red.

  She could tell herself it was illogical, it was untenable, it was inexplicable. But the fact remained, it simply was. And to try to explain it was as pointless as telling a curious child the sky was up. There was no reasonable explanation.

  Still, if she could not vindicate herself in the eyes of his employees, she could the extent to which

  his reputation might be held up to scorn. Summoning up what little willpower she still retained, she said, "Any—

  one could see us here and if they do, they’re bound to gossip."

  "Let them," he said, trailing his hand down her throat, across her shoulder, down the length of her arm.

  "Let them," he said again, catching her lingers in his and drawing her down the steps at the end of the terrace, away from that other world.

  Below, a path connecting the house proper to the beach found daytime shade under the scarlet Poinciana trees for which the island was named. At night, their black umbrella shape cloaked the area in secrecy.

  "Dante, wait," she whispered, slowing in their shadow. Her high heels were sinking in the sand, im-peding her escape. Disappearing with him was ill-advised enough, without being caught in the act. "My shoes weren’t designed for sprinting."

  He stopped and knelt at her feet. Like a perfect gen-tleman he removed her sandals and set them aside. Like a perfect lover he lifted each of her feet in turn and kissed the instep. And then, without warning, he raised the hem of her dress and, cupping one of her calves in his other hand, he kissed her knees.

  The erotic audacity of such a move started the tremors again, shooting them from the soles of her feet to end in shocking dampness between her thighs. She let out a soft whimper, half pleasure, half fear.

  Murmuring reassurance, he pressed his face against her, and as naturally as she drew breath, she buried her fingers in his hair and held him to her, there where the quivering ache tormented her.

  For long seconds he remained quite still and she sus-pected that he used the time to recoup control of himself because, when he finally rose to his feet again, though far from even, his breathing was less labored.

  "What am I doing, sneaking into dark corners with you as if our being together is something shameful to be hidden away from the rest of the world?" he said hus-kily, standing a little apart from her as if he didn’t en-tirely trust himself. They were words she needed to hear. They gave her the courage to challenge the shoddy hypocrisy of men like Carl Newbury. "I am ashamed of nothing," she told Dante. ‘ ‘How could I be, when nothing in my life before this has ever felt so completely right‘?"

  He groaned and pulled her back into his arms. "I’m not the type to rush blindly into a relationship," he said thickly.

  "Nor am I," she said, but he made the mistake of brushing her mouth with his again, and the spark flared up anew, exposing their claims for the lies they were. How could she worry about the rest of the world, she wondered dazedly, when there was only the here and now. Only Dante Rossi and Leila Connors-Lee.

  But then a shaft of light streamed from one of the upstairs rooms to pierce the shadows and she cringed. Instinctively, Dante swung around, protecting her from view. He loomed over her, a tall and dark presence ex-cept for his white dinner jacket which glowed like a beacon, advertising his presence to the people on the terrace.

  Peeping over his shoulder, Leila saw that some guests had chosen to sit at the tables on the terrace the better to enjoy the balmy, flower-scented night. But their at-tention quickly focused on the figures suddenly floodlit beneath the trees, and the buzz of conversation dwindled into silence.

  "What is it‘?" Dante said, at her little murmur of dis-tress.

  "They’ve seen us and I’m afraid they’ve recognized you."

  His smile flashed briefly in the dark. "I certainly hope so!"

  "But they’ll talk and—"

  "Yes, they will," he said, his tone serious "Does that bother you?"

  She shrugged. "Yes. You...you don’t need their dis-approval."

  "I’m the boss,’ ’ he said. "I don’t need their approval. I can do whatever I please, and it pleases me to be with you."

  We’re going to have to save him from himself. Carl Newbury’s threat continued to stalk her, for all that she thought she’d shaken it off.

  "Dante, some of the men with whom you work the closest won’t like that," She couched the warning as obliquely as she knew how.

  She succeeded too well. "I don’t blame them," he replied, misunderstanding. "I wouldn’t like it if one of them had laid prior claim to you."

  "That’s not what I mean," she said, scrabbling her bare toes in the sand to find her shoes. "They’ll think-”

  He cut her short. "Leila, I don’t care what they think!

  All that concerns me is how you feel. Will it spoil your time here if I make no secret of the fact that I’m com-pletely..." He drew a ragged breath and she froze, sus-pended on a fine edge of anticipation as he searched for the right word. "...Bewitched by you?"

  How foolish she was to feel just a little let down. Did she really expect him to throw caution aside and profess he was in love with her?

  Yes! Because she was in love with him, and whether that made sense or not didn’t signify. She held no more sway over her heart than she did over the number of stars in the sky.

  "Well, Leila?" he said, and she realized he was wait-ing for her answer. "Will it bother you?"

  "I’ve never been a very public sort of person," she said, glad he couldn’t see the disappointment in her eyes. Just because she was willing to accept love so quickly didn’t mean that he was, and what, after all, was the rush? "I’d prefer it if, for now at least, we kept our ...association private.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and regarded her doubtfully as she bent and slipped on her sandals. "I’m not sure I’m a good enough actor to pull that off, but I’ll try.”

  When the last strap was securely in place, he offered her his arm. Sedately walking her back up the steps and across the terrace to the dance floor, he waited until they were well within earshot of others before he said, ‘ ‘Shall we finish our dance, Miss Connors-Lee?"

  Several people were there already, swaying to the rhythm as a native Caribbean in a snug—fitting white satin suit gave an impressive imitation of Belafonte singing

  "Scarlet Ribbons." She thought it would be easy to maintain the proper image and blend inconspicuously with the other couples. But the minute Dante took her in his arms, discretion melted in the tropical night. Imperceptibly he drew closer until he was holding her far closer than social convention allowed. And it seemed to her that everyone else noticed.

  Sensing her discomfiture, he said, "Relax, sweetheart. We’re only dancing. There’s no sin in that."

  "The way they’re all staring, you might as well be making love to me," she said miserably, the blood surg-ing in her cheeks. He stroked his forefinger along her jaw, the smile tug-ging at his mouth belying the smoky passion in his eyes.

  "In a way I am. Or do you think I dance this way with every woman in the company?"

  "I hope not," she sighed, temporarily dazzled into ignoring th
e ammunition they were giving Carl Newbury and his cohorts.

  Common sense reasserted itself, however, as the eve-ning drew to a close and Dante insisted on walking her to her room. The house, a restored sugar plantation man-sion built at the end of the eighteenth century, was a magnificent example of neo—classical architecture, with tall pillars on the front of the building soaring to the tiled roof and separating the verandas lining the execu-tive suites of the upper story. Inside, a wide staircase swept up from the great hall to a long gallery which branched off at each end to encompass two side wings. Leila’s room was situated toward the back of one of these, overlooking the lush rear gardens with their foun-tains and courtyards. "A good thing we’re not next-door neighbors," Dante observed wryly, stepping aside as she opened her door. "The temptation to haul you over the veranda and into my bed would be too hard to resist." Checking first to make sure the hall was deserted, he dropped a swift kiss on her mouth. “Have breakfast with me in the morning?"

  Although she hated to spoil the moment, conscience forced her to reiterate something he seemed willfully de-termined to ignore. "Dante, you’re asking for trouble. You haven’t been around the office lately. You don’t realize how—"

  He kissed her again, lingering this time so that her words died on a sigh. "Make that an order, Ms. Connors-Lee," he murmured. "Have breakfast with me in the morning."

  "Maybe." She closed her eyes, aching for him and knowing it would be professional suicide to give in to the yearning.

  Perhaps he knew it, too, because the next moment he was striding away to the main gallery which housed the oceanfront executive suites, and she was able to slip into her room unnoticed.

  At first he thought he’d be lying awake all night, his mind too filled with the tactile memory of her to allow him to rest. But three days of intensive seminars coupled with the previous month’s overseas itinerary claimed him somewhere around one in the morning and dropped him into a black hole of sleep.