“You’re angry,” she said, her voice affecting that little-girl whisper.
“I’m not angry.”
“You are. But it’s your own fault. Six weeks, Dante. Six weeks! It’s time we took the next step.”
“Toward what?” he said, his tone expressionless.
“You know what I mean. A woman expects—”
“You knew what not to expect, Charlotte.” His mouth thinned; his voice turned cold. “And yet, here you are, making plans without consulting me. Talking as if our arrangement is something it is not.” He danced her across the floor and into a corner. “You’re right about one thing. It’s time we, as you put it, took the next step.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” When he didn’t answer, two bright spots of color rose in her cheeks. “You bastard!”
“An accurate perception, but it changes nothing. You’re a beautiful woman. A charming woman. And a bright one. You knew from the beginning how this would end.”
His tone had softened. After all, he had only himself to blame. He should have read the signs, should have realized Charlotte had been making assumptions about the future despite his initial care in making sure she understood they had none. Women seemed to make the same mistake all the time.
Most women, he thought, and a muscle jumped in his cheek.
“I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together,” he said, forcing his attention back where it belonged.
Charlotte jerked free of his hand. “Don’t patronize me!”
“No,” he replied, his voice cooling, “certainly not. If you prefer to make a scene, rest assured that I can accommodate you.”
Her eyes narrowed. He knew she was weighing her options. An embarrassing public display or a polite goodbye that would make it easy for her to concoct a story to soothe her pride.
“Your choice, bella,” he said, more softly. “Do we part friends or enemies?”
She hesitated. Then a smile curved her lips. “You can’t blame me for trying.” Still smiling, she smoothed her palms over the lapels of his dinner jacket. It was a proprietorial gesture and he let her do it; he knew it was for those who might be taking in the entire performance. “But you’re cruel, DanteDarling. Otherwise, you wouldn’t humiliate me in front of my friends.”
“Is that what concerns you?” Dante shrugged. “It’s not a problem. We’ll go back to our table and finish the evening pleasantly. All right?”
“Yes. That’s fine. But Dante?” The tip of her tongue flickered across her lips. “Hear me out, would you?”
“What now?” he said, trying to mask his impatience.
“I know you don’t believe in love and forever after, darling. Well, neither do I.” She paused. “Still, we could have an interesting life together.”
He stared at her in surprise. Was she suggesting marriage? He almost laughed. Still, he supposed he understood. He didn’t know Charlotte’s exact age but she had to be in her late twenties, old enough to want to find a husband who could support her fondness for expensive living.
As for him, men his age had families. Children to carry forward their names. He had to admit he thought about that from time to time, especially since he’d plucked the name “Russo” from a newspaper article.
Having a child to bear the name was surely a way to legitimatize it.
Charlotte could be the perfect wife. She would demand nothing but his superficial attention and tolerate his occasional affair; she would never interfere in his life. Never fill his head to the exclusion of everything else.
And, just that suddenly, Dante knew what was wrong with him tonight.
A woman had once filled his head to the exclusion of everything else. And, damn her, she was still doing it.
The realization shot through him. He felt his muscles tighten, as if all the adrenaline his body could produce was overwhelming his system.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Charlotte said, “don’t look at me that way! I was only joking.”
He knew she hadn’t been joking but he decided to go along with it because it gave him something to concentrate on as he walked her back to their table.
Eva greeted them with a coy smile. “Well,” she said, “what have you decided? Will we see you in Aspen?”
For a second, he didn’t know what she was talking about. His thoughts were sucking him into a place of dark, cold shadows and unwanted memories.
Memories of a woman he thought he’d forgotten.
Then he remembered the gist of the conversation and his promise to Charlotte.
“Sorry,” he said politely, “but I’m afraid we can’t make it.”
Charlotte shot him a grateful look as she took her seat. He squeezed her shoulder.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Going for a cigar?” Dennis said. “Russo? Wait. I’ll join you.”
But Dante was already making his way through the ballroom, deliberately losing himself in the crowd as he headed for one of the doors. He pushed it open, found himself in a narrow service hallway. A surprised waitress bumped into him, murmured an apology and tried to tell him he’d taken a wrong turn.
He almost told her she was right, except he’d taken that wrong turn three years ago.
He went through another door, then down a short corridor and ended up outside on a docking bay. Once he was sure he was alone, Dante threw back his head and dragged the cold night air deep into his lungs.
Dio, he had to be crazy.
All this time, and she was still there. Taylor Sommers, whom he had not seen in three years, was inside him tonight, probably had been for a very long time. How come he hadn’t known it?
You didn’t want to know it, a sly voice in his head told him.
A muscle knotted in his jaw.
No, he thought coldly, no. What was inside him was rage. It was one thing not to let your emotions rule you and another to suppress them, which was what he had done since she’d left him.
He’d kept his anger inside, as if doing so would rid him of it. Now, without warning, it had surfaced along with all the memories he’d carefully buried.
Not of Taylor. Not of what it had been like to be with her. Her whispers in bed.
Yes. Dante, yes. When you do that, when you do that…
He groaned at the memory. The need to be inside her had been like a drug. It had brought him close to believing in the ancient superstitions of his people that said a man could be possessed.
He was long past that, had been past it by the time she left him.
It was the rest, what had happened at the end, that was still with him. Knowing that she believed she’d left him, when it wasn’t true.
He had left her.
He’d never had the chance to say, “You made the first move, cara, but that’s all it was. You ran away before I had a chance to end our affair.”
She didn’t know that and it drove him crazy. Pathetic, maybe, that it should matter…but it did. Obviously it did, or he wouldn’t be standing out here in the cold, glaring at a stack of empty produce cartons and finally admitting that he’d been walking around in a state of smoldering fury since a night like this, precisely like this, late November, cold, snow already in the forecast, when Taylor had left a message on his answering machine.