After a glance at Leo to gauge the appropriateness, Dannie followed Susan into the kitchen and proceeded to watch while Leo’s mother bustled around gathering glasses and chattering as if they were old friends. Obviously Susan felt comfortable in her son’s house. Unlike her son’s wife. Dannie wouldn’t have known which cabinet contained glasses.
“I apologize for missing the ceremony, Daniella.” Susan handed her a glass of tea and touched her shoulder. “It was a stupid, useless protest. But I’m mad at Leo, not you.”
“Oh.” She had to find a new response. That one was wearing thin. But it had been so appropriate. All day.
“He’s just so...Leo. You know?” Susan sighed dramatically and Dannie nodded, though she didn’t know. But she’d like to. “Too focused. Too intense. Too everything but what matters.”
No way was she letting that pass. “What matters?”
“Life. Love. Grandchildren.” With narrow eyes, Susan peered at Dannie. “Did he tell you that he draws?”
The tea she’d just sipped almost went down the wrong pipe. “Draws what?”
Susan snorted. “That’s what I thought. Leo would rather die than let anyone know he does something frivolous. He can draw anything. Animals. Landscapes. Bridges and buildings. He’s very talented. Like his namesake.”
“Leo was named after someone who draws?” She envisioned a stooped grandfather doodling cartoon characters on the back of a grocery list.
“Leonardo da Vinci.”
Dannie nearly dropped her tea. Leo’s full name was Leonardo? Not Leonard? She’d noticed the little extra squiggle at the end of his name on the marriage license but had been so fixated on signing her own name she hadn’t thought anything of it.
It shouldn’t matter. But it did.
She’d married a man with a romantic name who created art from nothing more than pen and paper. She wanted to see something he’d drawn. Better yet, she wanted him to voluntarily show it to her. To share a deep-seated piece of himself. To connect with his wife.
Leo’s mother had torn open a tiny corner of her son’s personality and it whipped up a fervor to tear away more. They’d been matched and Dannie hungered to learn what they might share beyond a love of books, family and commitment.
“Daniella.” Susan crooked her finger and Dannie leaned in. “I get that your marriage to my son is some kind of arrangement and presumably, that’s all right with you. I won’t pry. But Leo needs someone to love him, someone he can love in return, and neither will come easy. If it’s not going to be you, please step aside.”
Her pulse hammered in her throat. This marriage was nothing more than a means to an end. An arrangement between two people based on compatibility, not love—exactly what she’d signed up for. But nothing close to what she wanted, what she dreamed could be possible.
Leo had asked for a wife to run his household, organize his parties and charm his business associates. Most important, his wife should give him what he needed, which wasn’t necessarily the same as what he professed to need.
The woman behind the man had to be smart about how best to do her job.
Her inner Scarlett snickered and said new plan.
“What if it is going to be me?”
Leo had such a generous heart, but he cut himself off from people. He needed Dannie’s help to understand why. If she could figure him out, it could lead to so much more than an arrangement. It could lead to the enduring love story she’d dreamed of.
Susan’s smile could have powered every light in Paris. “Then I say welcome to the family.”
* * *
Leo shut the door behind his parents and paused a moment before turning. For fortification. It did nothing to ease the screaming awareness of his vibrant wife. Sure enough, when he spun, there she was. Watching him with those keen eyes, chest rising and falling slightly, straining against her soft gray shirt.
He was noticing the way she breathed.
Clearly, he needed to go bury himself in a spreadsheet for a couple of hours.
His parents had liked Daniella, fortunately, because their lively discussion covered the fact that Leo hadn’t contributed much. He’d been too busy pretending not to be preoccupied by his wife. But she’d been so amazing. A good conversationalist. A good hostess. Warm, friendly. Sexy.
It was just the two of them now. Talking was unavoidable.
“Thank you for entertaining my parents.”
She shot him a perplexed look. “You’re welcome. That’s what I’m here for. Right?”
Since she was gazing at him expectantly, he answered her, though the question should have been rhetorical. “Yes, and I appreciate it.”
“I enjoyed meeting your parents. Your mother is very interesting.”
That sounded like a lead-up if he’d ever heard one. “What did she say to you in the kitchen?”
“Nothing of consequence.” The smile on his wife’s face was gracious and innocent. Too much so.
“Don’t listen to anything my mother says, Daniella. She suffers from a terrible affliction with no cure—overt romanticism.”
“Dannie.”
“What?”
She’d inched forward until they were breathing the same air. And her chest nearly touched his with each small inhalation. “Daniella is too formal and stuck-up, don’t you think? Call me Dannie.”
He shook his head. The more formality the better for his peace of mind. “There’s nothing wrong with the name Daniella. It’s unusual. Beautiful. It suits you.”
Her eyes lit up and suddenly, she was the only one breathing because all the organs in his chest stopped functioning. Nothing to the south suffered from the same problem. Everything there hummed on high alert.
“You think I’m beautiful?”
Had he said that? His brain was not refreshing fast enough. “Your name. I said your name is beautiful.” Her expression fell and he cursed. If only he could converse with his wife exclusively by email, then maybe he could avoid hurting her feelings. “Of course you are, too. Very lovely.”
Nice save, he thought sarcastically. Lovely. That described a winter snowscape. From the perspective of an eighty-year-old woman. This was the point where he usually escaped to go do something where he possessed proficiency—work.
Without looking at her again, he muttered, “Good night.”
“Leo.” A firm hand on his arm stopped him before he’d taken two steps past her. “I asked you to call me Dannie because that’s what my friends call me. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
The warmth in her voice washed over him, settling inside with a slow burn. He didn’t turn, didn’t dare face her.
Something fundamental had changed in her demeanor—the leash she’d kept on her energy had snapped and yeah, he needed to look out. It leached into the air, electrifying it. She certainly wasn’t afraid to speak to him any longer. “I... Yes. Of course.”
She brushed against his arm as she rounded it, apparently not content to talk to his back. Her shirt gaped slightly, revealing a tantalizing peek at her cleavage. The slow burn blazed faster. They were talking about being friends, not lovers. What was wrong with him?
Dannie. No, too intimate. Daniella was too intriguing. What was he supposed to call her, hey, you?
He couldn’t compartmentalize his wife. That was bad.
“Friends,”