“What are you doing here?” she asked. Was he checking on her? Typical. Her brothers couldn’t even get the address right. Dante was in the wrong driveway.
“I live here.”
“Where?”
He pointed to the townhouse next to hers.
She dropped her arm to her side. “Seriously? For how long?”
“I moved in the weekend after you.”
“You knew you were moving in next to me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “There weren’t a lot of choices. I don’t know if I want to buy or not, so I took a short-term lease. Hungry?”
“What?” She was still dealing with the fact that her brother’s business partner was her neighbor.
Dante pulled a large white bag out of the car. “I got Italian. There’s plenty. Come on.” He started toward his front door before she could decide if she was going to say yes or not.
He was her brother’s business partner. That alone was reason enough to say no. He was connected with her family, and she wanted to avoid her family. Mostly because every time she was around them, she got hurt. It was a rule she’d learned early—people who were supposed to love you usually didn’t. Staying far, far away meant keeping herself safe.
“And wine,” he called over his shoulder.
She could have ignored the bag of food and the offer of wine except for two things. Her stomach growled, reminding her she was starving. And a very delicious smell drifted to her.
“Garlic bread?” she asked, inhaling the fragrance of garlic as visions of cheesy goodness made her mouth water.
Dante paused at the front door and laughed. “Sure. Thanks for making it clear your willingness to have dinner with me is about the menu and not my sparkling personality.”
“I really shouldn’t,” she began, even as she took a step toward him.
He smiled and shook the bag again. “Come on. Just this once. You can do it.”
Just this once, she agreed silently. That would be safe.
She walked up and joined him on the porch. He handed her the bag containing dinner, then opened the front door and flipped on the light.
His place was the mirror image of hers, with a living-dining area, a small gas fireplace and the kitchen beyond. She knew there was a half-bath tucked under the stairs. The second floor had a master and a second bedroom with an attached full bath.
Dante’s furnishings were all black leather and glass. From his place in San Francisco, she would guess, setting the food on the table and shrugging out of her coat. Her brother had mentioned Dante had moved from the coastal city just a few months ago.
Dante dropped his suit jacket and tie onto the sofa. He rolled up his sleeves to his elbows as he walked into the kitchen. He was tall, she thought, taking in the short blond hair and killer blue eyes. The man was easy on the eyes. Her gaze dropped as he moved to the cupboards. Nice butt. He moved well. Athletic. He’d been a jock once and kept in shape.
“I’m going to use the guest bath,” she said, motioning to the short hallway on the right.
“Help yourself.”
She ducked inside and quickly washed her hands. Her face was pale, her eyes too large. She looked tired. No doubt because she was still healing.
By the time she returned to the dining area, Dante had opened the wine and poured. There were plates and paper napkins. Several containers of food were open on the bar area.
“Help yourself,” he told her.
“A take-out buffet. Very nice.” She took lasagna and a bit of salad, along with two slices of garlic bread. Her brain quickly added up the calories, but she dismissed the number. Staying at her dancing weight wasn’t an issue anymore. Besides, she was tired of being hungry.
They sat across from each other. She leaned back in her chair, picked up her glass of wine and smiled. “How are things in Shanghai?”
“Better. We’re building a high-rise and the permits have come through.” He paused. “I’m going to guess you don’t want the actual details.”
“You can tell me if it’s important.”
“You’ll pretend interest?”
She laughed. “Yes. Even wide-eyed amazement if it’s called for.”
“I’ll take a rain check.” He studied her. “How about your crisis? Getting any better? You aren’t as…” He hesitated.
“Shrill?” she asked.
“I would have picked a different word.”
“A smart man who understands women.” She picked up her fork. “I’m still dealing with everything that’s happening, but I’ll get through it.”
“How’s the leg?”
Evie winced. Not something she wanted to talk about.
For two years she’d been a cheerleader for the Los Angeles Stallions football team. Earlier this season, she’d been plowed down by one of the players. She’d fractured a bone, torn a few tendons and generally ended any chance she’d had at ever dancing again professionally.
In a belated attempt to take care of her, her family had converged on the hospital. When she’d been released, they’d taken advantage of her still-drugged state and brought her to Fool’s Gold. When she’d finally surfaced, she’d discovered her belongings moved, her physical therapy set up and her brothers and mother hovering. She’d gotten a job at the dance studio and moved out as soon as she was able. But in a town this small, it was impossible to escape them completely.
The bright spot in her recent, uncomfortable past was she’d discovered she loved teaching dance. She’d always been the one to help classmates conquer difficult steps and passages. She might not have the necessary brilliance to be a star, but she understood how to break down a dance and teach it to others. Funny how she’d never thought to turn that into a career. But working with her students had her thinking she might finally have found the direction she’d been looking for.
“I’m healing,” she said. “There are a few lingering aches and pains, but nothing I can’t handle.”
He took a bite of lasagna, swallowed and chewed. “Did the manager of the studio really take off and leave you with the Christmas program?”
“The Dance of the Winter King, open to all faiths,” she corrected and nodded. “She sure did. You’d think life in a place like this would be easy, but it’s not. There are expectations and complicated relationships.”
“Like?”
She drew in a breath. “Okay, Miss Monica ran the studio and she’s the one who hired me. But the owner is Dominique Guérin.” She paused.
Dante waited expectantly.
“You’ve never heard of her?” she asked.
“No. Should I have?”
“She’s a famous ballerina. Or she was. You’re not into dance or the dance world, are you?”
“Do I look like I’m into dance?”
“Fair enough.” Although he had nice bone structure, she thought. “Then let’s try this another way. Dominique is Charlie’s mother.”
Dante stared at her. “Clay’s Charlie?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But Charlie’s…” He took a big bite of lasagna and mumbled something unintelligible.
She