But Taylor didn’t answer the door when he rang—which reminded him that she’d never given him a key. He hadn’t given her one to his place, either, but that was different. He never gave his mistresses keys, but they were always eager to give theirs to him.
And it occurred to him again, as it often did, that Taylor wasn’t really his mistress. She insisted on paying her own rent, even though most women gladly let him do it.
“I’m not most women,” she’d said when he’d tried to insist, and he’d told himself that was good, that he admired her independence.
That night, however, he saw it for what it was. Just another way to heighten his interest, he’d thought coldly, as he rang the bell again.
Still no answer.
His thoughts turned even colder. Was she out with another man?
No. She was sick. He believed that; she’d sounded terrible on the phone when she’d called him earlier, her voice hoarse and raw.
Dante’s heart had skittered. Was she lying unconscious behind the locked door? He took the stairs to the super’s basement apartment at a gallop when the damned elevator refused to come, awakened the man and bought his cooperation with a fistful of bills.
Together, they’d gone up to Taylor’s apartment. Unlocked the door…
And found the place empty.
His mistress was gone.
Her things were gone, too. All that remained was a trace of her scent in the air and a note, a note, goddamn her, on the coffee table.
“Thank you for everything,” she had written, “it’s been fun.” Only that, as if their affair had been a game.
And Dante had swallowed the insult. What else could he have done? Hired a detective to find her? That would only have made his humiliation worse.
Three years. Three years, and now, without warning, it had all caught up to him. The embarrassment. The anger…
“Dante?”
He turned around. Charlotte had somehow managed to find him. She stood on the loading dock, wrapped in a velvet cloak he’d bought her, her face pink with anger.
“Here you are,” she said sharply.
“Charlotte. My apologies. I, ah, I came out for a breath of air—”
“You said you wouldn’t embarrass me.”
“Yes. I know. And I won’t. I told you, I only stepped outside—”
“You’ve been gone almost an hour! How dare you make me look foolish to my friends?” Her voice rose. “Who do you think you are?”
Dante’s eyes narrowed. He moved toward her, and something dangerous must have shown in his face because she took a quick step back.
“I know exactly who I am,” he said softly. “I am Dante Russo, and whoever deals with me should never forget it.”
“Dante. I only meant—”
He took her arm, quick-marched her down a set of concrete steps and away from the dock. An alley led to the street where he hailed a cab, handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill and told him Charlotte’s address. He’d left his topcoat inside the hotel but he didn’t give a damn. Coats were easy to replace. Pride wasn’t.
“Dante,” she stammered, “really, I’m sorry—”
So was he, but not for what had just happened. He was sorry he had lived a lie for the past three years.
Taylor Sommers had made a fool of him. Nobody, nobody got away with that.
He took his cell phone from his pocket and called his driver. When his Mercedes pulled to the curb, Dante got in the back and pressed another number on the phone. It was late, but his personal attorney answered on the first ring.
He didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “I need a private investigator,” he said. “No, not first thing Monday. Tomorrow. Have him call me at home.”
Three years had gone by. So what? Someone had once said that revenge was a dish best served cold.
A tight smile curved Dante’s hard mouth.
He couldn’t have agreed more.
IT WAS A LONG WEEKEND.
Charlotte left endless messages on his voice mail. They ranged from weepy to demanding, and he erased them all.
Saturday morning, he heard from the detective his attorney had contacted. The man asked for everything Dante knew about Taylor.
“Her name,” he said, “is Taylor Sommers. She lived in the Stanhope, on Gramercy Park. She’s an interior decorator.”
There was a silence.
“And?” the man said.
“And what? Isn’t that enough?”
“Well, I could use the names of her parents. Her friends. Date of birth. Where she grew up. What schools she attended.”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” Dante said coldly.
He hung up the phone, then walked through his bedroom and onto the wraparound terrace that surrounded his Central Park West penthouse. It was cold; the wind had a way of whipping around the building at this height. And it had snowed overnight, not heavily, just enough to turn the park a pristine white.
Dante frowned.
The detective had seemed surprised he knew so little about Taylor, but why would he have known more? She pleased his eye; she was passionate and intelligent.
What more would a man want from a woman?
There had been moments, though. Like the time he’d brought her here for a late supper. It had snowed that night, too. He’d excused himself, gone to make a brief but necessary phone call. When he came back, he’d found the terrace door open and Taylor standing out here, just as he was now.
She’d been wearing a silk dress, a little slip of a thing. He’d taken off his jacket, stepped outside and put it around her shoulders.
“What are you doing, cara? It’s much too cold for you out here.”
“I know,” she’d answered, snuggling into his jacket and into the curve of his arm, “but it’s so beautiful, Dante.” She’d turned her face up to his and smiled. “I love nights like this, don’t you?”
Cold nights reminded him of the frigid winters in Palermo, the way he’d padded his shoes with newspaper in a useless attempt to keep warm.
For some reason he still couldn’t comprehend, he’d almost told her that.
Of course, he had not done anything so foolish. Instead, he’d kissed her.
“If you can get over your penchant for cold and snow,” he’d said, with a little smile, “we can fly to the Caribbean some weekend and you can help me house-hunt. I’ve been thinking about buying a place in the islands.”
Her smile had been soft. “I’d like that,” she’d said. “I’d like it very, very much.”
Instantly, he’d realized what a mistake he’d made. He’d asked her to take a step into his life and he’d never meant to do that.
He’d never mentioned the Caribbean again. Not that it mattered, because two weeks later, she’d walked out on him.
Walked out, he thought now, his jaw tightening. Left him to come up with excuses explaining her absence at all those endless Christmas charitable events he was expected to attend.
But he’d solved that problem simply enough.
He’d found replacements for her. He’d gone