“Celina. I am Italian,
sì?
And this is the twenty-first century. No need for coy here. If he is handing the phone to you at this hour, I string the story together,
piccolina
. I just checking he’s behaving right. Sure, he sends
me
the flowers all the time. How do I know what
that
means for anyone else? Dante, he tells me nothing! You are the first person I speak to in his life except Mark Moore. A mama needs to know these things. I did not raise that boy to be
un cazzo
.”
“
Cazzo
?” she repeated, fighting her immediate affection for the woman. “Well, whatever that is, I don’t think—”
“Mother!” He lunged and grabbed the phone. “
Mamma
, you can’t go throwing out words like—I know, but—
Mamma
, I tell you plenty. I know she’s the first woman since Demi—” He darted a glance up at her, then commanded to his mom, “Can we get back to what you called me at five in the morning about? Is everything all right? Is Aldo treating
you
right?
Sì
, I know he’s been your boyfriend for two years, but—” He listened for a moment, then chuckled. “Well, you assumed right. I usually do pick up best at this time. And you’re welcome. I’m glad you like them. No, six dozen is not too much. Christmas roses are your favorite. Mamma, I need to go.
La chiamerò dopo. Ti amo. Ciao
.”
He clicked the phone off with a little shake of his head, then tossed it back to the couch. With that, his full attention now swung directly on her. He bent his head toward her, the midnight force of his stare pulling her closer. Celina scrutinized him harder. The deep purple cast she’d seen in his eyes last night—there were only tiny flecks of it at the corners this morning.
Morning. Yes. She remembered now. It was morning. It was Saturday. It was time for him to go, before she let him reach out to her…as he did right now. Then twine his fingers into her hair, like he also did now…only way better than last night, since he now knew how sensitive she was along the top of her ear. And she certainly couldn’t let him lean in and kiss her, exactly like he did now, taking his time with the torment, parting her lips to touch her tongue with his.
“Good morning, stellina,” he murmured. “Are you hungry? I made a frittata.”
“Uh, yeah. I see.” Despite her sardonic tone, it took every ounce of will to untangle herself from his hold, pretending she needed more coffee. “I’m not too hungry yet. I’m not much of a breakfast person.”
Her stomach outed her, revving like a lawn mower. Dante’s lips quirked, making him even more flat-out gorgeous.
“Uh, yeah. I see.” He used her own words in his comeback tease.
She eyed the heavenly frittata, made with eggs she barely remembered buying. And the other ingredients? Well, the cheese made sense. She always had cheese lying around. It was a weakness. But the rest of it confused her. All the colors mixed into the food—where had he found all that? Had he called Vince and had the guy schlep over groceries for him too? Or did the millionaires of the city share a secret twenty-four-hour produce delivery service? It felt surreal to even be contemplating those explanations. And overwhelming. And magical.
And good. Damn, he made her feel very, very good.
Right. Just like Mom had felt with Mr. Bank Bastard. And Natalie, with her commodities prince.
“I…errrm…don’t use the kitchen much.”
“You don’t say.”
She hardened her stare. “I usually don’t have Cordon Bleu-trained billionaires in here either.”
The barb hit home. Dante looked like a man now about to slip his boxing gloves on. “Is that so? So who
do
you have in here?”
She folded her arms, feeling oddly naked in front of him again. “My brothers, sometimes. But most of the time, just Sami.”
“Sami.” The remainder of his grin drained. His posture stiffened. “Really?” The casual tone was riddled with barbs. “And who’s he? And how often is he here?”
“He?” For a second, she was confused. Then she was tempted, just a little, to string out
his
misconception. But subterfuge was foreign to her as fried crickets. “Well,
she’s
usually here a few times a week.” She tapped Sami’s spring school portrait, stuck to the refrigerator with her favorite USN magnet. “Samantha Karena Kouris,” she explained. “Sami for short. She’s my niece.”
His smile returned, only twice as blinding as before. “Ohhhh.” Relief was an obvious wash on his face. “Well, she’s beautiful.”
She touched Sami’s picture lovingly. “She is, isn’t she? I love that kid. We’re working on her science fair project this weekend. She’s redesigning jet fighter engines, to restart in midair.”
He chuckled. “Is that all?”
She couldn’t help but return a smile. “Nothing like a little ambition. But with a dad who flies those planes, there’s no mystery to her intent.”
“Your brother?” Dante asked. She nodded before he ventured quietly, “Why isn’t Sami’s mother helping her with the project?”
Tension returned to her stomach. She didn’t know why. This was a good bridge into walking him politely out the door. “Sami’s mom isn’t around. Apparently, a billionaire in a private jet was more appealing than her soldier in a F-16 Viper.”
Dante scrubbed a hand across his beard, then winced. She didn’t know whether to interpret his action as pissed or stunned. Maybe both. “Shit,” he muttered.
“Oh, yeah. A nice pile of it. I tried to warn Dylan before he put the ring on her finger. There was something ‘off’ about Natalie. She wasn’t real. She gazed at clouds too much. She was too much like…”
“Who?” He spoke it into her weighted pause, his voice gentle as the day’s early light, now peeking through the shutters.
Celina swallowed past the rock in her throat and forced the answer out. “Like Mom.”
She could practically hear the gears sliding against each other in Dante’s brain. “Okay, wait. Your mother ran off with a Trump wannabe too?”
The words, even infused with his amazement, hit her heart like punches. Again, she ordered herself to respond. “I was nine. He was the president of the bank she worked at. Guess she just couldn’t deal with three hellcat boys and a girl who wanted to be like them.” A dry laugh escaped her. “My poor brothers. I can’t cook worth crap. They lived on boxed mac and cheese for years.”
“Damn.” It was a harsh bite of sound. Oddly, that comforted her. His ire on her behalf—it was sweet. Actually, more than sweet. And sweet on the inside, mixed with his just over six feet of hard-core sexy on the outside, was doing things to her inner resolve that weren’t comfortable.
She took a deep breath. She needed to keep this in perspective. She needed to keep
him
in perspective. Okay, she’d slept with him. And maybe a little more too. That didn’t mean anything had changed. She wasn’t ready to go inviting him back over for Sunday dinner, or sharing more with him besides the coffee. If anything, maybe he would see that now too.
Finally, Dante spoke again. “That certainly paints the picture more clearly.”
“The picture?”
“Of you. Of why you treated me like a criminal last night. Before you even met me, you had me signed, sealed, and delivered as a hump-happy barracuda.”
“I didn’t treat you like—”
She huffed, then went silent. What was she supposed to say? That he was wrong? That he hadn’t hit the nail on the head about everything? That she didn’t stand here and stress, every second, that she was going to be just like Mom and Natalie—especially because she wanted him worse as each of those moments ticked by? That having him so near, eating up the air in the kitchen with his dark, bold perfection, didn’t wind temptation around every nerve center in her body? God, if only his shirt were buttoned. And his fingers, so long and strong, were stuck in gloves. And maybe if there was a paper bag over his face, which halted her breath even now with its accusing glower…
“Look, it was a nice time.” She attempted a nonchalant shrug, then a flippant smile. “You’re not a criminal anymore, okay? So…we’re good?”
She dared to glance up. Big mistake. His jaw worked back and forth. The violet flecks in his eyes were now a wash of fury. “Nice. Huh. Thanks for that. Glad to know you enjoyed yourself.”
“All right, fine. It was better than nice. But—”
“But now it’s time for the barracuda to swim away, right?” He pushed up from the kitchen bar, looking ready to tear the thing out instead.
“Dante—”
He lunged next to her again in two steps. The suddenness of the move literally made her head swim. Damn it, she could actually feel his body heat. “Look at me, Celina.
Now
. Look at me and tell me again that last night was just ‘nice.’ Or do you always let men pull you out of bar fights, then take you home and spank you before they—”
“Stop it.” She shoved at him. “That’s dirty tactics, Tieri!”
“That’s
truth
, Lieutenant Kouris.” He wasn’t just ticked anymore. He was relentless. She had to back up as he kept pacing, but finally had nowhere to go when her back bumped the pantry. Dante spread himself around her, surrounding her with his size and scent and strength, locking her gaze into his without a shred of mercy. “You wanna know what I think?” His voice was low and lethal, yet prowling and knowing. “I think last night was fucking amazing—for both of us.” He lifted a hand to brush her cheek with his thumb. “I think you’re a revelation to me, Celina. And I think I may be one to you as well.”
“Dante.” Her pleading rasp was horrific to hear. “Please. Don’t.”
“When was the last time you got to let go? The last time you gave yourself permission to?”
He’d gone beyond slamming nails on the head. Now he was a damn wrecking ball, gouging into her with scary precision. And he was everywhere. His thighs, huge and hard. His chest, rippled and warm. And his gaze, shot with merciless, beautiful tanzanite. She needed to get free. She couldn’t let herself drown in him again.
“Stop it.”
“No.” It wasn’t a response. It was an order. “Tell me.
Tell me
, Celina. You liked handing it over to me, didn’t you? The permission. The control. You have to keep it together all the time, don’t you? Never any room for error. You’re the good lawyer. The good sister. The good aunt. The good friend. Deviance isn’t an option. Orgasms sure as hell aren’t an option. At least not with someone like me. Someone who’d dare to command you to come—”
“That’s enough!”
Tears broke up her words, but concrete infused her arms. She shoved at him so hard, he stumbled back against the sink. She twisted away, bracing her hands against the cupboards. The panels had glass panes in them, showing off her china, now taunting her with its stark white perfection. Crap. Even her damn dinner plates confirmed what Dante had just said. Her world had no room for deviation. But because of that, it also had no color.
No deep bronze skin. No raging violet gazes. No dark crimson lips, fusing her mouth and opening her senses…
No complications. No pain. No heartbreak.
It was better this way. She just had to keep telling herself that. She’d find a way to breathe normally again. She’d find a way to
think
normally again. Probably. Hopefully.
“Maybe I should just go.”
His flat murmur made her fingers twist into fists. She heard him push toward her because of it. Panic set in. She tensed. He stopped.
She couldn’t let him get near again. Not ever again.
“Y-yeah,” she stammered. “Yeah, that’s—that’s a good idea.”
“Celina—”
“Please go, Dante. Please.”
As soon as he scooped his cell and his jacket up and then quietly shut the door, she heard a car engine start. For a second, curiosity took over her sadness. Did the man have time to buy himself new wheels
and
have them delivered, while making her a frittata and handling business deals?
A peek out the front window answered that. A gorgeous black Jag sedan idled out in front while Dante climbed into the front passenger’s seat. There was another man in the car with a chiseled face, a military-grade buzz, and a no-nonsense way about him. She pegged him as the oh so reliable Vincent.
As soon as Dante buckled in, the car sped away.
She resisted the urge to sprint after it.
Ha. Like that would be possible, considering how every muscle now dragged her like a lead weight, making the whole house echo with the emptiness of her steps.
“Stop it.”
The words she’d used on Dante two minutes ago were now her self-castigation. She called up her resolve by punching both arms down, then marching to the kitchen and picking up the pan with the frittata. With a harsh sigh, she flipped on the disposal motor and scraped the beautiful mess down into the grinding maw.
Thank God garbage disposals worked on tears too.
* * * *
After the fifteen-minute meltdown, she didn’t think about Dante again all weekend.
Okay, maybe that one wasn’t going to slip past a polygraph. But it wasn’t like she didn’t try. And most of the time, her efforts yielded success. It was only when the unexpected moments sneaked up on her: those tiny torpedoes that barreled her over and pummeled her through the waves of longing once again. Hearing him get thanked on the B96 morning show on her way to the gym. Changing the sheets on the bed and having to smell him everywhere on the air. And worst of all, facing Dylan when he brought Sami over before his duty rotation, and weathering her big brother’s wide smirk. “Well,” he’d drawled. “Somebody’s glowing today. Did my little baklava actually bring home somebody fun from the V-Day party?”
Though he stood nearly a foot taller, she’d drilled him hard enough in the shoulder to make him wince. Sami squealed and cheered her on, clearly wanting blood, reminding Celina way too much of herself at that age. But she couldn’t find it in her heart to chastise her niece, grateful as hell to have the bouncy kid around for the rest of the day and a sleepover to boot. Sami’s presence, even with nocturnal thrashings, was better than the alternative: the empty pillows next to her. The memories of Dante’s dark hair spread against them. The feel of his body around her and his breath against her shoulder…