Читать книгу Dante's Twins - Catherine Spencer - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

NEWBURY divided the dinner hour between shoveling food down his throat and harping on the fact that Leila had elected to sit at a table other than theirs.

“Glad to see you’ve managed to pry her off, Dante,” he leered, swabbing a chunk of bread through the remains of his fish soup. “The way she gravitated toward you the first chance she got, I thought we were going to have to call in the troops to rescue you. It’s no wonder the guys are up in arms about her. A woman like that can undermine the stability of the whole company.”

“To put it mildly,” Dante said, deliberately misunderstanding the last remark. Company be damned! In the space of a few days, she’d rocked the foundations of his entire life. Even now when he ought to have been occupied with other things, he couldn’t keep his eyes—or his mind—off her.

She sat four tables removed from his, with her back toward him. Each time she turned her head to speak to the people seated beside her, the hurricane candle in the middle of her table illuminated her profile, emphasizing its exotic cast and highlighting the upswept coil of her black hair. She was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.

“...Beginner’s luck, that’s all it is. Things just fell into place for her. That she should wind up enjoying a week here in the Caribbean when there are guys in the office who’ve been plugging away for years and never made it—”

She sat like a queen, dark-eyed, dark-haired, and so beautiful it was unnerving. Ethereal, almost. Like a dream that couldn’t possibly live up to reality. Or was it the blend of shy reserve and elegant dignity that lent such mystery to her? Or the fact that she seemed oblivious to her impact on those around her?

“Nobody bent the rules for her,” Dante said, continuing to observe her. “The top thirty employees get invited to Poinciana, the rest stay and run things on the home front. The standard remains the same regardless of who’s on the payroll.”

“Ah!” Newbury pounced on the remark as eagerly as he attacked the stuffed land crab entrée placed before him. “It’s the way she accomplished it, swanning in and taking over a plum assignment which was my right to assign, that soured me on her. But is she grateful? Not her! She treats me to the royal brush-off with her cool smile and snotty attitude. As if I’m not good enough to polish her shoes.”

Considering Carl at times displayed all the charm of a sewer rat, her instincts were, in Dante’s view, right on target. But the guy was married to Gavin’s goddaughter, which made him family of a sort, and Dante set great store by family. So he kept his opinion to himself and hoped Carl would tire of the subject.

He didn’t. “Her appointment’s upset more than a few people, Dante. There’s a discord present that wasn’t there before she came on the scene. Knowing that, can you honestly sit there and tell me that, if you’d been there when she applied for Hasborough’s job, you’d have agreed to hire her?”

No, he thought. I’d have proposed to her instead before some other man beat me to it. But the presumption behind Newbury’s question was too blatant to go unchecked.

“Are you questioning the chairman of the board’s business acumen, Carl?” He phrased the question pleasantly enough, toying idly with his wineglass the whole time, but Newbury heard the warning and took heed.

“Not at all! Gavin’s a fine man—experienced, well respected in the import business. But he’s.... ”

“A pushover for a pretty face?” Dante laced his smile with phoney sympathy.

Newbury took the bait without a second’s misgiving. “Well, aren’t we all, Dante, if a woman plays up to us?”

“No,” Dante said, his smile disappearing along with any semblance of congeniality. “Especially not Gavin Black and especially not where business is concerned. We’re talking about a man who’s already forgotten more about running an import company than you or I will ever learn, and who’s a devoted husband, father and grandfather to boot. Yet unless I’ve misunderstood where all this talk is leading, you’re suggesting he allowed his professional judgment to be swayed by what could well be interpreted as sexual discrimination.”

“No!” Newbury practically choked in his haste to extricate himself from the hot seat. “I’m not saying that at all. Anything but!”

“That’s good,” Dante said. “Because if you were, Carl, I’d have to question very seriously if you really belong in a vice president’s position.”

“I worked hard to get where I am, Dante, you know that.”

“And I applaud your dedication. However, I value loyalty more.”

“So do I. The company always comes first.” Newbury began to sweat.

It wasn’t a pretty sight and reason enough for Dante to cast his gaze elsewhere. It zeroed in on Leila with the accuracy of a missile seeking its target.

Something the man on her left said had amused her. Dante watched, fascinated by the flash of her smile, the graceful arch of her throat as she tilted her head back in laughter. Everything about her was small, elegant, refined. Beside her he felt clumsy, unfinished. Too big, too earthy, too ordinary.

And he wanted her in a way that both startled and elated him.

As if she’d read his mind, she swiveled suddenly in her seat and stared at him expectantly. He realized then that she was not alone, that conversation throughout the room had died to allow one of the senior partners to give the annual morale-boosting spiel. This year, it was his turn.

Wrenching his mind back to business, he stood up and acknowledged the applause. “Thanks,” he said, “and a belated welcome to Poinciana. We’ve already wrapped up two days of seminars and before the week is over I’m confident we’ll have resolved some of the problems we’ve faced over the last year. But we don’t fly our brightest and best to the Caribbean to spend all their time indoors.”

Her eyes, dark gray and almond-shaped, fixed on him earnestly. Returning her gaze, he lost the thread of what he’d been saying, recalling instead the image of her lying beneath him that afternoon. His body responded accordingly.

In danger of finding himself seriously embarrassed in public, he looked away and scanned the room at large. “Classic Collections,” he said, falling back on lines he’d repeated so often he could recite them in his sleep, “bought Poinciana five years ago but although it’s the company name on the land title, the island really belongs to all of you. Your effort, your support, made its purchase possible. There are no bosses here and no employees, just people with a common interest and a common goal—to meet the challenges ahead with energy and a united effort to keep Classic Collections at the top where it belongs.”

He indicated Gavin, his one-time mentor and for the last five years, his partner. “We hope,” he said, and despite himself, found he was focusing on her again, speaking directly to her, “that you’ll take advantage of the beaches, the trails, the weather and the excellent food, to recharge your batteries. Except for when you’re in seminar, you’re on island time. Make the most of it and enjoy.”

Right on cue the steel band on the terrace started its nightly gig, the rhythm pulsing through the applause in the dining room.

“Wonderful,” Newbury murmured obsequiously in his ear. “You always say exactly the right thing, Dante.”

“I try,” he replied, stifling the inclination to tell the man to can it. Instead, he turned to Gavin’s wife who sat on his other side. “Shall we start things rolling, Rita?”

“Might as well,” she said, smiling up at him. “There are a lot of ladies who’ve waited all year to dance with you, Dante, and I wouldn’t like to get trampled in the rush.”

Across the table, her husband laughed and held out his hand to Maureen Vickers, the fifty-six-year-old head of personnel who, like every other employee present, had gone the distance and then some in her devotion to the company over the last twelve months. “Let’s give them a run for their money, Maureen.”

The small dance floor filled quickly, forcing couples to spill out to the terrace. Above the coconut palms fringing the beach, the moon rose bright and full. The sea rolled ashore, seeming to be drawn as much by the hypnotic rhythm of the steel band as the pull of the tide.

A summer paradise beside which February in Vancouver sank into cold damp oblivion, it was Poinciana as he’d never seen it before, its beauty made all the more memorable because of Leila Connors-Lee. Automatically, his gaze swung over the crowd, seeking out her ivory-clad body swaying in the arms of a junior accountant whom Dante decided he’d never much liked. There was something about the man’s soft white hands and the way they moved up and down that straight elegant spine....

“You’re very quiet, Dante,” Rita Black said. “Something on your mind?”

“No,” he lied, spinning her around with more energy than style so that he could keep an eye on the accountant with the roving hands. ‘“Suffering from jet lag, that’s all. I got back from Italy only a couple of days before flying down here and seem to be caught in some sort of mid-Atlantic time warp.”

“You work too hard, dear.” Rita patted his arm sympathetically. “I sometimes wonder how you manage to stay abreast of things in the office, given the amount of time you spend on the road.”

“It’s as much a part of the job as making a point of dancing at least once with every woman in the room tonight.” He steered her back to their table. “You’ll forgive me, Rita, if I hand you over to Gavin now?”

“Of course.” She smiled and waved him away. “Do your duty by the rest of the ladies waiting to take a spin around the floor with you, then sneak away. You deserve a little quiet time away from the spotlight once in a while.”

And he intended to take it—although not alone.

Conscientiously, he danced with Meg, his superefficient P.A., with the head warehouseman’s pregnant wife, with a junior payroll clerk who was so nervous at finding herself boogying with the top brass that he thought she might wet herself.

Finally, as the moon slid down toward the horizon, he’d danced with every woman in the room except the one he most wanted to hold in his arms. Straightening his bow tie, he scanned the room, hunting her out.

Just as she’d known from the moment the music had begun that eventually he’d ask her to dance, so she knew to the moment when he decided the time had come. A sharp stab of expectation struck, puckering the skin of her bare shoulders mere seconds before he came up behind her, rested his hand lightly at her back and murmured with amused formality, “Would you care to dance, Ms. Connors-Lee?”

She inclined her head. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Rossi.”

He led the way, threading between the tables to a spot where the polished wooden floor gave way to the tiled surface of the terrace beyond. She followed, aware as she had been all evening, of Carl Newbury’s unremitting observation. How happy he must be that, at last, he had something worth watching!

Turning a deaf ear to the voice of caution that warned there’d be a price for the self-indulgence, she slipped into Dante’s arms and let him draw her closer than was strictly proper.

“It’s about time I had you back where you belong,” he murmured.

But before they’d taken more than a step or two, the music stopped. Other dancers drifted apart, wandered back to their tables or chatted quietly with each other, and she knew she and Dante ought to do the same. Vice president Newbury wasn’t alone in his scrutiny; they were all watching, those people who were his cronies and who thought she had no business being there, and she was fueling their resentment by remaining within the circle of Dante’s arm, her gaze locked with his.

“I think we’ve left it too late,” she said, reluctantly dropping her hand from his shoulder. “The band’s packed it in for the night.”

Refusing to let her go, he shook his head. “No. They’ll play ‘til dawn if we ask them to.”

Then please let them start soon, she prayed, unable to slow her racing heart. Please distract me from losing myself in his eyes, from leaning into his strength and finding heaven in his arms here, in full view of such a judgmental audience.

The gods heard and responded kindly. The first bars of “Begin the Beguine” filled the night. Couples came together and picked up the rhythm. But Dante remained still, the message in his glance luring her ever deeper under his spell.

“Have you changed your mind about dancing?” she practically stammered, desperation threading her voice. Didn’t he see the attention they were attracting? Couldn’t he feel the curiosity, the undercurrents of hostility?

“Not in the least, Leila,” he said.

She gave a little shrug to reassure herself that she still retained some measure of control over her body. “Then what are we waiting for?”

“Not a thing,” he assured her, moving smoothly out of range of the watchers and into the tropical night. He drew her closer, steering her with a nudge of his thigh, directing her with the subtle pressure of his hand in the small of her back and, as the deep shadows at the edge of the terrace swallowed them up, inching his arm so far around her that she could feel the tips of his fingers brushing the side swell of her breast. “In fact,” he murmured against her hair, “I think I’ve displayed amazing patience in waiting this long.”

She didn’t need to ask what he meant. She knew, and once again she marveled at the sense of rightness, of certainty, that swept over her, silencing her reservations. This was what her mother had been talking about the time she’d described meeting Leila’s father.

“I knew the moment I set eyes on him,” she’d said. “There was never the least doubt in my mind that he would be the love of my life. People were shocked, of course. I was the private governess to one of Singapore’s most prominent families, expected to be respectable and, at forty-two, supposedly past the age to behave so recklessly. Falling in love with a man eight years younger, and of mixed racial origin, as well, created quite a scandal in those days, I can tell you, but that was a minor sin compared to my becoming pregnant within two months of meeting him.”

“How dreadful that must have been for you,” the seventeen-year-old she’d been at the time had said. “Were you terribly unhappy and embarrassed?”

Her mother had laughed. “You’ve yet to give your heart or you wouldn’t ask me that! When a woman loves a man as I loved your father, Leila, nothing they share makes her ashamed or afraid. Finding him was the best thing that ever happened to me. Having his baby was a miracle, a gift beyond price. If there is one wish I have for you, my darling daughter, it is that the right man will someday come along and fill your life with the same kind of happiness that I found with your father.”

“Even if I should be that lucky, how can I be sure I‘ ll recognize him?” Leila had asked doubtfully. “How will I know he’s the one?”

Her mother had touched a hand to her breast. “You will know here,” she’d said. “And you will be as sure he is the one as you are that the sun will rise in the morning. He will be the sun in your morning, the moon in your night.”

Yes, Leila thought now, recognition binding her ever more securely to Dante with an inevitability that defied time or place or reason. That’s it exactly! Now I understand.

The question was, did he? A sliver of uncertainty laid a chill over her bare shoulders.

Oh, he had made love to her with tenderness and passion, and he seemed not to care what others might make of their association. But when she had told him she loved him, he had not returned the sentiment. Was she naive to think that mattered? Didn’t actions speak louder than words?

She looked up at him, seeking assurance that she wasn’t in the grip of some self-indulgent fantasy. In the flame of the kerosene torches dotted among the palm trees, she saw the same awareness in his eyes, and heard it when he spoke.

“Perhaps I should have asked this before, Leila,” he said, the words drifting over her face like a caress, “but there isn’t anyone waiting for you back home in Vancouver, is there?”

“No,” she told him, glad that she’d brought things to such a definitive end with Anthony Fletcher just before he left for Croatia well over two months ago. The one letter she’d received, a few weeks after his arrival in Europe, suggested he bore no scars from her rejection.

“No special man in your life?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“There is now,” he said, and this time the words touched her mouth a millisecond before his lips closed over hers to seal the promise.

Misgivings forgotten, she drowned in his kiss, reveled in the urgent straining of his body against hers. In the darkness of the balmy night, time stopped briefly and that other world, of ordinary people leading ordinary lives, faded into nothingness.

But not for long. Soon the steel band, the voices too close to go ignored, the hushed sigh of the surf rolling ashore, flowed over her, reminding her that, however much she wished it, she and Dante were not alone on this exquisite island. She remembered the suspicion of her associates which had dogged her from her first day at Classic Collections; worse still, she recalled the conversation she’d overheard only a few hours ago.

“Is this wise, Dante?” she whispered, pulling back and dispelling the enchantment with a stab at sound common sense.

“No,” he said hoarsely, “but what the hell has wisdom to do with anything?”

It had to do with returning to the office when this magical week was over; with being able to stand proud and unashamed when he was away, conducting business on the other side of the world as he so frequently did, and she was left alone to face her critics.

She had come to Poinciana not just to learn more about the company but to show herself as a dedicated career woman, one deserving of the responsibilities inherent in her new job. Falling for the boss did not exactly strengthen her credibility in the eyes of those she was most anxious to impress.

Yet here she was regardless, helplessly in love with a man she hadn’t known a week ago, and try though she might to negate the fact, it remained as fundamentally right as rain being wet or blood being red.

She could tell herself it was illogical, it was untenable, it was inexplicable. But the fact remained, it simply was. And to try to explain it was as pointless as telling a curious child the sky was up. There was no reasonable explanation.

Still, if she could not vindicate herself in the eyes of his employees, she could minimize the extent to which his reputation might be held up to scorn. Summoning up what little willpower she still retained, she said, “Anyone could see us here and if they do, they’re bound to gossip.”

“Let them,” he said, trailing his hand down her throat, across her shoulder, down the length of her arm. “Let them,” he said again, catching her fingers in his and drawing her down the steps at the end of the terrace, away from that other world.

Below, a path connecting the house proper to the beach found daytime shade under the scarlet poinciana trees for which the island was named. At night, their black umbrella shape cloaked the area in secrecy.

“Dante, wait,” she whispered, slowing in their shadow. Her high heels were sinking in the sand, impeding her escape. Disappearing with him was illadvised enough, without being caught in the act. “My shoes weren’t designed for sprinting.”

He stopped and knelt at her feet. Like a perfect gentleman he removed her sandals and set them aside. Like a perfect lover he lifted each of her feet in turn and kissed the instep. And then, without warning, he raised the hem of her dress and, cupping one of her calves in his other hand, he kissed her knees.

The erotic audacity of such a move started the tremors again, shooting them from the soles of her feet to end in shocking dampness between her thighs. She let out a soft whimper, half pleasure, half fear.

Murmuring reassurance, he pressed his face against her, and as naturally as she drew breath, she buried her fingers in his hair and held him to her, there where the quivering ache tormented her.

For long seconds he remained quite still and she suspected that he used the time to recoup control of himself because, when he finally rose to his feet again, though far from even, his breathing was less labored.

“What am I doing, sneaking into dark corners with you as if our being together is something shameful to be hidden away from the rest of the world?” he said huskily, standing a little apart from her as if he didn’t entirely trust himself.

They were words she needed to hear. They gave her the courage to challenge the shoddy hypocrisy of men like Carl Newbury. “I am ashamed of nothing,” she told Dante. “How could I be, when nothing in my life before this has ever felt so completely right?”

He groaned and pulled her back into his arms. “I’m not the type to rush blindly into a relationship,“ he said thickly.

“Nor am I,” she said, but he made the mistake of brushing her mouth with his again, and the spark flared up anew, exposing their claims for the lies they were. How could she worry about the rest of the world, she wondered dazedly, when there was only the here and now. Only Dante Rossi and Leila Connors-Lee.

But then a shaft of light streamed from one of the upstairs rooms to pierce the shadows and she cringed. Instinctively, Dante swung around, protecting her from view. He loomed over her, a tall and dark presence except for his white dinner jacket which glowed like a beacon, advertising his presence to the people on the terrace.

Peeping over his shoulder, Leila saw that some guests had chosen to sit at the tables on the terrace the better to enjoy the balmy, flower-scented night. But their attention quickly focused on the figures suddenly floodlit beneath the trees, and the buzz of conversation dwindled into silence.

“What is it?” Dante said, at her little murmur of distress.

“They’ve seen us and I’m afraid they’ve recognized you.”

His smile flashed briefly in the dark. “I certainly hope so!”

“But they’ll talk and-”

“Yes, they will,” he said, his tone serious “Does that bother you?”

She shrugged. “Yes. You...you don’t need their disapproval.”

“I’m the boss,” he said. “I don’t need their approval. I can do whatever I please, and it pleases me to be with you.”

We’re going to have to save him from himself.... Carl Newbury’s threat continued to stalk her, for all that she thought she’d shaken it off.

“Dante, some of the men with whom you work the closest won’t like that.” She couched the warning as obliquely as she knew how.

She succeeded too well. “I don’t blame them,” he replied, misunderstanding. “I wouldn’t like it if one of them had laid prior claim to you.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, scrabbling her bare toes in the sand to find her shoes. “They’ll think—”

He cut her short. “Leila, I don’t care what they think! All that concerns me is how you feel. Will it spoil your time here if I make no secret of the fact that I’m completely...” He drew a ragged breath and she froze, suspended on a fine edge of anticipation as he searched for the right word. “...Bewitched by you?”

How foolish she was to feel just a little let down. Did she really expect him to throw caution aside and profess he was in love with her?

Yes! Because she was in love with him, and whether that made sense or not didn’t signify. She held no more sway over her heart than she did over the number of stars in the sky.

“Well, Leila?” he said, and she realized he was waiting for her answer. “Will it bother you?”

“I’ve never been a very public sort of person,” she said, glad he couldn’t see the disappointment in her eyes. Just because she was willing to accept love so quickly didn’t mean that he was, and what, after all, was the rush? “I’d prefer it if, for now at least, we kept our... association private.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and regarded her doubtfully as she bent and slipped on her sandals. “I’m not sure I’m a good enough actor to pull that off, but I’ll try.”

When the last strap was securely in place, he offered her his arm. Sedately walking her back up the steps and across the terrace to the dance floor, he waited until they were well within earshot of others before he said, “Shall we finish our dance, Miss Connors-Lee?”

Several people were there already, swaying to the rhythm as a native Caribbean in a snug-fitting white satin suit gave an impressive imitation of Belafonte singing “Scarlet Ribbons.” She thought it would be easy to maintain the proper image and blend inconspicuously with the other couples. But the minute Dante took her in his arms, discretion melted in the tropical night. Imperceptibly he drew closer until he was holding her far closer than social convention allowed. And it seemed to her that everyone else noticed.

Sensing her discomfiture, he said, “Relax, sweetheart. We’re only dancing. There’s no sin in that.”

“The way they’re all staring, you might as well be making love to me,” she said miserably, the blood surging in her cheeks.

He stroked his forefinger along her jaw, the smile tugging at his mouth belying the smoky passion in his eyes. “In a way I am. Or do you think I dance this way with every woman in the company?”

“I hope not,” she sighed, temporarily dazzled into ignoring the ammunition they were giving Carl Newbury and his cohorts.

Common sense reasserted itself, however, as the evening drew to a close and Dante insisted on walking her to her room. The house, a restored sugar plantation mansion built at the end of the eighteenth century, was a magnificent example of neo-classical architecture, with tall pillars on the front of the building soaring to the tiled roof and separating the verandas lining the executive suites of the upper story. Inside, a wide staircase swept up from the great hall to a long gallery which branched off at each end to encompass two side wings.

Leila’s room was situated toward the back of one of these, overlooking the lush rear gardens with their fountains and courtyards. “A good thing we’re not next-door neighbors,” Dante observed wryly, stepping aside as she opened her door. “The temptation to haul you over the veranda and into my bed would be too hard to resist.” Checking first to make sure the hall was deserted, he dropped a swift kiss on her mouth. “Have breakfast with me in the morning?”

Although she hated to spoil the moment, conscience forced her to reiterate something he seemed wilfully determined to ignore. “Dante, you’re asking for trouble. You haven’t been around the office lately. You don’t realize how—”

He kissed her again, lingering this time so that her words died on a sigh. “Make that an order, Ms. Connors-Lee,” he murmured. “Have breakfast with me in the morning.”

“Maybe.” She closed her eyes, aching for him and knowing it would be professional suicide to give in to the yearning.

Perhaps he knew it, too, because the next moment he was striding away to the main gallery which housed the oceanfront executive suites, and she was able to slip into her room unnoticed.

At first he thought he’d be lying awake all night, his mind too filled with the tactile memory of her to allow him to rest. But three days of intensive seminars coupled with the previous month’s overseas itinerary claimed him somewhere around one in the morning and dropped him into a black hole of sleep.

He awoke just after seven, feeling as if he’d been hit broadside across the head with a two-by-four, and with a restless dissatisfaction clouding his mind. Not exactly prime condition for a man who prided himself on always being in charge—of himself and of his company.

But the truth was, he hadn’t been on top of things since that first night when she’d stepped out onto the terrace and stolen his... what? Heart—or sanity? Because the way he’d been acting was hotheaded to put it mildly, and atypical to say the least.

The only time he’d known anything remotely like this had been during his senior year in high school when he’d dated Jane Perry.

“I love you,” he’d foolishly told her, the steamed-up windows of his father’s old Chev and his own rampant hormones driving him to indiscretion.

And for a few days, maybe even a week, he’d believed that he did. Certainly, it had been the right thing to say. Jane had become amazingly compliant and he’d been no different from any other boy his age when it came to experimenting with sex.

But the blush had worn off pretty damn fast when he’d cornered her at her locker between classes and said, “Hey, look, I can’t make it to the movie on Friday.”

“Why not?” She’d pouted, standing just close enough that the tips of her nipples had brushed against his chest.

“I’ve got a late basketball practice,” he’d choked out, doggedly ignoring that part of him eagerly rising to the bait she’d so knowingly cast

“Basketball?” Her indignation had bounced off the school walls. “Baskerball?”

“Well, yeah. There’s a big game coming up and the coach wants the team in top form.”

“Oh, fine thing!” she’d snapped. “If you think I’m going to play second banana to basketball, Dante Rossi, you can think again.”

“It’s only for one night, for Pete’s sake! This is important, Jane.”

“And I’m not?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Her baby-blue eyes had welled with tears. “Prove it.”

“Huh?” He’d been genuinely puzzled. Prove what?

“Prove that you really love me.” She’d planted her fists on her hips and glared at him. “Make up your mind what you want—me or basketball.”

Well, nice nipples or not, it had been no contest! “Okay,” he’d said. “Basketball. So long, Jane. It was a blast while it lasted.”

That had been it as far as he was concerned. Girls came and went but in those days, basketball was forever. End of love affair—or so he’d thought until Mrs. Perry showed up on his family’s doorstep, weeping daughter in tow, and read the riot act at the callous way he’d behaved.

“You’ve broken my little girl’s heart, Dante Rossi,” she’d informed him and half the neighborhood, “not to mention sullied her good name.”

Because he knew he hadn’t behaved well, he’d refrained from pointing out that he wasn’t the first to sample everything Jane was so willing to share, nor was he likely to be the last. Instead, he’d learned from the experience and never again made the mistake of confusing lust with love or indulged in a spur-of-the-moment declaration that he wasn’t prepared to honor.

Instead he kept his feelings on a tight rein and if his hormones weren’t always as firmly controlled, at least he made sure a woman understood the ground rules before she entered into a liaison with him.

After that, there’d been no room in his life for long-term commitment. His father and grandfather had earned a living making the best pasta in town for a company owned by other men. But good Italian son though he’d been, Dante had known he’d never follow in such mundane footsteps.

His priorities had followed a different blueprint, one in which success and personal fulfillment were built upon a foundation of pride and a determination not just to be as good as other successful men, but to be better, stronger, smarter and—ugly though some might find the word—richer. Because another lesson he’d learned well and early in life was that honest labor and pride in a job well done didn’t, by themselves, guarantee the sort of success he was looking for.

It took more to inspire respect in a man’s peers. It took power. Authority. And money.

Without money, a man never amounted to anything but someone else’s patsy.

Until Leila, he’d found satisfaction enough in such a creed. Until Leila, he had scoffed at the kind of consuming romantic passion that afflicted other people and turned their ambitions toward suburbia and babies. Not that he didn’t value family; it was probably his most sacred asset, the motivation that drove him to success. He just hadn’t expected he was as susceptible as all those others. He was Dante Rossi, after all—king of his own corporate empire, too focused and too sophisticated to be blindsided by love.

He’d spent the better part of the last three days trying to convince himself of that—three days of covert glances, accidental touches that really were no accident at all, and flimsy excuses to strike up conversations with Leila in which the subtext of the words exchanged were charged with a powerful sexual innuendo.

And the result? Far from burning itself out, the attraction, the fascination—hell, the emotional involvement—had culminated in yesterday afternoon’s interlude in which body and heart had come together to bend his mind in an entirely new direction.

As they made their way back down the trail to the plantation house after their lovemaking, he’d said, “I want you to meet my family,” and waited for the familiar surge of caution to rise up. He never took women home; they seemed too inclined to view the move as the preface to a marriage proposal. He seldom even took them to his apartment.

“I’d like that,” Leila had replied, and once again he’d waited. But all he’d felt was a wave of relief that she hadn’t squashed the suggestion flat, then heard himself making plans for a future that went beyond the next few weeks.

For a guy who professed not to believe in it, he was showing classic symptoms of a severe case of love at first sight

In his present frame of mind, he’d have been happy idling away the day under a palm tree, with Leila beside him and nothing but an occasional swim to distract him from the pleasure of her company. Jeez! If any one of his employees had come to him with such a lame excuse for not putting in a full day’s work, he’d have kicked butt from here to Canada without a second thought!

Shoving aside the mosquito netting draped over the bed, he staggered to the louvered doors, flung them fully open and stepped out on the veranda, hoping a breath of fresh morning air would restore his sanity.

From his vantage point, the reef protecting Poinciana from the worst of the surf was clearly visible. Greenish brown and shaped like a boomerang, it separated the indigo blue of the open sea from the pale aquamarine of the shallower water in the lagoon.

But that bright light glinting off the waves...!

He winced at the arrows of pain shooting behind his eyes. The last time he’d suffered a headache like this had been the morning after his brother-in-law’s stag night two years ago. Then he’d been hung over, plain and simple. What ailed him now was anything but simple. In fact, it was damned complicated.

Given a choice, he’d have chosen to lay the blame on the rum punch served the night before. At least that wouldn’t have cast doubts on his sanity. But knowing the stuff packed a powerful wallop, he’d been very temperate. Pity his restraint hadn’t extended to his behavior!

Not that he cared for himself what anyone else thought, but he’d picked up enough to realize that Leila had already been put through the gossip mill. She hadn’t needed him to make matters worse.

Come to that, he hadn’t needed it himself. He was a man who liked to be in charge—of himself, of his surroundings, of his fate. And suddenly, he found himself in control of none of them.

Unsuspecting of the chaos about to assault him, he’d looked up and seen her three nights before, and if he’d been poleaxed smack between the eyes, the impact could hardly have been more acute.

He remembered wading through the mob of guests toward her, helpless to prevent himself, yet hoping the whole time that closer inspection would reveal her to have the kind of flaws guaranteed to put him off any notion of furthering the acquaintance. Hoping she’d be so heavily made up that it would impossible to see the real woman underneath; that her voice would make a crow sound musical by comparison, that she’d be vacuous, silly, or best of all, married.

Instead, she’d been perfect. Lovely. Dignified and delicate. Intelligent and refined. As passionately drawn to him as he’d been to her and, by all accounts, not involved with another man. He’d wanted to fall down on his knees and thank God for the miracle of her. Before he’d even touched her, a bonding of souls had occurred from which he had neither the will nor the power to extricate himself.

He ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw. He supposed he should be grateful she’d had the wit to turn him down last night because if he’d had his way, she’d be lying in his bed right now and he’d probably be lying on top of her. Not a smart move for a man who prided himself on never mixing business with pleasure.

He needed to get his mind back where it belonged: on revving up the troops on the feasibility of setting up a base of operation in Argentina. A hot shower, a shave, and a pot of strong coffee should do the trick.

About to turn back into the room, he stopped, his attention snagged by the sight of a figure emerging from the house. It was Leila.

She crossed the terrace and stepped down to the beach, her small footprints marking a trail through the freshly raked sand. Her swimsuit, a plain black one-piece thing, was modestly cut yet managed to define every curve, every hollow, every inch of her body. She’d tied back her hair so that it hung black and straight halfway to her waist. Her skin glowed apricot gold in the morning light.

She dropped her towel just above the high tide mark and waded into the water. When she stood waist deep, she waited a moment, perfectly silhouetted in the sunshine, then knifed below an incoming wave. Resurfacing another twenty feet out, she headed with smooth, easy strokes for a natural rock arch rising out of the sea at the eastern tip of the reef.

Dry-mouthed, he watched. And the fever to be with her came sweeping back, all the more compelling for its brief hiatus.

“To hell with business,” he said, moving with a speed he’d have thought beyond him five minutes before and dragging on his swimming trunks. “Argentina can wait.”