Читать книгу The Sicilian's Christmas Bride - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 6

THE HOTEL BALLROOM was a Christmas fairyland.

Evergreen garlands hung with silver and gold ornaments were draped across the ceiling; elegant white faux Christmas trees sparkled with tiny gold lights. Someone said there’d even be a visit from Santa at midnight, tossing expensive baubles to the well-dressed and incredibly moneyed crowd.

Nothing could ever compare with New York’s first charity ball of the holiday season.

Dante Russo had seen it all before. The truth was, it bored the hell out of him. The crowds, the noise, the in-your-face signs of power and wealth…

But then, for some reason everything bored him lately.

Even—perhaps especially—the high-octane excitement of his current mistress as she clung to his arm.

“Oh, DanteDarling,” she kept saying, “oh, oh, oh, isn’t this fabulous?”

That was how she’d taken to addressing him, as if his name and the supposed-endearment were one word instead of two. And fabulous seemed to be her favorite adjective tonight. So far, she’d used it to describe the decorations, the band, their table and the guests.

A month ago, he’d found Charlotte’s affectations amusing. Now, he found them almost as irritating as her breathless, little-girl voice.

Dante glanced at his watch. Another hour and he’d make his excuses about an early-morning meeting and leave. She’d protest: it would mean missing Santa’s visit. But he’d assure her Santa would bring her something special tomorrow.

A little blue box from Tiffany, delivered to her apartment building not by Saint Nick but by FedEx.

He would see to it the box held something fabulous, Dante thought wryly. Something that would serve not only as a gift to make up for ending the night early but as a goodbye present.

His interest in Charlotte was at an end. He’d sensed it for days. Now, he knew it. He only hoped the breakup would be clean. He always made it clear he wasn’t interested in forever, but some women refused to get the message, and—

“DanteDarling?”

He blinked. “Yes, Charlotte?”

“You’re not listening!”

“I’m sorry. I, ah, I have a meeting in the morning and—”

“Dennis and Eve were telling everyone about their place in Colorado.”

“Yes. Of course. Aspen, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Eve said, and sighed wearily. “It’s still gorgeous—”

“Fabulous,” Charlotte said eagerly.

“But it’s not what it used to be. So many people have discovered the town…”

Dante did his best to listen but his attention wandered again. What was the matter with him tonight? He didn’t feel like himself at all. Bored or not, he knew better than to let his emotions gain control.

Giving free rein to your feelings was a mistake. It revealed too much, and revealing yourself to others was for fools.

That conviction, bred deep in his Sicilian bones by a childhood of poverty and neglect, had served him well. It had lifted him from the gutters of Palermo to the spires of Manhattan.

At thirty-two, Dante ruled an international empire, owned homes on two continents, owned a Mercedes and a private jet, and had his choice of spectacularly beautiful women.

His money had little to do with that.

He was, as more than one woman had whispered, beautiful. He was tall and leanly muscled, with the hard body of an athlete, the face of Michelangelo’s David and the reputation of being as exciting in the bedroom as he was formidable in the boardroom.

In other words, Dante had everything a man could possibly want, including the knowledge that his life could very well have turned out differently. Being aware of that was part of who he was. It helped keep him alert.

Focused.

Everyone said that of him. That he was focused. Tightly so, not just on his business affairs or whatever woman held his interest at the moment but on whatever was happening around him.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he couldn’t keep his attention on anything.

He’d already lost interest in the conversation of the others at the table. He took his cue from Charlotte, nodded, smiled, even laughed when it seemed appropriate.

It bothered him that he should be so distracted.

Except, that was the wrong word. What he felt was—What? Restless. As if something was about to happen. Something he wasn’t prepared for, which was impossible.

He was always prepared.

Always, he thought…Except for that one time. That one time—

“DanteDarling, you aren’t paying attention at all!”

Charlotte was leaning toward him, head tilted at just the right angle to make an offering of her décolletage. She was smiling, but the glint in her eye told him she wasn’t happy.

“He’s always like this,” she said gaily, “when he’s planning some devastating business coup.” She gave a delicate shudder. “Whatever is it, DanteDarling? Something bloody and awful—and oh, so exciting?”

Everyone laughed politely. So did Dante, but he knew, in that instant, his decision to end things with Charlotte was the right one.

These past couple of weeks, while he’d grown bored she’d grown more demanding. Why hadn’t he phoned? Where had he been when she called him? She’d begun using that foolish name for him and now she’d taken to dropping little remarks that made it seem as if she and he were intimate in all the ways he had made clear he never would be.

With any woman. Any woman, even—

“…would love to spend Christmas in Aspen, wouldn’t we, DanteDarling?”

Dante forced a smile. “Sorry. I didn’t get that.”

“Dennis and Eve want us to fly to Aspen,” Charlotte purred. “And I accepted.”

Dante’s eyes met hers. “Did you,” he said softly.

“Of course! You know we’re going to spend Christmas together. Why on earth would we want to be apart on such a special day?”

“Why, indeed,” he said, after a long pause. Then he smiled and rose to his feet. “Would you like to dance, Charlotte?”

Something of what he was thinking must have shown in his face.

“Well—well, not just now. I mean, we should stay here and discuss the party. When to fly out, how long we’ll stay—”

Dante took her hand, drew her from her chair and led her from the table. The band was playing a waltz as they stepped onto the dance floor.

“You’re angry,” she said, her voice affecting that little-girl whisper.

“I’m not angry.”

“You are. But it’s your own fault. Six weeks, Dante. Six weeks! It’s time we took the next step.”

“Toward what?” he said, his tone expressionless.

“You know what I mean. A woman expects—”

“You knew what not to expect, Charlotte.” His mouth thinned; his voice turned cold. “And yet, here you are, making plans without consulting me. Talking as if our arrangement is something it is not.” He danced her across the floor and into a corner. “You’re right about one thing. It’s time we, as you put it, took the next step.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” When he didn’t answer, two bright spots of color rose in her cheeks. “You bastard!”

“An accurate perception, but it changes nothing. You’re a beautiful woman. A charming woman. And a bright one. You knew from the beginning how this would end.”

His tone had softened. After all, he had only himself to blame. He should have read the signs, should have realized Charlotte had been making assumptions about the future despite his initial care in making sure she understood they had none. Women seemed to make the same mistake all the time.

Most women, he thought, and a muscle jumped in his cheek.

“I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together,” he said, forcing his attention back where it belonged.

Charlotte jerked free of his hand. “Don’t patronize me!”

“No,” he replied, his voice cooling, “certainly not. If you prefer to make a scene, rest assured that I can accommodate you.”

Her eyes narrowed. He knew she was weighing her options. An embarrassing public display or a polite goodbye that would make it easy for her to concoct a story to soothe her pride.

“Your choice, bella,” he said, more softly. “Do we part friends or enemies?”

She hesitated. Then a smile curved her lips. “You can’t blame me for trying.” Still smiling, she smoothed her palms over the lapels of his dinner jacket. It was a proprietorial gesture and he let her do it; he knew it was for those who might be taking in the entire performance. “But you’re cruel, DanteDarling. Otherwise, you wouldn’t humiliate me in front of my friends.”

“Is that what concerns you?” Dante shrugged. “It’s not a problem. We’ll go back to our table and finish the evening pleasantly. All right?”

“Yes. That’s fine. But Dante?” The tip of her tongue flickered across her lips. “Hear me out, would you?”

“What now?” he said, trying to mask his impatience.

“I know you don’t believe in love and forever after, darling. Well, neither do I.” She paused. “Still, we could have an interesting life together.”

He stared at her in surprise. Was she suggesting marriage? He almost laughed. Still, he supposed he understood. He didn’t know Charlotte’s exact age but she had to be in her late twenties, old enough to want to find a husband who could support her fondness for expensive living.

As for him, men his age had families. Children to carry forward their names. He had to admit he thought about that from time to time, especially since he’d plucked the name “Russo” from a newspaper article.

Having a child to bear the name was surely a way to legitimatize it.

Charlotte could be the perfect wife. She would demand nothing but his superficial attention and tolerate his occasional affair; she would never interfere in his life. Never fill his head to the exclusion of everything else.

And, just that suddenly, Dante knew what was wrong with him tonight.

A woman had once filled his head to the exclusion of everything else. And, damn her, she was still doing it.

The realization shot through him. He felt his muscles tighten, as if all the adrenaline his body could produce was overwhelming his system.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Charlotte said, “don’t look at me that way! I was only joking.”

He knew she hadn’t been joking but he decided to go along with it because it gave him something to concentrate on as he walked her back to their table.

Eva greeted them with a coy smile. “Well,” she said, “what have you decided? Will we see you in Aspen?”

For a second, he didn’t know what she was talking about. His thoughts were sucking him into a place of dark, cold shadows and unwanted memories.

Memories of a woman he thought he’d forgotten.

Then he remembered the gist of the conversation and his promise to Charlotte.

“Sorry,” he said politely, “but I’m afraid we can’t make it.”

Charlotte shot him a grateful look as she took her seat. He squeezed her shoulder.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Going for a cigar?” Dennis said. “Russo? Wait. I’ll join you.”

But Dante was already making his way through the ballroom, deliberately losing himself in the crowd as he headed for one of the doors. He pushed it open, found himself in a narrow service hallway. A surprised waitress bumped into him, murmured an apology and tried to tell him he’d taken a wrong turn.

He almost told her she was right, except he’d taken that wrong turn three years ago.

He went through another door, then down a short corridor and ended up outside on a docking bay. Once he was sure he was alone, Dante threw back his head and dragged the cold night air deep into his lungs.

Dio, he had to be crazy.

All this time, and she was still there. Taylor Sommers, whom he had not seen in three years, was inside him tonight, probably had been for a very long time. How come he hadn’t known it?

You didn’t want to know it, a sly voice in his head told him.

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

No, he thought coldly, no. What was inside him was rage. It was one thing not to let your emotions rule you and another to suppress them, which was what he had done since she’d left him.

He’d kept his anger inside, as if doing so would rid him of it. Now, without warning, it had surfaced along with all the memories he’d carefully buried.

Not of Taylor. Not of what it had been like to be with her. Her whispers in bed.

Yes. Dante, yes. When you do that, when you do that…

He groaned at the memory. The need to be inside her had been like a drug. It had brought him close to believing in the ancient superstitions of his people that said a man could be possessed.

He was long past that, had been past it by the time she left him.

It was the rest, what had happened at the end, that was still with him. Knowing that she believed she’d left him, when it wasn’t true.

He had left her.

He’d never had the chance to say, “You made the first move, cara, but that’s all it was. You ran away before I had a chance to end our affair.”

She didn’t know that and it drove him crazy. Pathetic, maybe, that it should matter…but it did. Obviously it did, or he wouldn’t be standing out here in the cold, glaring at a stack of empty produce cartons and finally admitting that he’d been walking around in a state of smoldering fury since a night like this, precisely like this, late November, cold, snow already in the forecast, when Taylor had left a message on his answering machine.

“Dante,” she’d said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel our date for tonight. I think I’m coming down with the flu. I’m going to take some aspirin and go to bed. Sorry to inconvenience you.”

Sorry to inconvenience you.

For some reason, the oh-so-polite phrase had irritated him. Was inconvenience a word for a woman to use to her lover? And what was all that about canceling their date? She was his mistress. They didn’t have “dates.”

Jaw knotted, he’d reached for the phone to call and tell her that.

But he’d controlled his temper. Actually, there was nothing wrong in what she’d said. Date implied that they saw each other when it suited them. When it suited him.

So, why had it pissed him off? Her removed tone. Her impersonal words. And then another possibility had elbowed its way into his brain.

Maybe, he’d thought, maybe I should call and see if she needs something. A doctor. Some cold tablets.

Or maybe I should see if she just needs me.

The thought had stunned him. Need? It wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. Nor in Taylor’s. It was one of the things he admired about her.

So he’d put the phone aside and gone to the party. Not just any party. This party. The same charity, the same hotel, the same guests. He’d eaten what might have been the same overdone filet, sipped the same warm champagne, talked some business with the men at his table and danced with the women.

The women had all asked the same question.

“Where’s Taylor?”

“She’s not feeling well,” he’d kept saying, even as it struck him that he was spending an inordinate amount of time explaining the absence of a woman who was not in any way a permanent part of his life. They’d only been together a couple of months.

Six months, he’d suddenly realized. Taylor had been his mistress for six months. How had that happened?

While he’d considered that, one of the women had touched his arm.

“Dante?”

“Yes?”

“If Taylor’s ill, she needs to drink lots of liquids.”

He’d blinked. Why tell him what his mistress needed to do?

“Water’s good, but orange juice is better. Or ginger tea.”

“That wonderful chicken soup at the Carnegie Deli,” another woman said. “And does she have an inhalator? There’s that all-night drugstore a few block away…”

Amazing, he’d thought. Everyone assumed that he and Taylor were living together.

They weren’t.

“I prefer that you keep your apartment,” he’d told her bluntly, at the start of their relationship.

“That’s good,” she’d said with a little smile, “because I intended to.”

Had she told people something else? Had she deliberately made the relationship seem more than it was?

He’d thought back a few weeks to his birthday. He had no idea how she’d known it was his birthday; he’d never mentioned it. Why would he? And yet, when he’d arrived at her apartment to take her to dinner, she’d told him she wanted to stay in.

“I’m going to cook tonight,” she’d said with a little smile. “For your birthday.”

He made a habit of avoiding these things, a homemade dinner, a quiet evening, but he couldn’t see a way to turn her down without seeming rude so he’d accepted her invitation.

To his amazement, he’d enjoyed the evening.

“Pasta Carbonara,” she’d said, as she served the meal. “I remember you ordering it at Luigi’s and saying how much you liked it.” Her cheeks had pinkened. “I just hope my version is half as good.”

It was better than good; it was perfect. So was everything else.

The candles. The bottle of his favorite Cabernet. The flowers.

And Taylor.

Taylor, watching him across the table, her green eyes soft with pleasure. Taylor, blushing again when he said the food was delicious. Taylor, bringing out a cake complete with candles. And a familiar blue box. He’d given boxes like that to more women than he could count, but being on the receiving end had been a first.

“I hope you like them,” she’d said as he opened the box on a pair of gold cuff links, exactly the kind he’d have chosen for himself.

“Very much,” he’d replied, and wondered what she’d say if he told her this was the first birthday cake, the first birthday gift anyone had ever given him in all his life.

He’d blown out the candles. Taken a bite of the cake. Put on the cuff links and felt something he couldn’t define…

“Dante?” Taylor had said, her smooth brow furrowing, “what’s the matter? If you don’t like the cuff links—”

He’d silenced her in midsentence by gathering her in his arms, taking her mouth with his, carrying her to her bed and making love to her.

Sex with her was always incredible. That night…that night, it surpassed anything he’d ever known with her, with any woman. She was tender; she was passionate. She was wild and sweet and, as he threw back his head and emptied himself into her, she cried out his name and wept.

When it was over, she lay beneath him, trembling. Then she’d brought his mouth to hers for a long kiss.

“Don’t leave me tonight,” she’d whispered. “Dante. Please stay.”

He’d never spent the entire night with her. With any woman. But he’d been tempted. Tempted to keep his arms around her warm body. To close her eyes with soft kisses. To fall asleep with her head on his shoulder and wake with her curled against him.

He hadn’t, of course.

Spending the night in a woman’s bed had shades of meaning beyond what he needed or expected from a relationship.

Two weeks after that, he’d attended this charity ball without her, listened to people urge him to feed his mistress chicken soup…

And everything had clicked into place.

The birthday supper. The fantastic night of sex. The plea that he not leave her afterward.

Taylor was playing him the way a fisherman who’s hooked a big one plays a fish. His beautiful, clever mistress was doing her best to settle into his life. She knew it, his acquaintances knew it. The only person who’d been blind to the scheme was him.

“Excuse me,” he’d suddenly said to everyone at the table, “but it’s getting late.”

“Don’t forget the chicken soup,” a woman called after him.

Dante had instructed his driver to take him to Taylor’s apartment. It was time to set things straight. To make sure she still understood their agreement, that the rules hadn’t changed simply because their affair had gone on so long.

In fact, perhaps it was time to end the relationship. Not tonight. Not abruptly. He’d simply see her less often. In a few weeks, he’d take her to L’Etoile for dinner, give her a bracelet or a pair of earrings to remember him by and tell her their time together had been fun but—

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 through that season with an endless array of beautiful women on his arm.

On his arm, but not in his bed. It had been a long time until he’d had sex after Taylor, and even then, it hadn’t been the same.

The truth was, it still wasn’t. Something was lacking.

Not for his lovers. He knew damned well how to make a woman cry out with pleasure but he felt—what was the word? Removed. That was it. His body went through all the motions, but when it was over, he felt unsatisfied.

Taylor was to blame for that.

What in hell had possessed him, to let her walk away? To let her think she’d ended their affair when she hadn’t? A man’s ego could take just so much.

By Monday, his anger was at the boiling point. When the private investigator turned up at his office, he greeted him with barely concealed impatience.

“Well? Surely you’ve located Ms. Sommers. How difficult can it be to find a woman in this city?”

The man scratched his ear, took a notepad from his pocket and thumbed it open.

“See, that was the problem, Mr. Russo. The lady isn’t in this city. She’s in…” He frowned. “Shelby, Vermont.”

Dante stared at him. “Vermont?”

“Yeah. Little town, maybe fifty miles from Burlington.”

Taylor, in a New England village? Dante almost laughed trying to picture his sophisticated former lover in such a setting.

“The lady has an interior decorating business.” The P.I. turned the page. “And she’s done okay. In fact, she just applied for an expansion loan at—”

The P.I. rattled on but Dante was only half listening. He knew where to find Taylor. Everything else was superfluous.

How surprised she’d be, he thought with grim satisfaction, to see him again. To hear him tell her that she hadn’t needed to leave him, that he’d been leaving her—

“…just for the two of them. I have the details, if you—”

Dante’s head came up. “Just for the two of what?” he said carefully.

“Of them,” the P.I. said, raising an eyebrow. “You know, what I was saying about the house she inherited. A couple of realtors suggested she might want something newer and larger but she said no, she wanted a small house in a quiet setting, just big enough for two. For her and, uh…I got the name right here, if you just give me a—”

“A house for two people?” Dante said, in a tone opponents had learned to fear.

“That’s right. Her and—here it is. Sam Gardner.”

“Taylor.” Dante cleared his throat. “And Sam Gardner. They live together?”

“Well, sure.”

“And Gardner was with her when she moved in?”

The P.I. chuckled. “Yessir. I mean—”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Dante said without inflection. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Yeah, but, Mr. Russo—”

“Most helpful,” Dante repeated.

The detective got the message.

Alone, Dante told himself he’d accomplish nothing unless he stayed calm, but a knot of red-hot rage was already blooming in his gut. Taylor hadn’t left him because she’d grown bored. She’d left him for another man. She’d been seeing someone, making love with someone, while she’d been with him.

He went to the window and clasped the edge of the sill, hands tightening on the marble the way they wanted to tighten on her throat. Confronting her wouldn’t be enough. Beating the crap out of her lover wouldn’t be enough, either, although it would damned well help.

He wanted more. Wanted the kind of revenge that her infidelity merited. How dare she make a fool of him? How dare she?

There had to be a way. A plan.

Suddenly, he recalled the P.I.’s words. She’s done well. In fact, she’s just applied for an expansion loan at the local bank.

Dante smiled. There was. And he could hardly wait to put it into motion.