Dante's Twins. Catherine Spencer
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