Dante's Twins

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.”

CHAPTER THREE

HER father had taught her to swim when she was only three years old and it had marked the beginning of a lifelong passion for her. Thoroughly at ease in the water, she’d spent many a happy hour with a mask and snorkel, exploring the secluded bays on the islands lying off the southwest tip of Singapore.

Although it lay farther north of the equator, Poinciana’s warm tropical lagoon reminded her of those times. Even without a face mask she could see schools of fish darting among the coral heads below her: flamboyant striped angelfish similar to those of her homeland waters, gaudy Spanish hogfish, dramatic black-capped basslet and iridescent blue parrot fish.

More relaxed than at any other time since she’d arrived on the island, Leila lost herself in that quietly alive world. But the fish were shy, elusive creatures, posing no threat to her safety, so when something suddenly wound itself firmly around her ankle and held her immobilized, she almost screamed with fright.

Kicking herself free, she turned in a tight somersault and came up to find herself treading water next to Dante. Had it been anyone else, she’d have lambasted him for sneaking up on her like that. But how could any woman hang on to her annoyance when she found herself mesmerized by a pair of eyes made all the more remarkable by the color they stole from the sea and sky?

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, cupping the back of her head in his hand and tugging her close. “I happened to see you leave the house and I just had to be with you.”

He sounded almost indignant, as though he resented the impulses driving him. “But you wished you could have stayed away,” she said, understanding exactly how he felt.

He nodded, the motion freeing the drops of water dazzling the tips of his lashes and sending them flying. Below the surface of the lagoon, his hips brushed against hers, a brief, erotic sweep of flesh against flesh. “Yes, and no. To be honest, I don’t understand a thing of what’s going on. All I know is that I’ve thought of precious little else but you from the moment I first set eyes on you.”

Unable to resist, she slid her hands over the planes of his chest and up around his neck. “I know,” she said. “It’s the same for me. I could hardly sleep for thinking of you and when I did finally drop off—”

Inching closer, he smothered the rest of her confession in a kiss. Long and slow and full of sweet fire, it stole her breath away. And just like fire, it consumed her until she was nothing more than one pliant, aching flame that left her professional aspirations in ashes, along with sound judgment and any intstinct she might once have possessed for self-preservation.

He pulled her into a tighter embrace, sliding his hands around her hips and molding her to him. Clinging together, they rode the gentle waves, oblivious to everything but the rhythm of their own passion. Caught in a current entirely of their own making, their legs tangled, mating with an intimacy that flooded her with a desire as overpowering as it was alarming.

What had happened to the woman whose signature trademark had always been the restraint and modesty with which she lived her life? Where had she gone? Until Dante, she’d never allowed a fully dressed man to take such brazen liberties.

Yet here he was now, practically naked and certainly making no secret of his arousal, twining around her with such potent effect that she was ready to offer herself to him without reservation, in full view of anyone who might happen to notice. To beg him to bury himself in her once again and ease the heavy, throbbing ache he’d awakened.

Before she could act on the impulse he pulled away from her, his eyes darkening with anger. “For Pete’s sake, someone’s watching us through binoculars from one of the front verandas!”

The blood, which seconds before had run rampant throughout her body, rushed to her face. “Oh, Dante, how mortifying!”

“I’d call it pathetic.” Furiously he raked his hair back from his brow. “What the hell kind of nerve does it take for someone to pull a stunt like that?”