A Ruthless Proposition(40)

“This is the code for the elevator, should you decide to go home later.” He took hold of her hand and held it palm up before dropping her car keys in it. “If you choose to leave, please let James know that you’re going. I’ve left him with explicit instructions to ensure you get home safely.” She didn’t say anything to that, even though she was doing some serious mental eye-rolling. She’d been getting herself home safely for years now, but this was Dante’s paranoid world, and while she was in it, she supposed she’d have to adhere to the weirdness.

He was standing so close to her that she could feel his torso brush against her chest with every inhalation of breath. He lifted his hand and oh-so-tenderly brushed her hair back from her face. His fingertips grasped one tendril, and an enigmatic smile played about his perfect lips.

“Love the blue,” he murmured. “I prefer it to the pink. Pink’s not your color.”

“I was thinking of going p-purple next,” she heard herself saying inanely, and he looked at the strand he held captive in his fingertips for one long, evaluating moment.

“It might clash with your eyes a bit. The purple would have to be subtle,” he announced, and she nodded, wondering why they were standing here discussing her hair. He seemed to snap out of whatever spell he was under and blinked a couple of times before shaking his head and dropping her hair.

“Anyway, I . . . uh . . . I should get back to work. Try to rest, dulzura,” he said, his voice soft. “It’ll do both of you the world of good.”

The word both reminded Cleo that the main reason she was here and that he even wanted her close was because of the baby. He’d kicked her out of his life before they’d known about this pregnancy, and the baby was the only reason she was back. She’d better not lose sight of that fact, and she had damned well better not start weaving dangerous fantasies around this man. Especially now that she was starting to see other—likable—aspects of his personality.

She watched him leave and waited for a few moments before she trudged up to one of the spare rooms. She kicked off her shoes on her way up the stairs and shrugged out of her denim jacket. By the time she fell into the closest bed, she was wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of boy shorts. She dragged a comforter up to cover her body and was asleep in seconds.




Cleo’s wreck of a car was still parked in the underground garage when Dante returned home that evening. He had—uncharacteristically—finished work at the stroke of five, leaving a lot of speculative glances and raised eyebrows in his wake. He had ignored everybody’s blatant curiosity and rushed to get home. According to James, Cleo hadn’t yet left, and Dante wanted to assure himself that she was okay. Considering her stubborn nature, he would have expected her to leave hours ago. The fact that she was still here was a little concerning.

He let himself in, and a quick glance around the lower level of his apartment told him that it was empty and quiet as a tomb. He could feel his heart start up a heavy bass beat in his chest as panic began to edge its way into his consciousness. He didn’t know what the hell he was expecting to find, but he wasn’t sure it would be good.

He headed up the stairs and told himself that he was being ridiculous, even while his breath caught in his throat. He was so focused on reaching the top of the single flight of stairs that he didn’t see the shoe on the step in front of him and tripped over it. He glanced down incredulously and picked up the small white sneaker, feeling a little perplexed by its presence there. The shoe’s twin lay two steps up. And a denim jacket was carelessly thrown over the banister just above the second shoe.

He picked up the items as he went along, feeling like someone following a particularly naughty trail of bread crumbs . . . denim skirt, T-shirt, and even a bra were scattered on the staircase and landing, and Dante found himself wondering if this was an attempt to seduce him.

A rueful glance down at his straining erection told him that if it was an attempt, it was wholly successful so far. He reluctantly acknowledged that the thought of a half-naked Cleo in one of those huge beds was more than enough to make his dick stand up and go “Yes, please.” There he stood—making an incongruous picture—with an armload of decadently Cleo-scented clothes, rampant and ready for her. He glimpsed a tiny sock discarded outside the middle door and followed it blindly, knowing that Cleo was probably behind that door.

Naked and as primed for him as he was for her.

Hopefully.

He tossed her clothes aside and stumbled toward the door, opening it without knocking and without further thought. The sight that met his eyes stopped him dead in his tracks. She lay in the middle of the huge bed, curled up in a tight ball, fast asleep. He could see that she had attempted to drag the comforter up over herself, but the thing had slid half off the bed and only covered her slender thighs. She was wearing a pair of those damned boy shorts he so loved—Daisy Duck again—and a white tank top. She must have dragged the bra out from beneath the tank. She had one hand tucked beneath her cheek and the other curled over her abdomen in an unconsciously protective gesture; her knees were tucked and drawn up almost to her chest. For such a tiny thing in such a huge bed, she took up a surprising amount of space.

Asleep she presented a picture of innocence, yet that didn’t dampen his desire for her one bit. Thank God she was sleeping, or Dante might have made a huge mistake. Bringing sex into this confusing situation would complicate things exponentially. He would have to ignore these baser urges, especially if she was moving in here.

He walked over to the bed, unable to take his eyes off her. Completely relaxed like this, without that challenging look in her eyes and the combative tilt of her jaw, she was goddamned beautiful. The revelation stunned him. He had never really seen this beauty before and couldn’t be sure why he was seeing it now. She still had those same odd features that in no way seemed to go together. Most of the time she could probably be described as pretty in an offbeat way, but at that moment, she was nothing short of breathtaking.

He didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to evaluate this change of heart, and instead dragged the comforter back over her and tucked her in securely before turning and walking out of the room.




When Cleo woke up, she was completely disoriented and panicked. Where was she? A glance around didn’t help matters when she saw not one familiar item anywhere. She took a deep breath and tried to remember what had happened before she’d fallen asleep. When she recalled where she was, she groped around for her phone, which was tucked beneath the pillow, to check the time. It was just after eight in the evening, and she’d slept for nearly nine hours.

There were half a dozen missed calls on her phone from Blue and not a single one from Luc. She sat up quickly and speed-dialed Blue’s number.

“Cleo? Thank God!” Her friend’s voice throbbed with relief, and Cleo felt guilty for making her worry. “Where are you? And what’s going on? Luc isn’t making any sense. He slammed his way into his study and refuses to talk to me about whatever it is that’s bugging him. All I know is that you’re somehow involved.”

That was unusual behavior for Luc, who always told Blue everything. Cleo tried not to think about what it could possibly mean if he refused to even talk to Blue about this.

“Dante Damaso went to speak with Luc this morning,” Cleo said quietly, her voice thick after nine hours of disuse.

“Dante Damaso? Why?”

“He’s my baby’s father. He told Luc that I’d be living with him until the baby’s born.” Blue was completely silent at the other end of the line. “Blue?”

“Oh my God,” Blue moaned. “Cleo.”

“I feel horrible. I know what good friends they are . . . were.”

“You could still come and stay with us. You don’t have to live with him,” Blue said.

“I know that, but he is this baby’s father, and I think this is the best move for everyone. Most especially for my baby.”

“Luc will come around, Cleo,” Blue told her.

“I ruined their friendship, Blue,” Cleo said, tears running down her cheeks.

“It’ll work out,” Blue said, always the optimist. “He’s going to need time, though.”

“I’m at Dante’s right now, but I won’t be moving in for another couple of weeks yet. Do you think I should come and talk to Luc before then?”

“Let me talk to him and try to get him over the worst of it,” Blue suggested. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thank you.”

“Cleo are you . . . do you . . .” Blue framed hesitantly. “Do you have feelings for him?”

“No.” Cleo ignored her annoying internal voice, which had been silent for so long, as it called her a heinous liar.

“Okay.”

“It was just something that happened.” Cleo felt the need to explain the inexplicable, mostly for her own benefit. “In Tokyo. A thing. He was there, I was there. It happened. We used protection, but how does that quote from Jurassic Park go? ‘Life will find a way.’”

Blue giggled, and Cleo could hear the tears in the bubbly sound.