“I’m sure you had a type picked out, right?” she prompted, when it looked like he was done speaking.
“I always thought I’d marry a beautiful, elegant creature who would be the perfect wife and mother. We would have a quiet, calm marriage with mutual respect for each other. So much respect that the ugly concept of divorce would never once enter our minds. We would never argue, and we would have two children. A boy and a girl.”
“Would they be as boring as their mother, or as cowardly as their father?” Cleo asked scathingly, and she felt his arm tense around her waist before it relaxed again.
“Probably a mixture of both,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Boring cowards,” she said sympathetically. “Luckily you’re loaded, else they’d have absolutely no friends.”
“So why are you casting disparagement on my future wife and me?” he asked.
“You want someone without personality,” she said. “A beautiful, empty vessel, into whom you would pour all your unrealistic expectations for the perfect marriage. The perfect Stepford wife.”
“Que?”
“It’s a movie. Considering how much you hate horror films, it doesn’t surprise me that you’ve never seen it. It’s about a bunch of guys who turn their wives into these perfect housewives. They all think the same and act the same. But never mind that. The point is, she’d never challenge you, and you’d be bored with her in months.”
“And I’m a coward, why?”
“Because you don’t want to be challenged. You’re terrified that a woman with any personality will mess up your perfect, orderly life and that you wouldn’t be able to deal, and then the fighting would start and the irritation with each other and then the inevitable divorce. Just like your dad, right?”
“I refuse to wind up like him.”
“Yeah, well, your dad’s an idiot.” Cleo wasn’t in the mood to pull any punches tonight.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said, his voice wobbling a little. “But I know why I think he’s an idiot, so I’m interested in hearing your view.”
“Because he’s clearly an appalling judge of character, and he never seems to learn from his past mistakes. Sound about right?”
“Sí.”
She patted his arm smartly.
“Good talk,” she said, and this time he actually chuckled.
“I like you a lot, Cleo,” he said, the words sounding impulsive. “You make me laugh more than anyone else ever has.”
“Oh, how . . .” She paused to think of the word. Unexpected. “Nice of you to say that.”
“I wonder if Zach would have had your sense of humor.”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” she said, clamming up at the sound of his name.
He squeezed her briefly in apology and dropped it. The conversation died after that, and Cleo listened to his breathing even out and become deeper. His arm grew heavy around her waist, and after a while, the comforting weight of that arm and the soft little snore that came with every third breath he took lulled her into a deep sleep.
When Cleo woke the next morning, it was to the same bleak reality that she’d woken up to over the last fortnight, but this time the knowledge didn’t physically weigh her down as much as it had just yesterday. She turned over and stared into Dante’s relaxed face. He was still fast asleep, and as she really looked at him for the first time in two weeks, she saw that he appeared exhausted and definitely thinner. He had lost weight and had gained a few lines on his face. It was clear that this loss had taken a physical toll on him as well. At least his bruises from the accident had disappeared; there was only the very faintest tinge of yellow left around his eye.
She watched as his breathing became shallow and his eyes started to flutter beneath their lids, and when they opened, she kept her gaze level. She watched confusion flicker in his eyes for a second, followed by what could only be described as radiant joy, which flared and disappeared so quickly that she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it or not.
“Morning,” she murmured, and then wrinkled her nose and covered her mouth. He grinned in delight at the gesture.
“Come on, morning breath isn’t cute,” she protested. He leaned over and dropped a kiss on the back of the hand covering her mouth.
“Buenos días, dulzura,” he said, his voice rasping sexily. “How did you sleep?”
“Like a log,” she said, still from behind the hand. He stretched with a groan and smiled at her contentedly. God, he looked so beautiful in the morning, with that stubble, the slightly crooked grin, and his hard, ripped chest uncovered. She tried—and failed—to avert her eyes.
“Me too. Best sleep I’ve had since it happened.” His gorgeous smile dimmed somewhat at the reminder.
He got out of bed and stretched again, arms up over his head, with a massive yawn. Cleo blushed at the sight of all that toned, gorgeous flesh and at the obvious morning erection straining at the front of his white boxer briefs. The underwear left very little to the imagination. He noticed her fixed stare and glanced down at himself.
“It’s nothing,” he shrugged. “Morning wood. Although waking up next to you has definitely made it more impressive than usual.”
It reminded her of Tokyo and how comfortable he had been with his own nudity.
“You’re getting out of those pajamas today,” he mandated. “And we’re going out.”
“Dante,” she murmured miserably. She really didn’t want to be among crowds of happy people when she felt like she was only half-alive.
“Trust me, cielo,” he implored, and she bit the inside of her cheek painfully as she considered his words.
“Please, I don’t think I can be around people right now.”
“Nothing like that,” he said. “Just us. Trust me.”
To her surprise he took her to a yacht, the Arabella, which he proudly told Cleo was his. She recognized it from the photograph in his study.
“This is nice,” she said as he helped her on board. She looked around, fascinated, and was reaching out to touch one of the intricate knots on the crossbar of the mast when Dante barked, “Stop!” She jerked back her hand in fright.
He took her hand and led her to a cushioned seat by the steering wheel.
“Sit here and don’t touch anything, okay? If I need your help, I’ll let you know.” Bossy Dante was back. Great.
She pointedly folded her arms over her chest and stared back at him mutely. His lips quirked when he turned away from her and started untying rigging and doing the other mysterious and fascinating-looking things that boat people did. Because he hadn’t brought a change of clothes with him last night, he was wearing a pair of Luc’s faded old jeans, battered sneakers that her brother used for handiwork around the house, and a T-shirt that was a size too small for him. He looked scruffy and absolutely scrumptious, and it was hard for Cleo to focus on much else. While she had definitely learned to value many other aspects of Dante’s character—his warmth, his sense of humor, his kindness and thoughtfulness—she still fully appreciated the packaging all that unexpected generosity of spirit was wrapped up in. The man was damned fine.
But she was soon distracted by his seeming skill around the boat. As with all things, he just looked supremely competent and confident. Cleo had never been on a boat before and had no idea how things worked. So in hindsight she should probably not have reached for that knot like a child who didn’t know better. She might have broken his boat.
After he used the motor to steer them out of the harbor, he unfurled the sails and switched off the engine, leaving only the creaking sounds of the boat, the swish of water as they skimmed across the surface of the ocean, and the sound of the wind billowing in the white sails.
It was magnificent. Absolutely and unutterably peaceful.
“Got your sea legs yet?” he asked after about half an hour of not a single word exchanged between them. The silence had been enjoyable and comfortable. Cleo, who was still sitting where he’d left her, looked up, not sure what to make of the question.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve just been sitting here, very industriously not touching anything,” she said pointedly, and he chuckled.
“Since you usually do your own thing, I had to speak a bit sharply to ensure you understood that I meant business this time,” he said, and she gasped, clutching a hand to her chest.
“Oh my God, are you kind of, almost, sort of apologizing to me?” She squealed, and he very uncharacteristically rolled his eyes. A habit he may have picked up from her.
“Yes, I am,” he acquiesced. “Kind of. Almost. Sort of. I’m still trying to work my way through that list of yours.”
She laughed merrily and then immediately sobered.
“Cleo, it’s okay to laugh,” Dante said gruffly. “It’s okay to be happy. There is no right or wrong way for you to deal with this.”
“And how do you know this?” Since when had he become an expert grief counselor?
“When I went back to the hospital the next day and found you gone.” His voice broke slightly on that last word, and his eyes darkened. “I immediately went to Luc’s place to fetch you. Luc and I had a long conversation.” That was news to her. Luc had never told her about it.