―Tess.‖ She accepted his greeting, nearly gasping as his fingers wrapped around hers in a moment of contact that was nothing short of electric. Good Lord, the guy was gorgeous. Not model pretty but rugged and masculine, with a square-cut jaw and lean cheekbones. His full lips were enough to make any one of the collagen-plumped socialites at the reception weep with envy. In fact, his was the kind of profanely masculine face that artists had been trying to capture in clay and marble for centuries. His only visible flaw was a jag in the otherwise straight bridge of his nose.
A fighter? Tess wondered, some of her interest fading already. She had no use for violent men, even if they looked and sounded like fallen angels. She offered him a pleasant smile and started to walk away. ―Enjoy the exhibit.‖
―Wait. Why are you running away?‖ His hand came to rest on her forearm, only the slightest brush of contact, but it stilled her. ―Are you afraid of me, Tess?‖
―No.‖ What a strange question for him to ask.
―Should I be?‖
Something
flickered
in
his
eyes,
then
disappeared. ―No, I don‘t want that. I want you to stay, Tess.‖
He kept saying her name, and every time it rolled off his tongue, she felt some of her anxiety melt away. ―Look, I‘m, uh... I came here with someone,‖ she blurted out, reaching for the easiest excuse that came to her.
―Your boyfriend?‖ he asked, then turned his shrewd gaze unerringly toward the crowded bar where Ben had gone. ―You don‘t want him to come back and see us talking?‖
It sounded ridiculous and she knew it. Ben had no claim over her, and even if they were still dating, she wouldn‘t let herself be dominated so much that she couldn‘t even talk with another man. That was all she was doing here with Dante, yet it felt intensely intimate. It felt illicit.
It felt dangerous, because despite everything she‘d learned about protecting herself, about keeping her guard up, she was intrigued by this man, this stranger. She was attracted to him. More than attracted, she felt connected to him in some inexplicable way.
He smiled at her, then began a slow prowl around
the
Cornacchini
display.
“Sleeping
Endymion,” he said, reading the placard for the sculpture of the mythical shepherd boy. ―What do you think he dreams about, Tess?‖
―You don‘t know the story?‖ At the subtle shake of his head, Tess drifted toward him, almost unaware that she was moving. Unable to stop herself until she was standing right beside Dante, their arms brushing against each other as she looked into the Plexiglas with him. ―Endymion dreams of Selene.‖
―The Greek moon goddess,‖ Dante murmured next to her, his deep voice vibrating in her bones.
―And are they lovers, Tess?‖
Lovers.
Warmth stirred somewhere deep inside her just to hear him speak the word. He‘d said it casually enough, yet Tess heard the question as if he‘d meant it for her ears alone. The low, ticklish hum in the side of her neck intensified again, pulsing in time to the sudden rise of her heartbeat. She cleared her throat, feeling strange and unsettled, all her senses sharpening.
―Endymion was a handsome shepherd boy,‖ she said finally, drawing on recollections of what she‘d learned in a college mythology course. ―Selene, as you said, was the goddess of the moon.‖
―A human and an immortal,‖ Dante remarked. She could feel his eyes on her now, that whiskey-colored gaze watching her. ―Not the ideal combination, is it? Someone usually ends up dead.‖
Tess glanced at him. ―This is one of the few times things worked out.‖ She stared hard at the sculpture in order to avoid looking Dante‘s way again and confirming that he was still watching her, so close she could feel the heat of his body. She started talking again, needing to fill the space with something other than the awareness that was crackling around her. ―Selene could only be with Endymion at night. She wanted to be with him forever, so she begged Zeus to grant her lover eternal life. The god agreed and put the shepherd into an endless sleep, where he waits each night for his beloved Selene to visit him.‖
―Happily ever after,‖ Dante drawled, a note of cynicism in his voice. ―Only in myths and fairy tales.‖
―You don‘t believe in love?‖
―Do you, Tess?‖
She glanced up at him, into a penetrating, probing gaze that felt as intimate as a caress. ―I‘d like to believe in it,‖ she said, not sure why she was admitting this now, to him. The fact that she had said so to him confused her. Anxious suddenly, she strolled over to a neighboring case of Rodin pieces.
―So, what‘s your interest in sculpture, Dante? Are you an artist or an enthusiast?‖
―Neither.‖
―Oh.‖ Dante kept pace with her, pausing beside her at the kiosk. Tess had dismissed him as out of place when she first saw him, but hearing him speak, seeing him up close, she had to admit that despite the fact that he looked like something out of a Wachowski brothers‘ action movie, there was an unmistakable level of sophistication about him. Beneath the leather and muscle, he had a worldly wiseness that intrigued her. Probably more than it should. ―What then? Are you a patron of the museum?‖