Chapter Seven
The sunlight caught the ring and made it glow like a dragon’s eye, as Charlotte placed her hand on the railing of the plane steps and began to ascend them.
True to his—written—word, Dante had sent a limousine to collect her that morning, just a few hours after she’d woken up and instinctively reached for him, needing his touch, wanting him, craving him.
A short search of the apartment had revealed the note and the ring box.
And though the ring was utterly, incredibly beautiful, and not ostentatious rather than just perfect, she’d had a strange heaviness in the pit of her stomach ever since seeing it.
Because it was too perfect. Because it was just the kind of ring she might have wanted to choose if this had been real and she didn’t want Dante to just get that about her.
She didn’t want him to be able to have that sort of insight.
It unnerved her and made her question their ability to keep one another at arm’s length, no matter how often they promised each other they would.
Except, it was obviously just a fluke. He’d probably walked into the jeweller, asked for something not-too-diamond-y and chosen the first thing he’d been presented with after that.
She paused, a few steps from the top of the plane stairs, throwing a glance over her shoulder back to the airport runway, looking at the car that had driven her here. The ring itself wasn’t the sole reason she felt so weird and uncertain this morning.
It was everything about last night.
Things he’d revealed without meaning to.
Things she’d wanted to admit to him, that she’d never told anyone other than Jane.
It was the way they’d fallen asleep together—a first. But at some point in the night, Charlotte had woken up and realised he was still there and despite her every effort, something nice and warming had slid into place inside of her.
Something she didn’t ever want to feel because of a man but couldn’t help in that moment.
For a little while, last night, she’d felt as though she were part of something special.
As though she were part of something and someone.
All her life she’d vowed to never want that.
To never put herself in a position like her mother had, of relying on a man.
Of relying on anyone, other than Jane. With Jane, she’d allowed herself to trust, to love, to rely.
But Jane was different.
Something had happened when they were young that had connected them, like siblings, but stronger. They both felt that bond and would always feel it.
Again, a hint of guilt shifted through her when she thought of her best friend and she crossed her fingers, hoping that she was more than a match for Zeus Papandreo’s brand of arrogant charm.
Yes, she trusted Jane with her life. But there was only Jane.
The truth was, Charlotte’s mother had been completely destroyed by her love affair gone wrong.
She’d been cast out by her own family and her mental health had suffered throughout her life.
Charlotte had, from a young age, been aware of the ravages her mother endured, but had been unable to help and had known, all the while, that she was to blame.
That her existence had caused that pain. That ache. That brokenness.
Mariah, for her part, had tried to do her best for Charlotte, but Charlotte knew something that no child should ever have to grapple with—that her mother didn’t love her.
She couldn’t bring herself to. Because Charlotte was half Aristotle, she was a constant, living reminder of what Mariah would never have.
Charlotte had been sent to boarding school, presumably to stop reminding Mariah of that romance.
And from that point on, Charlotte had begun to train herself in living her most independent life and relying on nobody.
‘Good, you’re here.’ Dante’s voice popped through the bubble of her memories.
She turned back towards the door of the private jet, stomach twisting at the sight of him.
In another suit, despite the warmth of the day.
Though as she watched, he removed the jacket and draped it over one shoulder. ‘Are you coming?’
She ignored the double entendre. Or barely registered it.
He’d caught her in a moment of heart vulnerability, when the past and all her wounds, were right at the surface of her mind, so she had to fight hard to wrap a protective cloak about herself and assume a look of nonchalance that befitted this scenario.
‘Yep,’ she said, after a beat, forcing a smile to her face and taking the rest of the steps, until she was on the little platform just outside the door.
‘Good. The flight is ready for take-off.’
‘Okay.’
Charlotte went to step inside but Dante didn’t move, so the moment she did, they were close enough to touch and all the air in her lungs seemed to urgently need to escape. Her fingertips tingled with a desire to feel him. To brush over his hair or his shoulder. To dig into his neat hips.
‘You need a new bed.’
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Her eyes widened as she glanced up at his face, frowning. ‘I do?’
‘Hell, yes. That thing barely passes as a bed.’
She laughed then, a natural and spontaneous sound. ‘What’s wrong with my bed?’
‘Apart from the fact it’s tiny and feels like it could break at any second, the mattress is lumpy.’
She laughed. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘I would have thought you could handle a few bumps, Dante.’
His jaw clenched. ‘I can sleep on a wooden floor if I have to. But not every night. You shouldn’t be sleeping on that bed.’
‘It’s fine. It came with the place.’
He made a sound of disgust. ‘Charlotte, you cannot be serious.’
‘It’s fine,’ she repeated. ‘Far better than lots of women have.’
‘So you’re going out in sympathy with Britain’s unhoused population?’
She pulled a face.
‘Because I can’t see how you having a bad back and sleepless nights does anything to help anyone...’
‘You’d be surprised what you can get used to. I don’t even feel the springs any more.’
He shook his head. ‘You can afford a new bed, can’t you?’
‘It’s not about that.’
‘This doesn’t make sense.’
‘Of course it doesn’t make sense to you,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Dante, tell me this,’ she posited. ‘How many cars do you own?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But more than one,’ she said, with confidence.
‘Cars are collectible.’
‘Cars are a terrible investment. They lose value the second you take them out of the showroom.’
‘I don’t collect them to make me money. I collect them because they’re collectible.’
‘And I’m not casting aspersions on your lifestyle choices, even when I fundamentally disagree with them. I’m just saying—we’re different people. And that’s okay.’
‘Good quality sleep is important for your health,’ he continued, in a tone that reminded her a little of a headmaster. ‘I don’t know how you get anything done in the day after spending the night on that piece of junk.’
She laughed again. ‘You’re ridiculous. It’s totally fine.’
‘It is not—,’
She pressed a finger to his lips. ‘You’re forgetting that I probably weigh half what you do,’ she said.
‘The bed really doesn’t bother me like it does you.
But if it makes you feel any better, you don’t ever have to be in my bed again.
’ As soon as she said it, she felt a strange, twisting ache, like she’d just closed the door on something that she’d actually really enjoyed.
Having him in her space. Having him in her bed.
Warning sirens blared, but she ignored them. She was in total control of this.
‘Deal. My place it is from now on.’ He looked down the plane and nodded slightly. ‘Take your seat, Shaw. It’s show time.’
* * *
In Dante’s opinion, Charlotte Shaw always looked good enough to eat.
Scratch that. Pretty much any man on earth would share that same view.
But today, of all days, she looked particularly, mouth-wateringly delectable, in skin-tight white pants and a silky blouse that was just the perfect fit on her slender frame, tucked in at the waist, but billowing a little above, so he caught a hint—but not quite enough—of the outline of her breasts.
Her feet were encased in her usual sort of shoe—heels—and her hair was long and loose around her face, all fiery and wild, in a way that made him ache to drive his hands through it.
Unbidden images of her from the night before raced through his head.
Just inside the door of her flat, for Christ’s sake he hadn’t even been able to get three steps in the door, down on her knees.
Taking him deep in her mouth, those perfect lips wrapping around him.
He’d thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Had she honestly been planning to marry someone else? Any guy who’d agree to her proposal? The thought turned the blood in his veins to ice. It was interesting to contemplate how much he hated that idea, even when he knew that their relationship was shallow, limited to sex, by mutual agreement.
‘Hello, earth to Dante,’ she clicked her fingers in his face, her expression now one of schoolmarm impatience. ‘Are you even listening to me?’
‘I wasn’t,’ he said, without a hint of apology.
Her brows lifted.
‘Don’t be hurt. I was thinking about you instead,’ he said, voice gruff and deep, laced with the desire that was flooding his body.
Her cheeks glowed pink and her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip, before she dragged it between her even white teeth.
‘Down, boy,’ she muttered, but her pupils were huge and he knew—because they’d been doing this for long enough—that she was finding it as hard as he was to ignore the sexual chemistry that fogged the air between them.
‘This is study time,’ she reprimanded in a mock cross tone.
‘You’re right. What have I missed?’
She pursed her lips in exasperation. ‘Dante, we’ve been talking for ten minutes. Have you really not been paying attention?’
Had it been that long?