The Darkness Within #2
I could feel the tension radiating off him. That was a man with a lot of pent-up aggression. Part of me wanted to delve behind the stoic facade and find out what drove the man underneath, but another part of me wanted to eat up and go to bed and forget this day had ever happened.
Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow I would be back at work, in my own environment. I craved the normality that would bring.
When I’d turned my phone back on, I’d had a dozen or more text messages from Chloe. Instead of replying, I’d called her and explained I’d been away on a romantic jaunt this weekend. Yes, with Dante Marcelli.
She’d freaked out, just like I’d known she would, but there was no point in lying about that. I was staying at his Manhattan penthouse, for Pete’s sake.
I just hadn’t told her about the abduction, the imprisonment, the fight to prove my innocence, and Valentina. I felt bad about that, but on the other hand, I didn’t want to put her at risk. The less she knew about this whole sordid situation, the better.
By the time Dante and I finished eating, the knot in my stomach had returned.
“I’ve got some work to deal with,” Dante said, getting up. I looked at the dirty plates on the table and reached out to stack them and take them through to the kitchen.
“Leave it,” he snapped.
I stood back, throwing him a questioning look. “Are you going to do it?”
He didn’t answer me. Instead, he said, “There’s a TV in your room. You have free rein of the suite, except my bedroom and my study. Those rooms are strictly off-limits. You cannot leave, as you will be stopped the moment you step outside the door. Apart from that, you can do what you want.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said, irritated. He didn’t have to be so bossy.
“Any questions?”
Too tired to argue, I shook my head.
I watched him disappear down the hallway toward what I assumed was his study. A moment later, the door shut quietly behind him.
Left alone, I decided to turn in early. I was exhausted from the lack of sleep last night and my anxiety about coming here.
It was clear by his black mood that Dante didn’t want me in his apartment; he’d only suggested it because it suited Valentina’s plan. If it was going to get me my gallery back, I could stomach it for a few days, or weeks. Or as long as it took.
Last night felt like a very long time ago now. So much had happened. I’d gone from being held captive at the cabin to meeting Valentina and being drawn into the Marcelli family vendetta. The cartel wanted my gallery, and now we were going to fight back to save it.
I’d deal with the Marcellis later, after I got my business back.
I switched on the television, mostly for background noise.
Some late-night talk show flickered across the massive screen, the rent-a-crowd laughing at a joke the host had made.
I turned down the volume, then walked over to the window and gazed out.
The rain was coming down hard, blurring the Manhattan skyline.
I gave a wide yawn as exhaustion caught up with me. Changing into one of my silky nightgowns, I washed my face in the marble bathroom attached to the guest room and then slid beneath the impossibly soft, cream-colored bedding.
Placing my phone beside me to charge, I switched off the TV, then the lamp, and closed my eyes. I must have fallen into a deep sleep, because I woke up some time later, disoriented.
Heart pounding, I stared around at the unfamiliar surroundings, unsure where I was. Slowly, the room and my memory came into focus.
I was at Dante’s place.
“Thank God,” I muttered, pushing myself into a sitting position. All this moving around was worse than jet lag. And I didn’t even have the advantage of a fun travel destination to make up for it.
Twisting, I checked the time on my phone and groaned. It was three o’clock in the morning. I’d been asleep for over four hours.
There were also a flurry of text messages from Chloe, sent at nine thirty.
Chloe: So what’s he like in bed?
Chloe: I bet he’s good.
Chloe: He’s good, isn’t he?
Naturally, she’d assume we were sleeping together. That’s what normal well-adjusted people did on dirty weekends away.
Except we weren’t normal. We were anything but normal, but I couldn’t tell her that.
She wouldn’t be awake now anyway, which saved me from having to reply.
I was about to lie back down again when I heard a faint sound.
Was that music?
I lay there listening. It sounded like a country song, just darker and more mournful.
What was Dante doing playing music at this hour?
Intrigued, I slipped out of bed and cracked open the door, peering into the hallway. The music was coming from the living room where a soft light still glowed.
Curiosity overcoming me, I padded down the hall to see what was going on.
Dante sat alone on the couch facing the fireplace, one arm stretched along the back cushions, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. He was staring at the painting above the fireplace. Flames flickered over his dark angular features, giving him an almost demonic air.
He was so still, like a beautiful, tragic statue. The haunting song drifted softly through hidden speakers. It had heavy acoustic guitar, slow drums, and gravelly vocals. It reminded me of him.
I hesitated in the doorway. “Dante?”
His attention shifted toward me, sharpening despite the weariness in his expression. “Evelyn. You okay?”
I nodded, hugging my arms around myself. “I heard the music.”
“Did it wake you?”
I shook my head. He looked tense, broody, and about as human as I’d ever seen him.
“You always listen to country music in the middle of the night?” I asked quietly, coming into the room.
His gaze roamed over my nightgown and he let out a low, controlled breath. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Bad dreams?”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Something like that.”
The haunted look in his eyes made my chest ache unexpectedly. Surprising myself, I sat down next to him on the couch.
“What are you doing?” He stared across at me.
“You look like you could use some company.”
His shoulders stiffened. “I’m fine. I don’t want company. You should get some sleep.”
“So should you,” I retorted.
He didn’t respond, just studied me for a long, drawn-out beat. It was still raining outside and the song was reaching its chorus.
“You chose these, didn’t you?” I asked softly, nodding at the paintings.
He hesitated, then gave a curt nod.
I knew it.
“Why did you make me think you didn’t?”
He studied me for a long moment, then said, “I needed you to be afraid of me. If you thought I was a fellow art lover, you would have seen me differently.”
It was true. I would have.
“What about now?” I whispered.
He gave a tense shrug. “Now it doesn’t matter as much.”
“You don’t mind if I see who you really are? The man behind the mask?”
His silver eyes bore into mine, sucking the air from my lungs.
Then he blinked and turned away. “It’s a painting, Ophelia. That’s all.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whispered. “I never was.”
“Ophelia,” he growled softly, heat flickering behind his eyes. “Trust me, you need to leave.”
“Why?” I whispered. I didn’t know what I was doing, or why I was doing it, I just knew I wanted this man. “What will happen if I stay?”
It was a bad idea. The worst. Yet I still didn’t leave and go back to my room.
The silence stretched out.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he set the whiskey down on the table. Reaching across, he hauled me sideways into his lap.
I gasped as his arms wrapped around me, strong and firm. He smelled of aftershave, whiskey, and clean, male heat.
He laid his head on my shoulder, and I froze, unsure what to do.
Dante had never shown any vulnerability before and I wondered how much he’d had to drink.
Slowly, I reached up and encircled him, holding him to my breast.
He let out a low growl, as if resisting me physically pained him. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he lifted his head, just as I threaded my fingers into his hair, and his mouth met mine.
His kiss was deep, urgent, and I could taste the whiskey on his tongue. I felt the battle going on inside him. He wanted this, wanted me, but he knew we shouldn’t.
I didn’t disagree. It was all kinds of wrong, but maybe that’s what made it so good.
I couldn’t help the plaintive moan that escaped me as he snaked a hand up to grip the back of my neck.
It was such a blatantly possessive gesture, and I loved the little rush it gave me.
I liked that he couldn’t resist me, that he couldn’t stay away.
Because I couldn’t either.
We were drawn to each other like moths to a flame, even though we both knew we’d eventually get burned. It was inevitable.
“I thought you said last night was the last time,” I murmured against his lips.
“I lied,” he rasped, pausing just long enough to pull me forward so I was sitting directly in his lap.
“Oh boy,” I whispered, as his lips reclaimed mine and I felt his enormous erection pressing into my thigh through the silky material of my nightgown. There was no mistaking how much he wanted me.
With a low growl, he hiked it up around my waist. The flimsy silk panties I wore underneath were already soaked.
“Jesus, Ophelia. I love how wet you are for me.”
I didn’t bother to deny it. That’s what this man did to me.
“I need to taste you.”
He pulled the straps down and the top of my nightgown fell, exposing my breasts.
He drew in a ragged breath as he cupped them, as if testing their weight.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, before bending his head and taking one puckered peak into his mouth. It was hot and decadent, and when he sucked, I felt the sensation radiate downward, straight to my core. The man was sinfully good at that.
He massaged my other breast with his hand, teasing the nipple with his fingers. I was in ecstasy.
“Dante,” I groaned, my hands fisting in his hair.
I held him against me, wanting more. When he grazed my swollen bud with his teeth, it nearly sent me over the edge.