Dante's Blackmailed Bride (4 page)

Embarrassed color warmed Francesca’s cheeks. “I hope you know that I don’t usually…I’m not—”

He waved that aside, but not before she saw his cheeks turn a ruddier shade than normal. “I helped you out of a tight spot this time because, quite frankly, we need you and what you can do for Timeless Heirlooms. But, I won’t bail you out again.”

“I understand.” It killed her to be having this conversation with her father. More than anything she hoped to win both his approval, as well as his friendship. Instead, he’d helped her lie to his wife and put their relationship at odds. “As I told Tina, it won’t happen again.”

“Listen to me, Francesca.” He took the chair Tina had vacated. “Your six-month contract with Timeless Heirlooms is almost up. Tina and I are both very excited with what we’ve seen from you so far. Equally as important, we’ve enjoyed working with you.”

She smiled in genuine pleasure. Receiving such a huge compliment from her father meant the world to her. “Thank you. I’ve enjoyed working with you, as well.”

How could she not? She was living the dream of a lifetime, one she wanted more than anything. Thanks to the detective she’d hired, she’d been able to track down her father the minute she’d graduated from college and approach him without anyone being the wiser. To her delight, she discovered that he shared her passion. Even more incredible, the company he and Tina ran was actively hiring designers, if only on a trial basis.

“Tina and I were on the verge of making your position here permanent. But after last night, we simply can’t take the risk. Not yet. You understand our predicament, don’t you?”

Her smile died. In the past six months she’d struggled to prove herself as both a top-notch designer, as well as a woman he’d be proud to claim as his daughter. It had all gone so well…until last night. And now she’d ruined everything.

“I do understand,” she managed to say. “Kurt, I can’t thank you and Tina enough for giving me this opportunity. I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He offered her a slow, generous smile, one that never failed to fill Francesca with an intense longing. He stood and held out his hand. “We’ll give it another couple months. Maybe once we have Juliet Bloom under contract, we’ll feel more comfortable offering you a permanent position with us.”

Francesca slipped her hand into his bearlike grasp, fighting back tears. Determination filled her. It didn’t matter what it took, she’d find a way to win his approval, as well as a permanent job at Timeless Heirlooms. If that meant avoiding Sev—after the lunch he’d forced on her—then that’s what she’d do. Because nothing was more important than having the opportunity to get to know her father, even if she could never tell him the truth about their relationship.

“Thank you for offering me another chance,” she said with as much composure as she could manage. “You won’t regret it.”

“All right,” Francesca stated the minute she joined Sev at Fruits de Mer. “You blackmailed me into coming here. Now what do you want?”

Sev studied her silently for a long moment. If he could peg her with a single word it would be
defensive.
From the moment she’d stepped foot in the restaurant and spotted him, she’d had trouble meeting his gaze. He could guess why. He’d seen this woman naked. Had taken her in his arms and made love to her, not once or twice, but three times during their night together, each occasion more passionate than the last. It should have ensured an ease between them. And maybe it would have, except for one vital detail.

Forty-eight hours ago they’d been total strangers.

“You expected things to be different,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

She looked at him, the unremitting darkness of her eyes making a startling contrast to her pale complexion and honey-blond hair. “Today, you mean?” She gave him her full attention, a painful vulnerability lurking in her gaze. “Let’s just say that I’d hoped things would be different.”

She’d changed toward him since their night together and he could guess the reason. Now that she’d discovered his identity, she’d decided to end things between them—something he refused to allow. “You hoped our reaction to each other would change now that you know who I am. Because you work for Timeless Heirlooms and I own Dantes. You thought that fact would put a stop to what we’re experiencing.”

“Yes.” A slight frown creased her brow. With a swift glance toward nearby tables, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “I need to explain something. I don’t know who that woman was two nights ago. I’ve never—” She took a deep breath. “I’m not making excuses.”

“Of course not.” He understood all too well. “But that doesn’t alter the facts.”

She retreated from him, icing over tension and longing with such speed that he suspected she’d had many years of practice. “As far as I’m concerned, whatever happened between us has run its course.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Because you say so? Because it would be so much more convenient on the work front?” He couldn’t help laughing. “You’re kidding, right? This isn’t something you can turn off like a light switch.”

“I think it is.”

He studied her for a moment to assess her veracity. Satisfied she actually believed the nonsense she trotted out, he placed his hands flat on the table. He slid them across the linen-covered surface, inch by inch. When his hands came to within a foot of hers, she released a soft groan.

“Okay,” she said, snatching her hands back. “Point made. Maybe this…this—”

“Attraction? Desire?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Lust?”

She waved the choices aside. “Those are just varying shades of the same thing.”

“And you’re still experiencing each of those shades, as well as every one in between.”

He caught the faint breathy sound of air escaping her lungs. “Whatever this is hasn’t run its course at all, has it?” she asked.

“Not even a little.” He massaged the tingle in his right palm. “I could feel you, you know.”

Her brows shot up. “Feel me? What do you mean?”

“When you walked in the room, I didn’t even have to see you,” he admitted. “I could feel you.”

“I don’t understand any of this. How is that possible?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. “Is it the same for you? Has it eased off any since that night?”

She wanted to lie, he could read it in the hint of desperation in those huge, defenseless eyes. “Maybe it has.” She moistened her lips. “I’m sure it’s not quite as bad as the other night.”

“There’s an easy way to tell.” He extended his hand across the table once again. “Go ahead. Touch me.”

Francesca hesitated for a telling moment before splaying her fingers and linking them with Sev’s. She gasped at the contact, going rigid with shock. The next instant everything about her softened and relaxed, sinking into what he could only describe as euphoria. Then the next wave hit. A hot tide of need lapped between them, singeing nerve endings and escalating desire.

“I want you again.” He told her precisely how much with a single scorching look. “If anything, I want you even more than last time.”

“We can’t do this. Not again,” Francesca protested. “I’ve already put my job in jeopardy by spending the night with you. If the Fontaines find out it was you at the show…that you were the reason I left, they’d fire me on the spot. I won’t risk that. Working at TH is too important to me.”

Didn’t she get it? “You want me to stop?” He lifted their joined hands. “Tell me how. Because I’d love to know.”

She leaned forward, speaking in a low, rapid voice. “What I want is an explanation. Maybe if I understood how and why, I could make it stop.”

He hesitated, loath to repeat the story Primo had told him. But she deserved some sort of answer, even one as far-fetched as The Inferno. It didn’t matter that he refused to believe what they were experiencing had anything to do with something so fantastical, or that his grandfather’s Inferno fairy tale belonged just there…in fairy tales. She should know.

He forced himself to release her hands, despite an almost uncontrollable urge to sweep her up in his arms and bolt from the restaurant with her. More than anything he wanted to hole up somewhere with acres of bed, twenty-four-hour room service and a suitcase full of condoms.

“Look, I think I can explain this, though the explanation is going to sound a bit crazy.” Nor was this the venue he’d have chosen to tell a woman about The Inferno. But at least a crowded restaurant would give the illusion of safety once she’d fully ascertained the extent of his family’s insanity. He gave it to her straight. “There’s a Dante legend that my grandfather swears is true, about an Inferno that occurs when a man from my family touches the woman meant to be his.”

Her eyes narrowed, but at least she didn’t run screaming from the restaurant. “Somehow I don’t think this is the sort of story we should hash out in public. Do you?”

“Not even a little. My place isn’t far from here. We can talk there, if you’d prefer.”

“Talk?” A swift laugh bubbled free and she regarded him with wry amusement. “That would make a nice change. I don’t suppose you can promise that’s all we’re going to do?”

He shook his head. “I can’t promise a thing where you’re concerned.” He leaned back, giving her enough room to breathe. Hell, giving them both enough room to think straight. “But I swear, I’ll try. Will you trust me enough to come with me?”

She turned those bottomless dark eyes on him in silent assessment. He’d never met a woman quite so fascinating. She faced the world with elegance and strength and feminine dignity. And though he sensed they were integral parts of her, he also suspected they were a shield she used to protect herself from hurt.

Every so often he caught a glimpse of a waif peeking out, nose pressed to the glass, the want in her so huge and deep it amazed him that one person could contain it all. And yet, he also saw the steely determination that carried her through a life that—if he correctly read all she struggled to conceal—had slammed her with hardship while offering little joy to compensate.

After giving his offer a moment’s thought, she nodded. “I promised to meet you this one last time before we parted company, and I will. Besides, I always did like fairy tales even though they never come true.” A smile played about her perfect bow mouth, tempting him beyond measure. Then she surprised him by lifting a hand and signaling the waiter. “But who knows. Maybe this one will be different.”

T
en short minutes later they arrived at his Pacific Heights Georgian residence. “This is your home?” Francesca asked, clearly stunned.

He could tell the size and grandeur unnerved her. Hell, as a child it had unnerved him, as well. Built in the 1920s, his grandparents purchased it during Dantes’ heyday, when Primo controlled the reins of the company.

Sev had recently updated the house from top to bottom, taking a diamond in the rough and giving it the glitter and polish it deserved. While still on the formal side, he’d made a point to add a more welcoming feel to the place. From the two-story entry foyer, a curving staircase—complete with wrought-iron railing—swept toward the second story and an endless array of rooms perfect for entertaining.

“When I’m entertaining guests, I stay here. More often I use my Nob Hill apartment. It’s more compact. More to my taste.” Unable to resist touching her, he slid his hand down her spine to the small hollow at the base and guided her toward the private den he kept exclusively for his own use. “This is my favorite room in the house.”

Francesca visibly relaxed as she looked around. Light filtered in from a bank of windows that provided an unfettered view of the bay and Alcatraz Island. Two of the other walls bulged with books that overran the floor-to-ceiling mahogany cases. The final wall, at right angles to the windows, offered a cozy fireplace fronted by the most comfortable couch Sev had ever owned. He used the electronic controls to light the fire and gestured for her to have a seat.

It amused him that she took the precaution to sit as far from him as the couch cushions allowed. Understandable, but still humorous. “Okay, let me give it to you straight,” he began.

She listened intently while he ran through Primo’s explanation of The Inferno, refraining from asking any questions until he finished speaking. “You said that, in the past, your family experienced this Inferno,” she said after a moment. “What about your brothers? Have they felt anything similar?”

“I’m the first,” Sev replied.

Wariness crept into her gaze. “That suggests you buy in to all this.”

“No, not really.” And he didn’t, despite Primo’s insistence that legend matched reality. “I think it makes for a charming story, but a story, nonetheless.”

“Then how would you explain what’s happened to us?”

He’d given that a lot of thought and decided to believe the simplest explanation. “It’s nothing more than lust. Given time, it’ll fade.”

Though she took his comment with apparent equanimity, a pulse kicked to life at the base of her throat, betraying her agitation. “But what if it’s more than that? Has it ever infected the women in your family?”

“I don’t understand. Which women?”

She made an impatient motion with her hands. “Haven’t any of the Dante men had daughters? Have any of the Dante women experienced this Inferno?”

Sev shook his head. “There’s only been one daughter in more generations than I can recall. My cousin, Gianna. Here…let me show you.”

He circled the couch to a cluster of photos on a console table and picked up a panoramic photograph in a plain silver frame that showed a group shot of all the Dantes. Seated in the middle were Nonna and Primo. Sev, his parents and brothers stood to Primo’s right, while his Aunt Elia, and Uncle Alessandro, with their brood of four, stood beside Nonna. He handed the picture to Francesca when she joined him, tapping the image of the only female of his generation, a striking young woman with Sev’s coloring.

“If Gia’s been cursed by The Inferno, she’s never mentioned it.”

A hint of laughter lightened Francesca’s expression. “Cursed? I thought you said Primo called it a blessing.”

He couldn’t help himself. He leaned toward her, cupping her cheek. “Does it feel like a blessing to you?”

She shut him out by closing her eyes, concealing her inner thoughts. “No, this isn’t a blessing. It’s a complication I could live without.” She eased back from his touch and opened her eyes again, at the same time slamming impenetrable barriers into place. “And what about the other women? The women who are the object of the Dante men’s…blessing?”

“Like you and Nonna and Aunt Elia?”

“Yes. What choice do we have? How do we escape this Inferno?”

He gestured toward the image of his parents. “My father escaped by marrying someone else.”

Francesca blinked in surprise. “Your mother wasn’t an Inferno bride?”

Sev shook his head. “Shortly after they died I discovered letters that indicated he’d been in love with one of his designers, but married my mother, instead.”

“Why didn’t he marry the woman he really loved?” she asked hesitantly. “Do you know?”

Sev shrugged. “When I confronted Primo about it, he admitted that my mother had invaluable contacts in the industry. It was more of a business arrangement than a true marriage. Not that it did either of them any good.”

“What went wrong?”

Maybe it was the hint of compassion he heard in her voice, but he found himself opening up in way he never had with any other woman. “All of my mother’s contacts couldn’t make up for my father’s lack of business savvy.” He studied the photograph. God, they looked so youthful. Just six or seven years older than his own thirty-four, he suddenly realized. They also looked remote and unhappy, though how much of that related to their marriage and how much to business difficulties, he couldn’t determine. “They were on the verge of a divorce when they died in a sailing accident.”

“And you blame that on The Inferno?” she asked in patent disbelief.

“No. I blame it on bad luck.” He couldn’t tell her the rest. Couldn’t admit that he blamed himself for what happened right before and immediately after his father’s death. That piece of guilt he kept locked tightly away. “I’d just graduated from college. The day after their funeral, I stepped into my father’s shoes. I spent the first year of my tenure dismantling Dantes and the last decade rebuilding it.”

“I’m so sorry.” She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. Just that, and yet it made all the difference. The connection between them intensified in some indefinable way. Before it had been sheer sex, or so he believed. Now another emotion crept in, one he resisted analyzing. She hesitated a split second before confessing, “I lost my mother, too. I know how painful that must have been for you.”

That might explain some of the sorrow he’d seen lurking in her eyes. “How old were you?” he asked.

“Five.” Soft. Abrupt. And a clear message that she had no interest in pursuing the conversation.

Not that he planned to drop it. He’d just approach the subject with more care. “It helped that my brothers and I were older, though at just sixteen, Nicolò had a tough time adapting. Fortunately, Primo and Nonna stepped in, which made a huge difference.” He paused. “What about you? Did your father ever remarry?”

“My parents weren’t together,” she admitted, avoiding his gaze. “I went into foster care.”

Oh, God. He tiptoed across eggshells. “Didn’t the authorities contact him?”

“They didn’t know who he was. I didn’t find out myself until after I’d graduated from college and hired someone to locate him for me.” She picked up the next picture in the line, putting a clear end to the discussion. A slight smile eased the strain building around the corners of her mouth. “Primo and Nonna on their wedding day, I assume?”

“They eloped right before immigrating to the U.S.”

The ancient black-and-white showed a couple arrayed in wedding finery. They looked impossibly young and nervous, their hands joined in a white-knuckle grip. But the photographer managed to catch them in an unguarded moment, as they gathered themselves for a more formal pose. They glanced at each other, as though for reassurance, and the power of their love practically scorched the film.

“Nonna didn’t want to escape The Inferno, did she?”

“No.”

Francesca returned the photograph to the table with clear finality. “Well, I do.” She paced restlessly toward the windows. Once there, she glanced over her shoulder. With the sunlight at her back, her expression fell into shadow. But he could hear the tension rippling through her voice. “I’m not interested in you or Dantes’ Inferno or having an affair with you. I just want to be left alone to pursue my career. This is a distraction I don’t want or need.”

“I wish it were that simple. That I could make it go away for you. But I can’t.”

He wanted to see her, to look into her eyes and know her thoughts. To touch her and reestablish the physical connection between them. Without conscious thought, he joined her at the windows. The instant he slid his palm across her warm, silken skin, his world righted itself.

“Why can’t I just walk away from you and never look back?” she demanded. He heard the turmoil that underscored her question, as hunger battled common sense. And he understood what she felt since it mirrored his own reaction to their predicament. “Why can’t I simply return to the life I built for myself?”

“You can. We both can. The minute we work this out of our systems.”

Sev swept Francesca up into his arms and carried her to the couch. She murmured a token protest, one lost beneath the series of tiny, biting kisses he scattered along her throat. They tumbled onto cushions that molded to their entwined bodies and enfolded them in a private world of suede-covered down. The buttons of her blouse parted beneath his hands, revealing a feminine scrap of lace that struggled to contain her breasts. He couldn’t help himself. He reared back, drinking in the sight.

Two nights ago he’d seen her by moonlight and thought it impossible for her to look any more stunning than adorned in shades of silver and alabaster. But now, with her hair and skin gilded in sunlit gold, she stole his breath with her beauty. Inch by inch, he lowered himself onto her. And inch by inch, the heat they generated soared, like a thermometer rising. Given the number of promises he’d made and broken, he half expected her to push him away. Instead, she basked in that heat and wrapped him up in an ardent embrace.

It was as though they’d never left off from the night before last. He reacquainted himself with her mouth, plundering inward. She moaned in welcome and met him with a feminine aggression that sent him straight over the edge. There were too many clothes between them. He yanked at his tie and the first few buttons of his shirt, but somehow he’d lost the ability to work past the knot imprisoning him. Instead, he turned his attention to her and unhooked the front clasp of her bra. He filled his hands with her breasts and her breath escaped in a fevered rush.

“We were supposed to have worked this out of our systems by now,” she gasped.

“We will.” Maybe in a decade or two. “But until then I need your hands on me. I need to be inside you again.”

He shifted a knee between her legs and slid the hem of her skirt upward, uncovering acres of smooth, creamy thigh and a tantalizing glimpse of butter-yellow panties. He itched to explore all that lay beneath that scrap of silk. To see those curls gilded with sunlight, as well. He ran a finger along the scalloped edging, stroking inward toward dewy warmth until he found the sweet heart of her.

Francesca groaned in response, a rich, deep, feminine sound that called to him on every level and drove him ever closer to the edge. He knew that sound, had heard her make it countless times during the night they’d spent together. But there was another sound he wanted to hear…needed to hear. The sound she made when she climaxed in his arms.

She shuddered against his stroking touch and he couldn’t stand it another minute. He needed her—now. In a single swift move, he skimmed her panties down her thighs and tossed them aside. Next, he ripped his belt free and unfastened his trousers, pausing only long enough to remove the protection he’d had the foresight to stick in his pocket before their meeting. Her hands joined his, helping to free him from the restriction of his clothing. And then she cupped him, her touch cool against the burning length of him. Instead of easing the raging fire, it only served to intensify it.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so desperate to have a woman that he’d been unable to make it to the comfort of his bedroom. But with Francesca…Nothing mattered except to have her, right here and now. He lifted her and slid deep inside. Her legs closed around him as she welcomed him home.

His groan of pleasure mingled with hers, the heavy pounding of his heart in perfect tempo with hers. The breath exploded from her and then he heard her siren’s song, signaling her scramble toward the highest of peaks. He joined her there, calling to her, mating with her, locking them together until he could no longer tell where her body ended and his began.

They moved in perfect harmony, continuing a dance that had begun their first night together. The tempo this time around quickened, turning fast and hard and greedy. He couldn’t get enough of her, not how tightly she clenched around him or how she cushioned him against the softness of her woman’s body or how she met each thrust with joyous abandon. Long before he was ready for the encounter to end, she spasmed beneath him, and he found he couldn’t hold back, couldn’t resist going up and over the peak with her before crashing down the other side, holding her tight within his arms.

Long minutes passed without either of them moving—maybe because movement proved a physical impossibility. Finally, the breath heaving from his lungs, he levered himself onto his elbows and gazed down at her. Heaven help him, but she was beautiful, her face delicately flushed with the ripeness of passion, her mouth moist and swollen from his kisses, her eyes heavy-lidded and slumberous.

“I can’t walk away from you, Francesca. And I won’t.”

She closed her eyes with a groan. “I shouldn’t have agreed to have lunch with you. I should have known we’d end up like this again.”

He eased himself up and off of her. Holding out his hand, he assisted her from the couch and helped return a semblance of order to her clothing. “I didn’t give you a choice about lunch. And just so you know, I don’t plan to give you a choice in the future, either.”

She eyed him in open alarm, but didn’t ask the question he suspected hovered on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she asked, “Where’s the bathroom?”