If that wasn’t enough, she’d have to confront the hardest truth of them all. Not just to Dyl and Nik, but to herself. She’d have to accept the revelation that kept surging from the depths of her soul, refusing to be silenced—the realization that she’d slept with the enemy, with full intent and purpose this time, and now knew he wasn’t such an enemy after all. The “carpetbagger asshole” had indeed come bearing a carpet—but it didn’t hide dirty money. It held pure magic. And the ride he’d given was a journey she’d treasure forever.
No.
No
. The decision powered her enough to slip from beneath him and push the button for the lobby again. Carpet rides weren’t for forever. That’s why they were magic. They weren’t real. It was time to get out of here and put her feet on the ground again. It was Thanksgiving. She had things to do, including a lot of packing. Thirty-seven more days was going to pass very quickly.
She hoped.
After he bit out a string of Italian she did
not
want translated, Dante followed her into the lobby and out to the porte cochere. The Jag was waiting, already started up and idling, likely to warm up the interior. Vincent stood across the driveway, huddled against the freezing air and grabbing a cigarette. He gave them both a nod as they came out, then took the tactful approach and decided his cig was suddenly very interesting. Nevertheless, Dante pulled her farther away, out onto the sidewalk where the building’s lights didn’t reach.
In the shadows, with his determined stare fixed to her, he instantly turned back into the Dom who’d given her the best night of ecstasy in her life. Okay, that was an ideal explanation. She tried to hang on to that. Focusing purely on what they’d given each other’s bodies was the perfect way to get through this. She used that to encourage a saucy little grin to her lips, and she glanced up him from beneath her lashes.
“Well, Mr. Tieri. Thank you. I hope it was as good for you as it was—”
“Shut up, Celina.”
He curved a finger under her chin and forced her gaze up. His touch was like the handle of a furnace, even though he wore nothing but his sweats and a black crew sweater. But his face was the fire that decimated her. His eyes, twin coals of intensity, added to the heat from his hand, branding her to the bone. His forehead creased, and his lips parted, making his features a portrait of raw torment.
Her breath clutched. She curled one hand into his sweater and the other into his beard. As her senses got lost in the dark indigo fires in his gaze, she silently pleaded for his kiss. Just one more. Just one more whirl on the magic carpet, before she reclaimed her life, her control, and her sanity, if that were possible. In so many ways, she wished it wasn’t.
He leaned closer. The cloud of his breath mingled with hers.
He didn’t kiss her.
“You remember when you ordered me to stop with the stellina shit?” He shook his head, chuffing softly. “Too late. You know why?” He pressed his hand over hers, in the center of his chest. “The earth moves. The moon does too. The constellations change. But the stars are still there. And you, Celina Kouris, are always going to be right here. You can’t change that, even six thousand miles away,
mia stellina di prodigio
.” One side of his mouth lifted as tiny snowflakes dotted the air around them. “You’re always inside me, my star of wonder.”
* * * *
The timing on this heartache crap couldn’t suck more.
She tried the old-fashioned American approach of dousing the emptiness in every holiday tradition she loved, and even a few she’d never tried before. Shopping. Lights. Eggnog. Lights. Wreath-making class. Lights. No matter what she tried, getting her yule groove on was not turning the Dante switch off.
It didn’t help that he was everywhere.
The Daley Plaza Christmas Tree ceremony? Sponsored by GRI.
Some Central Shelter pups needing homes for Christmas? He plucked up the first one.
Needy kids getting their own free-play hours at the Navy Pier Wonderfest? Another GRI sponsorship.
Maybe the man was trying to drown his own misery in the merry-merry.
The thought made her heart clutch. And her head really pissed off.
What the hell are you doing? Just tune him out. Shut him off.
Ha. Easier said than done, especially because every ho-ho-ho action the man took brought a flurry of local press love—and the inevitable incredible pictures too. Hating herself for every second, Celina pored over each photo like the sick stalker she’d once accused him of being. When she was sure nobody was looking, she’d run a tender finger over the handsome face in the society pages—only to frown when she looked deeper at the images. His shoulders were too stiff. His smile was more porous than newsprint. Didn’t anyone else see all this? Was anyone there to get angry at how tired he looked, to order him to slow the hell down and lighten the hell up?
The only picture that gave her hope was the shot of him and his new puppy. The shot, taken on that incredible couch of his, showed him next to a Christmas tree that looked plucked out of a State Street window. The pooch was a swoon-worthy yellow Lab. He looked happy and satisfied, like he’d finally decided to get on with his life too.
That was before she found out what he’d named the puppy.
Star.
Celina had tossed that article into the trash can, then took the rest of the afternoon off, claiming she needed to get in some packing. She put up eight more packages worth of lights on the house, then sat on the front lawn and watched the star-shaped bulbs glowing in the twilight. It wasn’t long before the lanterns turned into golden blobs instead. Eyes brimming with tears did that to one’s vision.
“Idiot,” she muttered at herself.
You want him. He wants you. There are twenty more days until you leave. What’s the harm of taking one more magic carpet ride? How much worse can the crash landing be than this?
“Worse,” she’d commanded back. “Don’t do it, Cel. Don’t do it. Just get this part the hell over with. Just a few more days, and it’ll be better.”
Dear God, it had to get better.
She still caved to a moment of weakness the next day. After sneaking out of the office “for some air,” she pulled out her cell and punched in his direct office number. But before the line could click through, big brother came to the rescue in the nick of time. Dylan was calling from the base; he’d been called up on one of his famous last-minute, it’s-a-favor-for-the-CO flights, and would Celina like some one-on-one time with her niece before shipping out for the Land of the Rising Sun? Thinking three days with an eleven-year-old wild child was just the distraction she needed, she picked Sami up from school and dragged her promptly to the grocery store for supplies to bake
Kourambiedes
. Despite Sami’s horrified glance, she’d persisted. How hard could coated butterball cookies be, right?
She had, of course, burned the whole first batch. Sami sheepishly suggested the Web site for
Good Day Chicago
. Some really cool guy was on it just this morning, she explained, detailing the finer points of Kourambiedes creation. They’d yanked up the site on her laptop.
That “really cool guy” was Dante. Who in the course of the segment, was more than happy to tell the show hostess how passionate he’d suddenly gotten about Greek food. The perky blonde flashed a flirtatious smirk and joked about researching her family tree for some hidden Greek DNA.
Celina had slammed the laptop shut, ditched the cookies, and bought ten more boxes of lights.
By the time Christmas Eve came, Dad had decided that since her place was now the official beacon into outer space for any aliens seeking a holly-jolly rager, the family’s holiday festivities for this year would be relocated to her living room. He gave her all of twelve hours’ notice for the switch, however, meaning that when she opened the door for him on the twenty-fourth, she’d just gotten done setting the world’s record for the fastest tree-trimming job.
After he greeted her with a bone-crushing hug and a buss to her forehead, Dad turned his piercing green stare onto her drooping tree. “Well.” He sighed. “At least you got it up,
paidi mou
.”
“
Well
,” she countered, elbowing him as she did, “I only had the dregs to pick from at the tree lot, Captain.”
“A good sailor’s—”
“Ready for anything at any time.” She rolled her eyes. “I know, Dad. I know.”
“Can’t say that Sami’s cell phone shots lied about the outside, though.” He swiveled the force of his gaze back to her. And by force, she meant a look that had surely served him well in prisoner interrogations. “Engaging in a little twinkle-twinkle therapy, sweetheart?”
She shrugged and turned for the kitchen. Anything to avoid his stare, which was cranked to the frequency of a piercing shot into her head. Shit, his scrutiny was like the bright green version of—
No. Don’t think of him. Not now. Not when Dad’s watching for every change down to the sweat in your pores. Don’t think of him, don’t imagine him, don’t remember his frittata right there on your stove, or the way he backed you into that counter…
“I like lights, okay?” she managed to retort.
“Those aren’t lights, daughter mine. Those are a fire hazard.”
“You want a beer?”
“After you tell me who the hell he is.”
Crap.
“What? He who?”
“Celina. Cut the skata.”
The doorbell dinged, but Sami didn’t wait for her to get to the door. Her niece came bounding in with a plate full of perfectly baked Kourambiedes and a potted poinsettia.
“Saved by the eleven-year-old on the holiday break buzz,” Celina muttered. She waved to Dylan, who swaggered in after his daughter and as usual, seemed to take up half the entryway. He looked especially formidable tonight, as he was still dressed in his camouflage work clothes and boots. His arms were filled with presents clearly wrapped by Sami, their seams lined in tape and a multitude of bows topping each package.
“Sorry for the grunge, Cel,” he called. “Long-ass day.”
“Yeah, yeah, likely story.” The comeback came from behind him, with the distinctive dry drawl of the guy who occupied the birth order between her and Dyl. Sure enough, Nikola slipped inside, carrying himself with wildcat grace, still finger combing his navy reg haircut. Though just an inch or so shorter than Dylan, Nik always carried himself with an elegance that made him compensate for the difference. Even tonight, though he still wore camos from the waist down, he’d changed into a long-sleeved navy crewneck that accented his torso in all the right ways. Yep, Nikola was her sib with the smooth wardrobe and the smoother nerves. It had surprised no one that he applied for Explosive Ordnance Disposal training as soon as he was able.
“Hey, Versace boy.” Dylan chuffed as he gave Nik a once-over. “Who the hell you trying to impress?”
Nik snorted. “It’s Christmas Eve, ass munch. Did you even shower?”
“Hey!” Dyl jerked his head toward Sami. “Language, dick wad.”
“Dear Lord,” Celina mumbled.
“All right, you two.” Dad issued the interjection. “Grab some beers and take it outside for a few.” He reached inside the fridge and pulled out three of the bottles Celina always kept on hand for her brothers. But instead of keeping the third bottle for himself, he handed the trio over to her. “Your sister will be joining you.”
Her nerves went on alert. Hell. She smelled a setup.
“Dad, I have a turkey
and
a ham in the oven.”
“And now that I’m monitoring them, we know nothing will come out black.”
Celina swung a glare at Sami. Her niece gave up a giggle. “Sorry, Auntie Cel. I couldn’t help telling them about the cookies. It was funny!”
From the front door, Dylan yelled, “Get your ass out here,
kopelia mou
. Bring some of that flawlessly made Kourambiedes too. Gee, I wonder which awesome brother is responsible for that.”
“Not funny, Dyl,” she called back.
The snow they’d gotten on Thanksgiving had long since melted. Now it was just plain cold outside, making her glad for the beer’s warmth in her blood as she joined Dylan on the front porch swing. She’d be even warmer if she were drinking some of Dante’s scotch—a thought that got banished as soon as it struck. Damn it, she wasn’t going there. Not tonight. Not
ever
. She was better than that. She had to be. Mom and Natalie had let the beast suck them in. A few flashes of bling and a shiny sugar-daddy lollipop, and they were gone without a thought about the emotional destruction in their wake. She’d beaten the beast. She could sure as hell live without Dante Tieri’s stupid expensive scotch.
Living without Dante Tieri was another issue altogether.
“Crap almighty, Cel.” Nikola stood on her lawn between a family of snowmen and a pair of reindeer that dipped their heads up and down, “feeding” on his boot. “Thank fuck I don’t have to disarm
this
time bomb.”
“I think you got that wrong, Fusion.” Dylan wielded Nik’s service call sign with an affectionate smirk. “Looks like the device has detonated already.” He took another swig of his beer and stretched a hand around her shoulder. “The question is,
Celinitsa
, when are you gonna blow too?”
She surged to her feet. “Damn it, I knew it. Dad—”
“Is concerned about you, like we are.” Nik barely moved as he said it, but his tone still struck like a slap. “You think because you’re not hitting a front line that the rules of departure don’t apply to you? Things at home need to be clean and right, or you’re going to be worth shit to your country over there.”
She turned on them, heading for the porch rail. She wished she could grip it, but it was wound tight with little glowing candy canes. “I’m fine, okay? Things are clean.” Damn it, the “clean” was driving her crazy.
“What about right?”
The question came from Dylan. It made her shiver. He never resorted to using a funeral-parlor murmur like that, unless he felt the situation was just as serious. Celina locked her teeth and gulped deep, fighting back the words she desperately wanted to give her brother, preferably in huge sobs against his rock-hard shoulder.