Giving up on the story, I pull on the bathrobe that matches the negligee and pad barefoot down the quiet hallway. Footlights illuminate my way.
Downstairs, I pause in the foyer. Light spills from under the study door. I don’t want to bother Dante when he’s working. Resisting the urge to check in on him, I carry on to the kitchen where I keep the lights on a dim setting and try to be quiet as I fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove.
While I wait for the water to boil, I prepare a mug. Then I stare through the big window. A few spotlights fall on the trees and cycads in the garden. Lights are on in the summerhouse as well as in the pool. The turquoise water glimmers like a translucent gemstone against the dark blue of the night. It looks inviting, but the weather is turning, and it’s starting to get chilly outside.
In the far corner of the backyard, the windows of the guesthouse are dark. The guards who patrol the property sometimes sleep there if they work in shifts. Dante commissioned more men than necessary to surveil the neighborhood. He doesn’t want to take any risks now that I’m home.
Home.
What Dante told me probably explains why I don’t feel at home in this beautiful house. The environment still seems foreign. Sometimes, I can’t shake the weird notion of hostility that creeps up on me in quiet moments such as now.
The shrill whistle of the kettle cuts into my thoughts and makes me jump. I grab the kettle and remove it from the heat to stop the noise before switching off the gas.
I’m pouring hot water over the teabag in the mug when movement in the reflection of the glass catches my eye. I lift my head to see Dante entering the kitchen.
I put the kettle on a cork plate, take my mug, and turn around. “Hi.”
He eyes the mug that I cup between my hands. “Can’t sleep?”
“Sorry.” I rest my backside against the counter. “I didn’t mean to distract you from your work. I tried to be quiet, but I got lost in thought and forgot to remove the kettle before the water boiled.”
He crosses the floor and stops in front of me. “What were you thinking about?”
“The house.” I shrug a shoulder. “It’s beautiful. I was just admiring the garden and the pool.”
“I’m glad you like it.” His deep, gruff timbre makes my skin come alive with prickles of sensual awareness. “And you can distract me anytime.”
Only Dante can turn me on with nothing but his voice. I have a hard time keeping my own voice level. To my credit, I even manage an eye roll. “You know what I mean. I didn’t want to bother you.”
His smile is warm. “You can never bother me.”
The pleasant feeling that spreads through my chest is even warmer. I lift the mug. “Want some?”
He comes closer and sniffs the tea. “Chamomile?”
I nod.
“No, thanks.” His smile stretches, making his dimple appear. “I’ll pass.”
“I can make you something else.”
He shoves a hand in his pocket. “I’m good, but I appreciate the offer.”
His stance is relaxed, but the shirt that fits his broad chest and hard abdomen like a glove is creased, and his hair is messy like when he’s raked his fingers through it repeatedly.
I can’t help but notice how mouthwateringly sexy that look is on him. Dante is a man who’s always in control, and his usual immaculate appearance reflects that quality. His unshakable character and iron will are the traits that make him so successful in his job and as a leader. His single-minded dedication to his tasks has always been widely admired. Leander used to be jealous of the compliments Dante got. Once Dante has decided what he wants, he chases it mercilessly. He acts without scruples when it’s necessary. He’s not afraid of judgement. The strategist in him knows exactly how to fight a war to win. Losing isn’t a word that exists in his vocabulary.
To win is one thing, but staying at the top takes courage and intelligence. The price is often paid in blood. Men like him learn to sleep with one eye open. His vigilance is indispensable for survival.
There’s no doubt that his strengths make him a dangerous opponent. But they also prevent him from relaxing and letting go. At moments like these, he’s just ruffled enough to remind me that for all his godlike qualities, he’s still human.
My hands itch to be buried in his hair. I long to fix it. A deep-seated need compels me to solve all his problems. “Tough day?”
“It comes with the territory.”
I want to ask if he wants to talk about it, but under the circumstances, I’m probably the last person he can trust with illegal business. I never contemplated the web of problems that would accompany my memory loss. My husband can’t confide in me if my mind is broken.
“Come on a date with me,” he says out of the blue, jolting me from the direction my thoughts have taken.
