Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

H E'D MANAGED TO KEEP things feeling more or less like a job interview and he was relieved about that. Yes, he needed to get to know her better. She was going to be the mother of his child. But he didn't want it to seem, for even a moment, like a date. Nor like he was enjoying himself.

Which he definitely wasn't.

She was almost heart-stoppingly beautiful, but even that made him feel guilty. How could he find another woman so attractive? How could he be attracted to her even now, knowing how disastrous it had been to give into those impulses?

And so he'd kept his distance and asked bland questions about her upbringing and her parents and her school and her friends, life in Australia, her dreams, her thoughts about global politics. He found her incredibly well-versed in all things, so much so he wondered if she spent hours each day reading the newspaper or listening to podcasts about current events? If he was looking for things which they had in common, then this was definitely one of them. Not only had Dante always had an interest in global events, with a company that had tentacles spreading across the world, and business interests in all corners of it, he had to stay apprised of events internationally. They could find shared ground discussing these things, at least.

His only disappointment in the night was how hard he found it to ignore her beauty, and the effect it had on him.

She wasn't just beautiful, he realised, when their main course plates were cleared away. She was vibrant and addictive. When she spoke, she used her mouth but also her eyes and her hands to communicate, and the latter reminded her of butterflies dancing on the breeze, moving through the air with grace and enthusiasm, to further highlight whatever point she was making.

"What did your brothers say about the news?"

She hesitated. "I haven't told them yet."

Something flickered inside Dante's belly. "No?"

She shook her head.

"Is it something you would prefer to say face to face?

"Not necessarily."

"Then why not tell them?"

"I will."

"I mean, why not tell them now?"

She shrugged. "I'll tell them soon."

"Do you need support?"

She formed her hand into a fist, smiled tightly. "No, thanks."

A waiter appeared, earning a frustrated look from Dante.

"Would you like to see the dessert menu?"

Georgia's eyes lit up but she quickly tamped down on that expression, frustrating Dante even more so. "No. I'd like to go…home. I'm…tired. "

Something shifted in his belly—the certainty she was lying to him. She wasn't tired; she was annoyed. Why? The night had gone so well! They'd managed to dispassionately swap a lot of information. He felt like he knew more about her now, was satisfied that she would be a good mother, that they were a good fit, in terms of co-parenting. Wasn't that the point of this evening? From Dante's perspective, it had been a success. So why was she brooding?

In the car, they drove in silence, but it was not comfortable nor companionable.

His mind was ticking over the question of why she was annoyed, and in the meantime, he seemed to have an inordinate amount of energy to focus on her. He hadn't noticed how sweet she smelled when they'd left the house, but now, in the confines of his Range Rover, there was the lightest hint of vanilla and musk that made his pulse thready and his temperature sky high. He drove looking straight ahead, except when his eyes, of their own volition, would glance sideways, noting the hint of cleavage exposed by the ruched neckline of her dress, the flawless, golden skin, and out of nowhere, memories of that night, when he'd touched as though it were the most natural thing in the world, flooded his brain, so he gripped the steering wheel harder, tighter, desperate now to be home as well.

Once the car pulled up out the front, she sat right where she was, staring at the house, frowning, before realising where they were. She unclipped her seatbelt, and then, without looking at him said, "Thanks for dinner. It was very nice."

That was exactly what he'd thought! Nice. A perfectly nice way to spend time, getting to know someone you were planning to raise a child with. So why did she close the door with a little too much force when she stepped out? Why was she practically marching towards the front door now?

He'd left a key for her on the first day she'd spent in his home, and she pulled it from her handbag now, but her fingers didn't seem to want to cooperate, so she fumbled as it inserted into the lock.

"Let me do it," he said, his voice deep and raw.

She ignored him. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine; you're angry. Why?"

She bit down into her lip, her sweet, soft lip and his whole body tensed, tightened, on high alert. Desire flooded him. Not here. God, not here, in his home. The home he'd shared with Bianca and Livvie. He reached for her key, turning it regardless of what she'd said, expecting some word of gratitude, but instead she threw him a look that might as well have accused him of being a neighbourhood cat killer, then stalked inside.

He followed behind her.

"Georgia, wait." His voice was commanding. There were few people on earth who would ignore it, in fact, and Dante had become used to that fact. Used to his importance, to being respected, to knowing he could speak and be listened to. Georgia was unimpressed. She continued to walk away from him, so he had no choice but to move after her, finally grabbing her wrist to still her, so she whirled around, glaring up at him, her chest moving rapidly.

"What do you want?"

Better not to answer her honestly in that moment. "What happened?" He asked instead, glad he was able to hold onto a semblance of his focus. "Why are you angry?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. We're supposed to be building bridges, aren't we? Getting to know each other."

"Yes. And we've done a great job of that." She threw her hands in the air. "I know all of the important things, like where you went to school and university and your parents' names and your siblings' names. Just like you wanted."

"That's what we both wanted."

"No, Dante, it's not," she spat on a small, angry laugh. "I wanted to get to know you. I wanted to hear you talk about your life like you were opening up to a friend, not reciting your CV."

His heart shut down. His mind closed off.

"Not because I want anything more from you," she added testily. "This isn't about romance, for God's sake. It's about…seeing each other as real people. Being real when we're together. How are we going to raise a kid if we speak like automatons? This is useless. Absolutely useless." She threw the words at him, hand on hip, then was decent enough to wait ten or so seconds before growling in frustration and stalking away.

He let go of her hand, and didn't go after her again. How could he? She was right, but that didn't necessarily mean he'd been wrong.

Georgia had eaten an entrée, a main course and almost the entire side serving of Ciabatta over dinner, all the while listening to Dante calmly enumerate his skills and experience in the office, wishing there was some way she could scratch beneath the surface and actually get a glimpse of what made the man tick. Instead, she was treated to the most awkwardly sterile, expressionless version of a person that could possibly exist. The more he maintained a depressing distance from her, the more she'd eaten, consoling herself with the delicious flavours. So there was no reason, really, for her to have woken at three in the morning with a grumbling tummy and a hunger that she knew, from recent experience, would only be satiated by a sandwich.

Reaching for the Vegemite she kept stashed in her suitcase—she couldn't bring herself to unpack here, because it just didn't feel like home—her hands brushed past several pairs of silky underwear, and she flushed to the roots of her hair remembering that Dante had come up here to retrieve her jacket. Had he seen them? Touched them?

The thought made her pulse speed up uncomfortably. Thankfully, her stomach rumbled, driving her out of the room and downstairs.

If she'd wanted such a bland recitation of Dante's biography, she could have asked Portia about him. Not that anything about Portia was bland, but she clearly knew the man inside and out and Georgia had no doubt she'd have been a font of wisdom on all things Dante. It was hard to put into words just why Georgia was feeling so frustrated.

Because she'd wanted to hear him laugh? To smile at her? To ask personal questions, about her pregnancy and her family and the kind of mother she wanted to be? Because she wanted him to look at her and see a woman, not just the mother of his baby? Not a woman, she hastened to assure herself, just a person.

She was so distracted by her thoughts that she didn't realise the rangehood lamp was on in the kitchen until it was too late, and she was already several steps into the room before Dante shifted and she gasped at the unwelcome surprise.

Even more unwelcome was the fact he wore only a pair of low slung shorts with an elasticized waistband, made of a sort of cotton material, so every part of him was easily discernible beneath the fabric.

She groaned softly, lifting a hand to her lips. But if Dante was in a state of undress, then Georgia had almost as much skin on show. It was a warm night, and she'd chosen to sleep in a lightweight singlet top and a pair of silk shorts with ruffled edges. They fell just below her bottom, and were not something she'd ever intended to wear around another soul.

"I was hungry," she said, into the silence. Somehow, the lack of noise felt thicker here and now, in the middle of the night with just herself and Dante in the kitchen.

"Were you?" His question was deep, his voice gruff, his accent thick. Her stomach knotted.

"Uh huh."

Their eyes seemed incapable of breaking their connection. She stared at him and he stared back and she felt as though something was dragging on her, a literal force she had to fight to ignore.

"Georgia…"

She waited, not moving, unable to make her body cooperate.

"What happened tonight?"

She shook her head. The anger she'd felt seemed a million miles away now. Her veins were charging with a static electricity that was making all thought impossible. "It doesn't matter."

He frowned, inhaling, so his chest shifted and her eyes finally left his, but only to drop lower, to the wall of abdominals she remembered touching and licking and tasting. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't matter. She could see him in her mind's eye, just as she had been ever since that night. The realisation was like a bolt of lightning. Yes, she'd been fantasising about him. She'd told herself she couldn't forget him because she hated him, but forced to reckon with the truth now, she grimaced.

She had to get out of there.

"I—just—I'm just making a sandwich," she said, after a beat. "I won't—take long." Her voice was so soft and halting, as though her words couldn't penetrate the stillness of the middle hours of the night.

"Okay." He watched as she moved deeper into the kitchen, closer to him. In fact, to reach the bread bin, she had to walk directly past him, which she did slowly, her arm brushing his chest so she shivered, and heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Actually," she whispered. "I'm okay. I'll wait til morning." She placed the Vegemite down and went to take a step back, but his hand snaked out, wrapping around her wrist, holding her where she was. Now it was Georgia's turn to suck in a quick breath of surprise, her eyes latching to his.

"Georgia," he groaned, closing the distance between them, his body pressed to hers, his arousal evident against her stomach. "We can't do this."

But his other hand came to her stomach, pressing to her belly, to the little life that united them and bonded them in a sacred and incredible way, and her heart leaped because maybe this was all they shared—an undeniable chemistry—but couldn't that be enough? Couldn't that help them forge a relationship of sorts, a respect and understanding? It didn't have to be conversation over dinner, it could be as simple as a physical connection.

"I know," she said, dubiously though, because she wasn't sure she agreed with him.

"I love my wife."

Her heart twisted. She knew that too, but for some reason, standing in the kitchen with him, that hurt. It really hurt. Was it just her feminine pride he'd injured?

She went to pull away but he closed his eyes, breathed in deeply.

"But I want you. Cristo, I hate myself for it, but I want you in a way that is burning me alive."

It was something. Not much. Not much more, in fact, that an admission of what was patently obvious. She could feel the strength of his desire for herself, pressed to her belly. She dropped her head forward, so it rested against his chest, trying to control this, to control herself, but her pulse was raging and her heart was racing; she was losing herself, just like she had in Como.

His hand on her stomach moved higher, to her breast, curving around it with possessive need and she jerked, tilting her head backwards in a visceral, aching response. He dropped his head, his lips brushing her neck, her throat, her décolletage, while his hand ran over her breasts, feeling their changed shape for himself, brushing her nipples until unbearable heat had built between her legs and she was whimpering with need.

He swore in Italian and then English, his hands pushing at her silk shorts as Georgia stepped out of them, then he was cupping her naked bottom, lifting her easily at the same time he pushed his own shorts down, just enough to free his arousal, wrapping her legs around his waist and thrusting into her, finding a wall to press her back against, kissing her hungrily, feeling her breasts, his voice a deep, guttural sound of animalistic need and want.

His possession of her was absolute and complete, pleasure like a blade slicing through her even as she was tumbling through fields of euphoria. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, and he kissed her harder, his hands moving to her bottom and kneading her flesh, until she exploded on a sharp, raw cry, the pleasure reverberating around them like a hurricane that had come out of nowhere and dissipated just as fast.

Her breath was soft and slow in the dimly lit kitchen, her heart racing against her chest. Dante pressed a kiss to her lips and when she was afraid he was going to put her down again and push her away, he instead began to move, carrying her wrapped around him, up the stairs and to her room. He placed her on the bed with reverence and kissed her here, slowly, delicately at first, his lips chasing hers before his mouth had full reign over hers, his hands removing her singlet whilst his lips followed the path, taking her nipples in his mouth, rolling them with his tongue, pressing his teeth to them, his knee wedging between her leg creating a desperate hunger in Georgia so she was writhing against him, seeking more of him already, needing him in a way that made her want to weep. How could she feel this for him, of all people?

The moment he sunk into her, all the way in, was like euphoria and manna all at once. She cried out, her voice no longer speaking in coherent English, her hands seeking to understand him through his flesh, running over his body, every inch of it, her mind in total disarray as pleasure began to build like waves in a storm, more and more, higher and higher and then she was crying out on a huge swell of release, lifting her legs and wrapping them around his back, her heels digging into him, holding him where he was, her body sheened in perspiration as she rode the waves back to shore, bit by beautiful bit. Only Dante wasn't finished and a moment later, he was stoking her pleasure once more, every thrust and movement a lesson in sensual mastery, so she was trembling against him when they came together, bodies entwined as one.

It was something strange.

Something out of time.

Something that didn't make sense and neither had wanted nor invited. And yet, it had happened. Georgia lay on the bed, her heart racing, questions on her lips. But then, in an awful instance of history repeating itself, Dante pulled away from her without looking at Georgia, and left the room, closing the door softly behind himself. Her eyes swept shut and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She dashed it away.

There was no need to cry.

She already thought the worst of him; this was no different.

But it still hurt.

It really hurt.

She was on the brink of sleep, exhausted and satiated and sad, when her bedroom door opened and Dante walked in carrying a plate and a glass of water. She sat up, her heart racing with adrenaline again. He flicked on the overhead light.

"You were hungry?"

She blinked into the blinding brightness, but took the plate from Dante, her stomach clenching when she saw that he'd made her a Vegemite sandwich. The Vegemite—a strong, salty yeast spread—was a thick coating of black on white bread and she grimaced at the thought of eating quite so much. But the gesture was sweet, and compared to what she'd thought a moment earlier, it was a relief that he hadn't simply walked out on her.

But she expected him to. So when he sat on the bottom corner of the bed, wearing his shorts once more, she took a bite of the sandwich and almost choked on the strong flavour. She reached for her water.

"What happened at dinner?"

She sighed. "You really think we need to talk about that?"

"I want to understand."

She replaced the water glass. "Okay." She toyed with the crust of her sandwich, pulling a small, Vegemite-less piece off and lifting it to her lips. "I was annoyed with you."

"I got that. Why?"

"Because you were treating me like a stranger."

He frowned.

"I don't mean—I know we're virtually strangers. But you were treating me like you wanted me to remain a stranger, just…one that knows the bare details about you."

"Wasn't that the point?"

"No, Dante," she sighed sadly. "I thought you wanted for us to actually get to know one another. Not as a ‘beginning' or whatever. Just like you might a colleague. I wanted to get to know you, not hear about you. And I wanted the same in reverse."

"We had a conversation about our past…"

"It wasn't a conversation. It was an exchange of information; that's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

"Don't be obtuse. You know it's not."

He was silent.

"Portia told me she worked for you for years before she started seeing Marco."

A muscle jerked in his jaw.

"And that you guys became friends."

He lifted one shoulder.

"So why can't we get to know each other like that? She was your PA and you knew it was never going to become romantic, but you still got to know her and like her."

"I wasn't, and never have been, attracted to Portia."

Georgia frowned. "She's very beautiful."

"Yes, I suppose she is, but I don't look at her and want to rip her clothes off."

Georgia's eyes widened. "But you do with me?"

His eyes bore into hers. "What do you think?" There was no pleasure in his voice. If anything, he sounded desperate.

"It's okay," she whispered, her heart cold. "I know it's just sex. You love your wife."

He was very still but then, he nodded. Which was exactly the opposite of what she'd wanted him to say or do. She'd needed reassurance. For him to tell her that of course it meant something beyond being just sex, even if that wasn't a prelude to love. She wanted to mean something , not just as a woman to have sex with because he couldn't be with his late wife.

Emotions made her throat hurt and her eyes sting.

"Anyway," she said, hoping he'd get the hint. "I'm tired."

Maybe he wanted to stay and talk this through some more, maybe he didn't, but her words had him standing, stepping towards the door. "Thank you. For…that."

She shook her head. "Please don't thank me. It makes me feel like a hooker."

His eyes pushed through hers, he shook his head once, and then left the room, a grim expression on his face that stayed with her all night, while she tried to sleep.