Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

I T WAS ONLY EARLY in the evening but that didn't matter. Dante strode across the living room and poured himself a large measure of scotch, his hands shaking as he lifted it to his lips and allowed half of it to soothe his nerves. Only it didn't soothe them. He wasn't sure anything could.

Outside, when he'd looked at her, he'd felt only frustration. Then, when he'd carried her back to the house, he'd endured twenty arduous minutes of her small, warm body pressed to his, the feeling of her breath against his neck, her hand braced to his shoulder, and he'd known that irritation was just his body's way of rejecting something far deeper that he'd felt pull at him when Georgia had first appeared.

But the jeans debacle had been a whole other matter.

He'd had absolutely no choice but to help her. She needed to get out of her wet clothes. That was a matter of safety. And clearly she couldn't do it on her own, when she could barely balance and stay upright. So he'd helped her. But helping her had been akin to undressing her, and his whole body had jerked with a need so raw and primal it had knocked him sideways.

Adrenalin filled his mouth with a bitter taste, and guilt churned his insides.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, dropping his head forward, the silently issued apology meant for his wife, to whom he'd pledged his undying loyalty. He closed his eyes and saw Bianca's face, her smile, heard her laugh and he groaned, the ache in his chest a yawning chasm that he suspected would never close. No matter how many days and nights he spent alone, waiting to feel normal, it never happened.

He missed her like nothing he could describe.

He'd known when he'd buried her and Olivia, that he would never love again. And for Dante, that extended to physical expressions of love, or lust. He had no interest in worshipping at the altar of another woman, no interest in letting his body lose itself in the madness of physical pleasure when it wasn't with Bianca.

She was the last woman he'd been with, and she would be until the day he died.

So why was he as hard as a rock, with images of the nearly naked Georgia playing through his brain on repeat?

He threw back the scotch with a growing presentiment of disaster, but he promised himself, and Bianca, that he wouldn't be foolish enough to act on his physical desires.

Georgia recognised that it was some kind of self-preservation instinct that had forced her to persist in trying to do this without help. She'd spent minutes peeling off her underwear, minutes more towelling her body down, carefully avoiding her swollen ankle, and even longer pulling on the clothes he'd left for her—which were quite ludicrously over-sized. The pants were a light grey with a drawstring, but even at its maximum tightness, they still sat low on her hips, and she had to roll them up to avoid having a foot and a half of excess fabric. The shirt was equally enormous, more like a dress, but it was soft and clean and smelled like expensive laundry detergent, so she snuggled into it, enjoying the feel against her skin. She hobbled towards the entrance, her ankle definitely worse now, but at the door to the bedroom, she looked around and realised she'd need his help after all.

"Hello?" She really needed to ascertain his name.

His footsteps came from faraway, but he appeared quickly enough. He too had changed, though she doubted he would have left his security post for long enough to shower. Instead of the saturated trousers and shirt, he wore a pair of jeans and a black jumper, that only enhanced the slightly dangerous air that surrounded him.

"Better?" He asked, eyes not meeting hers.

She nodded quickly. "But I'm stuck here."

His smile was a tight flash on his face. "I'll help." He stood still though, as if regretting the necessity of this. A moment later, he stepped forward, hesitating before lifting her to his chest, as he had earlier. But it felt different. Earlier, rain had lashed them both and he'd been furious with her. Now, something had shifted. An awareness that set her nerves on fire, and which she knew made him feel exactly the same.

It was alarming and she wished she could quell the waves rolling through her belly.

"What is your name?" She asked, as he began to move down the stairs so easily, so confidently, his strong arms a perfect cradle for her.

He glanced at her then away again. "Dante. "

She shivered. It was the perfect name for the man. "It suits you."

His smile was sardonic and dismissive. "In what way?"

"It's just…right."

"Based on your extensive knowledge of me?"

This was better. Sparring with him was good. It eased the tension, or perhaps offered a different type of tension, one that she was more easily able to deal with.

"Sure. So far I know your name, that you have the most beautiful holiday home in the world and that your level of charm is about a zero out of ten."

"Prerequisites for the name Dante?"

"I would say so."

A grin flickered on his lips but it was tight, almost pained. He placed her down on the sofa.

"Do you mind if I take a look?"

It was phrased as a question but she knew he wouldn't take no for an answer. He was a problem solver, and a man who was used to commanding. She didn't need a full biography of him to understand that.

"Be my guest."

His touch was gently inquisitive but the second his fingers brushed her skin she winced. He felt her foot in an inquiry that was surprisingly informed. "You know what you're doing."

His eyes flashed to hers, concealing something. She didn't know what, but she felt him holding back very intentionally. "It's not my first ankle injury."

"Yours, or someone else's?"

"Does it matter?"

She flinched a little at his tone, and saw the way his lips creased in a frown that might have encompassed an apology.

"It's a bad sprain."

She nodded. "That's what I think, too." She paused. "I should have jumped towards you."

His eyes met hers and something sparked in her chest. She stared at him, and he stared at her, and it was as if the whole world started spinning in the wrong direction. She was giddy and dizzy and totally off kilter.

"Dante—," his name hung in the air between them. Somehow, just speaking it was so intimate, so personal. She swallowed with difficulty; her mouth was dry.

"Are you hungry?" His voice was thick and hoarse, his accent thick.

"I'm—," she was surprised to realise she was. "I haven't eaten since breakfast."

Disapproval flashed on his face. "Why not?" It was as if he couldn't contemplate such a thing.

"I've been walking."

"All day?"

She shrugged. "Pretty much."

He stood up then, and she was both glad for his absence and simultaneously made instantly lonely by it.

"I will make something. Stay here."

She pulled a face. "I don't have much choice, do I?"

His eyes latched to hers and she felt a slick of fear. Not her fear. His.

What was he afraid of? That she might be an axe murderer masquerading as an injured passerby to mug him? It was so preposterous she almost burst out laughing, but Dante's expression was such a thunder clap, she could only sit there and stare right back at him.

"Dinner," he said, after a beat, nodding, seeking resolution. "I'll be right back."

She watched him retreat, and silently, every fibre of her body implored him to turn back and say something, but he didn't.

Her first thought, with Dante in the kitchen, was of her brothers. She checked in with them every night, and this would be the first time she'd missed doing that. It weighed heavily on her heart to know that they'd notice, and might even worry about her. But there was nothing for it. Until she could get back to town and have her cell phone replaced, she was completely in the dark. It was a necessary evil, but she didn't relish the lack of communication.

Dante returned after a few minutes with two enormous bowls of pasta. Despite being hungry, there was no way Georgia would be able to get through even a third of what he'd brought. She murmured her thanks when he passed her the bowl, half expecting him to leave the room again, to eat elsewhere, but to Georgia's surprise, he took up the seat across from her, legs spread wide, bowl cradled in one hand. He ate with a scowl, his gaze frequently landing on her face before slipping away, as if he wanted to pretend she wasn't even there.

Georgia sighed.

"I have a strap," he said, after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. "For your ankle."

"Oh." She eyed the very swollen joint with pursed lips. "That will help, thanks. Would you happen to have any ibuprofen?"

"Of course. I should have thought of it."

She shook her head. "Nonsense. You've done more than enough."

This time, when his gaze landed on hers, it didn't flit away and her stomach seemed to drop to the ancient travertine floor.

"Why were you walking all day?"

"To explore."

"Explore what?"

"This," she gestured to the windows beyond him. "I've never been to Italy before. I want to see everything I can while I'm here."

His eyes concealed something. "You're Australian?"

She nodded.

"From which part?"

"The northern most tip of Queensland. Where it's very hot and sticky all year round, and incredibly beautiful. Have you ever been?"

He shook his head curtly. "To Australia yes, but not the tropics."

"Oh, you have to go one day. It's wonderful. Then again, so's this."

He looked around the villa, a contemplative expression on his face.

"How can you bear not to live here?"

His brows knit closer together. "I have a home."

"Where?"

"Georgia—," his voice held a warning.

She waited, breath held, for what he was about to say.

"Clearly we are stuck here together, at least until the road clears. But this is my bolt hole. A place I come to be alone. I would prefer not to be interrogated by a stranger."

She dipped her head to hide the hurt his statement had inflicted on her. It wasn't as though he was someone she cared about. Why should it bother her that was still so unreasonably rude?

"You started it," she pointed out, spurred to be defensive. " You asked me where I'm from. Why can't I do the same?"

He glared at her without answering, his jaw ticking with visible frustration.

Generally, Georgia's disposition was unfailingly sunny. It always had been, and then, when her parents had died in quick succession, she had faced a choice, a fork in the road. She could allow the grief and desolation to devour her, the helplessness and anger at having to put aside her own dreams to care for her brothers, or she could lean into whatever good she could find from the relics of her hopes.

She missed her parents terribly. Every day. She would have done just about anything to be able to see them again, to look at them, smile at them, hear their voices, their laughter, to know their support. Instead, she focussed on channelling their wisdom into how she cared for the boys. She felt the burden of wanting to impart her parents' wisdom to the twins, aware that she'd had the benefit of five years more of their parents than they had. And as for her dreams of becoming a surgeon, she figured there'd be time for that. And she'd be a better doctor for having lived a little, gained some real-world experience.

In short, she was a rarely optimistic person, who found she could draw out an answering thread of joy in most people she met.

But Dante was something else.

His manner was as cold as the night was dark. His determination to hold onto that coldness was a force to be reckoned with, and Georgia was too tired to reckon with anything.

And so, with a little more frustration than she would generally allow herself to feel, much less display, she placed her pasta bowl down on the side table.

"I think I'd like to go to sleep."

A muscle throbbed in his jaw but he stood, reminding her of how large he was.

"I'll take you to a guest room."

"I can just sleep here."

He shook his head. "That's not necessary." A moment later, those capable, broad hands were scooping her up off the sofa, carrying her upstairs, towards the bedroom she'd been in earlier. He placed her on the edge of the bed then strode to the other side and peeled back the sheets, pressing a fist into the pillow to soften it before stepping back, as though the bed were an active volcano making spluttering noises.

"Thank you," she said, crisply.

He stared at her long and hard and she felt as though the world was tipping and his mind was spinning. The air around them seemed to hum and thicken and her gut tightened in response until she could hardly breathe.

"Dante—," she said, again, though with no idea what she wanted to say.

He closed his eyes, standing straighter, taller, chest puffed out. "Good night, Georgia."

He knew sleep was a wild dream. There was no way he'd be able to achieve any level of relaxation with Georgia in the bedroom next door. He was attuned to her every move. Every shift she made in bed, every little sigh in her sleep, every movement. Why the hell hadn't he taken her to a different bedroom, one on the other side of the villa, or ideally upstairs?

The answer was obvious.

She was injured .

Her ankle, while not broken, was badly sprained and if she needed anything in the night, he would be the only person who could help. He might resent her intrusion on his privacy, he might hate being relied upon, but he also wasn't going to see a woman suffer because of his own plentiful issues.

So he lay there and stared up at the ceiling and remembered every promise and pledge he'd made to Bianca over the years, every single determined moment of solitude, and willed his body to stop it. To stop yearning. Craving. Wanting. To stop his mind from remembering what it had felt like to have Georgia's warm, sweet-smelling, soft flesh so close to him. To forget how delightful she'd looked in his clothes, that were far, far too big for her. To stop imagining her in the bed next door, and wondering if she was thinking of him.

With a groan that was dredged from the very depths of his soul, he rolled onto his side, staring at the wall that separated their rooms as though it had done him some great wrong.

And then, he heard it.

A soft curse. A yelp of pain. He was moving even before his brain could activate, his body jerking to alert on autopilot. He was at his own doorway within seconds, then through it, taking the two paces down the hallway and knocking once on her door before pushing it inwards to find Georgia standing just inside it.

She screamed at his intrusion, so he stepped forward, putting his hands on her arms, seeking to reassure her. "Georgia, it's me. It's me. It's okay. You sounded hurt."

Her breath was coming fast, and she was trembling. The light cast by the hallway was dim, but he could see her eyes were wide, her features tight.

"I didn't—I—," Her tongue darted out to lick her lower lip. "I didn't mean—I was trying to be quiet."

"What is it?" Was that his voice, so hoarse and broken? "What do you need?"

She lifted a hand to his chest, curling her fingers in his shirt. For support, he told himself. Because of her ankle. It was nothing more than that. This was not a betrayal. He was just looking out for her.

"Dante—,"

For the third time that night, she whispered his name as if she was trying to find an answer in the syllables. She said it questioningly, unfathomably, and each and every time, his gut had licked with a feeling he was now forced to acknowledge as desire.

He closed his eyes, long, dark lashes fanning his cheeks.

"What do you need?" He asked again, but bleakly this time, with the hint of a plea. Silently, he implored her to say something simple, like a glass of water. A task he could easily perform. Because if she were to ask for anything more, he knew he would have to cross the very fires of hell.

"I want—I?—,"

But she wasn't going to ask. She wasn't going to articulate what she was thinking. Did she need to? He knew what was going on between them. It had been a long time since he'd had sex, even longer since he'd flirted with a woman, dated one, but the awareness of those rituals was ingrained in Dante. He felt her desire, felt her need, and though he knew it was something he would hate himself for in the clear light of day, Dante could no longer resist.

"Damn you, Georgia," he ground out. "I knew you were trouble the second I saw you."

She tilted her face to his, defiance in her eyes, but something else too, and her lips parted, so it was the work of an instant, the simplest thing in the world, for Dante to lean down and brush his mouth over hers.

Fireworks exploded. Not literally, but for Dante, they were everywhere, little echoes inside him of the lightning crashing outside the villa.

He had not kissed anyone since Bianca.

He hadn't known this pleasure. Closeness. Desire.

And he didn't want to know it now. He really, truly didn't.

He always thought Bianca would be the last woman he touched. Yet here was Georgia, so beautiful, so warm, so close, and for the first time in six long years, Dante was powerless to resist his more basic, masculine instincts.

"Forgive me," he groaned in his native tongue, aware that the plea was for a person who was not in the room, no longer on the earth. "Please, forgive me." And then, he deepened the kiss, his body responding to Georgia as though she was the only woman he'd ever desired in his entire life—and in that moment, it almost felt like she was.