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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.
