She clung to him, feeling safe and cocooned in his embrace, and her urgency and desperation must have been obvious because his arms tightened.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he muttered. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
She shook her head and kept her nose buried in his neck. She loved the familiar smell of him. He put her down and gently removed her arms from his neck, wanting to see her face.
“What’s happened?” Damn him, he knew her too well. And everything she felt was still too fresh to hide from him.
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.” A surreptitious glance around informed her that they’d attracted a bit of attention from passersby, and she knew that Dante was probably close by as well.
“Okay.” Bless him, he was always so understanding. He looked around for her bag-a single medium-size roller suitcase-and raised a dubious brow when he saw it.
“You’re such a miserly little packer. How did you survive a week in Tokyo with just that little bag?” he asked as he grabbed her elbow with one hand and the suitcase handle with the other.
“I didn’t exactly have time to socialize. This was sufficient.”
“I would need a bag that size for hair product alone,” he said dismissively, and she giggled, surprising herself.
“Don’t I know it?”
“Magnificence like this”-he tossed his hair for emphasis-“doesn’t come easily.”
Another giggle. Cal was exactly what she needed right now. She hooked her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder and let his nonsense chatter wash over her like a soothing balm as he led her toward where he’d parked.
Dante watched Cleo leave with that blond behemoth; she was clinging to the man’s arm and staring up at him adoringly as they walked away. So much for thinking he’d hurt her back in Tokyo. He’d had an uncharacteristic flash of conscience when he’d said the things necessary to get her to sign that nondisclosure agreement. It had been dirty and unfair, but it had gotten the job done. Still, Dante wasn’t a complete monster. He felt moved by her tears and even a little guilty in the face of her obvious distress. But to see her now with that guy was like watching an entirely different person, and he was glad he hadn’t been completely taken in by her little-girl-lost act back in Tokyo. He always protected himself: condoms and nondisclosure agreements without exception. No unwanted pregnancies and no unwanted scandals. It kept things clean and uncomplicated, which was exactly the way he preferred his life. Women served a purpose, and until Cleo they had all known exactly what they were getting into with him. He was on shaky legal ground getting her to sign it the way he had, but without it he felt naked and vulnerable. Feelings he would never admit to out loud.
Still, despite the fact that his bullying tactics had left a bad taste in his mouth, he couldn’t regret the fact that he had stooped to them. It was over now. The document was safely signed and would be notarized as soon as possible.
He had a very brief flash of regret that he wouldn’t experience Cleo Knight in his bed again before he put her firmly out of his mind.
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually hated someone before,” Cleo confessed as she licked the salt off the rim of her margarita. She paused for a moment and thought about what she’d just said. “But God, I hate that man so much. The thought of seeing him again on Monday turns my stomach, and I’m so tempted to quit this job.”
“You can’t quit, hon.” Cal tut-tutted. “Who’ll pay the rent or buy the food? Until I find a job, you’re the only one keeping this boat afloat.”
“You’ll find something soon, Cal.” She patted his broad shoulder a little drunkenly before going back to contemplate her curiously unsatisfying frozen margarita again. “Now, can we please focus on my predicament?”
“Okay, so the guy is a world-class asshole,” Cal recapped. “He treated you shabbily, which would earn him a well-deserved punch in the face if he were here right now, and you hate him but still have to work with him.”
Cleo nodded morosely, the pit in her stomach increasing with every word. She put aside her half-finished drink? wishing she actually felt like getting rip-roaring drunk. It might have helped a little.
“Now, what I really want to know”-Cal leaned forward conspiratorially-“is he any good in the sack?”
Cleo sighed.
“He’s fantastic, and that just makes me hate him more. Should I even be telling you all of this? I mean, I feel like I’m breaking that stupid contract with every syllable I utter.”
“You probably are.” Cal shrugged. “But if I can trust you to keep all my sordid secrets-you could sink me if you wanted to and you know it-then you can trust me with this.”
And she did trust Cal; he was like a second brother to her. Her dance partner for years, he had seen her through all her trials and tribulations. He felt responsible for her fall and had been her emotional support while she’d tried to come to terms with everything she’d lost after the accident. He was the only one who truly understood. Luc didn’t get it? her nondancing friends didn’t get it, but Cal got it. Cal knew what it was like to feel alive only when you were dancing, and he recognized that she felt like the most important part of her had died after the accident. He was the one who’d gotten her out of bed in the mornings, had taken her to physical therapy, had bossed her into dancing again, even though she was just a shadow of her former self. He had helped her understand that while she would never again be the supremely talented dancer who had once had dance companies vying for her attention, she could still dance. It was in her blood, a part of her physical makeup, and she would never lose it completely.
“All I’m saying is that the man is seriously hot,” Cal said. “And if he wasn’t so obviously and uncompromisingly hetero, I would happily make a play for him.”
“You’re way too good for the likes of him,” Cleo said.
“As are you,” he said, completely serious.
“You’re the best, Cal.” She sighed and leaned in for a hug. He complied and she sagged against him, letting him support her slight weight.
“I’m so glad we’re roomies,” she crooned, and when he laughed, the sound had a bitter edge to it.
“Not exactly roomies,” he corrected. “More like freeloader and working stiff.”
“You’re not a freeloader, Cal. We’ve all been through rough spots, and you’ve done so much for me . . .” She had difficulty talking around the lump in her throat. “So don’t you dare denigrate yourself like that in front of me again, okay?”
“Yes, miss,” he teased, making an effort to shake off his obvious depression, even though she could tell that it lingered just beneath the surface. “Now tell me more. I want to know everything-length, girth, angle. Pointing downward, straight ahead, or kissing the navel?”
“Seriously?” She choked back a laugh.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.