Everyone ordered coffee. He lifted his cup, frowned, put it down untouched. He was sorry, he said; he had to leave. And he walked away from three men who stared at him as if they agreed with the silent assessment he’d made of his sanity.
He’d flown back to New York, angry at himself, furious at Tally because it was her fault, all of this, his rage, his distrust, his inability to do anything except think about her. If only she’d never run from him…
Her fault. Entirely.
At home, he’d paced the floor, planning how he’d tell her that if she thought she was going to live with him and take someone else for a lover, she was wrong.
He’d kill the other man before he let that happen.
Then he’d told himself that she wasn’t living with him, not in any real sense. Besides, maybe she hadn’t gone back to the other man. Maybe she’d told him the truth, that she’d only been with that faceless stranger the one time.
One time had been enough.
The son of a bitch had planted a seed in her womb. He’d given her a child he hadn’t helped support, a child who was solely Tally’s responsibility. A child who by all rights should have belonged to—should have belonged to—
The clock on the mantel had struck the hour. Seven o’clock. Seven at night, and where the hell was she?
Carlo had no idea. Ms. Sommers had sent his car away. Joan, reached at home, didn’t know a thing, either.
And Dante, fueled with a rage he didn’t understand, had lost control. He’d paced some more, snarled at his housekeeper when she came in to ask what time he wanted dinner served and, when he was alone again, punched his fist into the wall with such force he was surprised he hadn’t put a hole in it.
He went down to the lobby, about to head into the street to find Tally—though he had no idea where in hell he’d start—and saw her come sauntering toward the door, with a smile for the doorman and a blank look for him.
He’d wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled.
He’d wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her.
In the end, because he knew doing either would be a mistake, he’d launched into a tirade that settled nothing except to prove, once again, he was an idiot where she was concerned.
Dante looked at the clock on the mantel. The hours had raced by. It was two in the morning; the city below was as quiet as it would ever be.
Two in the morning, and he was still ticking like a time bomb while Tally undoubtedly slept peacefully two floors above him.
He tilted the glass to his lips and drained it of bourbon.
Did she get a kick out of this? Out of making him behave this way? Surely, she knew she had this effect on him.
She did it deliberately.
That was why he’d decided to end their affair three years ago. He hadn’t been bored. Who could be bored by a woman who could discuss the stock market and football statistics without missing a beat?
A muscle knotted in his jaw.
He could afford a little honesty now, couldn’t he? Admit to himself that the reason he’d wanted to end things was because he’d sensed his feelings for her were becoming uncontrollable?
That night she’d asked him to stay, and he almost had. Other nights when she hadn’t asked, when he’d had to force himself from her bed because the thought of leaving her had been agony.
Oh, yes.
Tally was manipulating him. Toying with him and the self-discipline on which he prided himself. The self-discipline that had made him a success.
And he didn’t like it, not one bit.
Dante’s eyes narrowed. But he knew what to do about it. How to regain that control. Of himself. Of the situation.
Of Tally.
Back to Plan A. He would take her to bed.