and dragged the cold night air deep into his lungs.
Dio, he had to be crazy.
All this time, and she was still there. Taylor Sommers, whom he had not seen in three years, was inside him tonight, probably had been for a very long time. How come he hadn’t known it?
You didn’t want to know it, a sly voice in his head told him.
A muscle knotted in his jaw.
No, he thought coldly, no. What was inside him was rage. It was one thing not to let your emotions rule you and another to suppress them, which was what he had done since she’d left him.
He’d kept his anger inside, as if doing so would rid him of it. Now, without warning, it had surfaced along with all the memories he’d carefully buried.
Not of Taylor. Not of what it had been like to be with her. Her whispers in bed.
Yes. Dante, yes. When you do that, when you do that…
He groaned at the memory. The need to be inside her had been like a drug. It had brought him close to believing in the ancient superstitions of his people that said a man could be possessed.
He was long past that, had been past it by the time she left him.
It was the rest, what had happened at the end, that was still with him. Knowing that she believed she’d left him, when it wasn’t true.
He had left her.
He’d never had the chance to say, “You made the first move, cara, but that’s all it was. You ran away before I had a chance to end our affair.”
She didn’t know that and it drove him crazy. Pathetic, maybe, that it should matter…but it did. Obviously it did, or he wouldn’t be standing out here in the cold, glaring at a stack of empty produce cartons and finally admitting that he’d been walking around in a state of smoldering fury since a night like this, precisely like this, late November, cold, snow already in the forecast, when Taylor had left a message on his answering machine.
“Dante,” she’d said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel our date for tonight. I think I’m coming down with the flu. I’m going to take some aspirin and go to bed. Sorry to inconvenience you.”
Sorry to inconvenience you.
For some reason, the oh-so-polite phrase had irritated him. Was inconvenience a word for a woman to use to her lover? And what was all that about canceling their date? She was his mistress. They didn’t have “dates.”
Jaw knotted, he’d reached for the phone to call and tell her that.
But he’d controlled his temper. Actually, there was nothing wrong in what she’d said. Date implied that they saw each other when it suited them. When it suited him.
So, why had it pissed him off? Her removed tone. Her impersonal words. And then another possibility had elbowed its way into his brain.
Maybe, he’d thought, maybe I should call and see if she needs something. A doctor. Some cold tablets.
Or maybe I should see if she just needs me.
The thought had stunned him. Need? It wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. Nor in Taylor’s. It was one of the things he admired about her.
So he’d put the phone aside and gone to the party. Not just any party. This party. The same charity, the same hotel, the same guests. He’d eaten what might have been the same overdone filet, sipped the same warm champagne, talked some business with the men at his table and danced with the women.
The women had all asked the same question.
“Where’s Taylor?”
“She’s not feeling well,” he’d kept saying, even as it struck him that he was spending an inordinate amount of time explaining the absence of a woman who was not in any way a permanent part of his life. They’d only been together a couple of months.
Six months, he’d suddenly realized. Taylor had been his mistress for six months. How had that happened?
While he’d considered that, one of the women had touched his arm.
“Dante?”
“Yes?”
“If Taylor’s ill, she needs to drink lots of liquids.”
He’d blinked. Why tell him what his mistress needed to do?
“Water’s good, but orange juice is better. Or ginger tea.”
“That wonderful chicken soup at the Carnegie Deli,” another woman said. “And does she have an inhalator? There’s that all-night drugstore a few block away…”
Amazing, he’d thought. Everyone assumed that he and Taylor were living together.
They weren’t.
“I prefer that you keep your apartment,” he’d told her bluntly, at the start of their relationship.
“That’s good,” she’d said with a little smile, “because I intended to.”
Had she told people something else? Had she deliberately made the relationship seem more than it was?
He’d thought back a few weeks to his birthday. He had no idea how she’d known it was his birthday; he’d never mentioned it. Why would he? And yet, when he’d arrived at her apartment to take her to dinner, she’d told him she wanted to stay in.
“I’m going to cook tonight,” she’d said with a little smile. “For your birthday.”
He made a habit of avoiding these things, a homemade dinner, a quiet evening, but he couldn’t see a way to turn her down without seeming rude so he’d accepted her invitation.
To his amazement, he’d enjoyed the evening.
“Pasta Carbonara,” she’d said, as she served the meal. “I remember you ordering it at Luigi’s and saying how much you liked it.” Her cheeks had pinkened. “I just hope my version is half as good.”
It was better than good; it was perfect. So was everything else.
The candles. The bottle of his favorite Cabernet. The flowers.
And Taylor.
Taylor, watching him across the table, her green eyes soft with pleasure. Taylor, blushing again when he said the food was delicious. Taylor, bringing out a cake complete with candles. And a familiar blue box. He’d given boxes like that to more women than he could count, but being on the receiving end had been a first.
“I hope you like them,” she’d said as he opened the box on a pair of gold cuff links, exactly the kind he’d have chosen for himself.
“Very much,” he’d replied, and wondered what she’d say if he told her this was the first birthday cake, the first birthday gift anyone had ever given him in all his life.
He’d
