And she looked as if he’d slapped her.
“Don’t you mean why did I stop dyeing my hair blond?”
He gaped at her. “You’re a natural brunette?”
“You didn’t realize that? But then it stands to reason.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You knew nothing about me, apparently.”
“I knew plenty about you. I bet I know everything.”
“You’re talking in the biblical sense? How original of you.”
“I mean in every sense.”
“Yeah? Okay, let’s test this knowledge. Or are you going to plead memory holes due to the time lapse?”
“I have the memory of an entire herd of elephants.”
“And the comparative rampage damage potential.”
He harrumphed. “I never rampage.”
“Of course not. You’re too organized and premeditated for that. I should have said ‘incursion.’That is your MO, whether it’s on a personal or a global level.”
“By definition, an incursion is hated, resisted. I remember nothing but…approval, encouragement. On a personal level.”
“You have that effect on the people you take over—the super power of Stockholm syndrome. It took me a year and a half to realize what you did to me.”
He went totally still. “What did I do to you?”
She looked at him as if he’d once strangled her cat and didn’t remember it. She finally shook her head, let out a rough chuckle. “You didn’t even realize I dyed my hair.”
“And that made me…insensitive? Negligent? The hair on your head looked so natural with your tan. Thanks to your grooming habits, there was none anywhere else to give me a clue. What else did I allegedly do to you?”
She shook her head again. “You exist in a universe starring you, don’t you? Other people are the bit players who exist just so you can bounce your lines off them.”
“Why are you saying that when you know it wasn’t true…then?”
“Listen, I’m not criticizing you or laying blame…”
“No? You have a strange way of not doing that. The way you tell it, I was an egocentric, exploitative bastard. Come to think of it, I do remember a comment you hurled at me on your way out of my life. About my so-called self-absorption. Is that how you rationalize the way you ended things between us?”
“‘Things’ would have ended between us sooner rather than later, and you know it. I did us both a favor—”
“Why don’t you speak for yourself?”
“Fine, I did myself a favor by not sticking around to experience the deterioration of ‘things’ before their inevitably nasty end.”
He stared into the twin storms of her eyes.
Was this her admission that there’d never been more than self-interest behind her actions? Or was it self-preservation? Her words could be interpreted that way. Had his rage at the time made her fear he’d take his bitterness out on her?
What was he thinking? Why was he debating this yet again? He’d admitted there was no way to find out the truth for sure. And what did it even matter? That was then. This was now.
He was taking now. And when the end came this time, he wouldn’t spend eight more years agonizing over the reasons why. The whys would be of his own orchestration. And his own timing.
It was time to set things in motion.
Phoebe felt like a cat who’d just streaked across an antiques exhibit and sent everything crashing to the ground. Hurling those bombshells of self-pity sure felt as if it had caused comparative damage. So what now? Back to square subzero?
Her heart clanged as he unfurled to his full six-foot-five and gestured to someone in the distance. Music at once drowned out the cacophony of memories, the tumult of this confrontation.
Then he extended his hand to her in imperious invitation.
“Dance with me.”
He’d said the same thing the night they’d met. Before they’d even been introduced. She remembered only that he’d taken her in his embrace and that her feet hadn’t touched the ground until he’d first kissed her and changed the course of her life forever.
Now was the same. She didn’t know when she’d taken his hand, or how she’d reached the dance floor. All she knew was that he surrounded her like an extension of her own body, all her missing parts, moving with her, moving her, as if she shared his nervous pathways, as if he was in control of hers.
Suddenly her whole body shuddered on a shockwave. His whisper.Against her temple. “You learned to dance the guadara.”
The guadara. That unique dance born of the inextricable Moorish,Amazigh and Italian folklores that formed Castaldini. She’d seen it performed in rural areas on romantic occasions and at celebrations. She’d never danced it before. She’d never tried.
She was dancing it now, the sensuous rhythm turning her body into a malleable instrument that merged with the demands and vitality of the beat, flowed into the power and beauty of his body, rode the grace and fluency of his movements.
But soon the dance morphed into something else —syncopated footwork, a full-body embrace, entwining legs, a creation of his own invention, and she suspected from the intensity coming off of him in waves, his own improvisation. And that she managed to follow his spontaneous lead, move as one with him…magic.
Suddenly he spooled her away, whirled her back, gathered her, back to chest, in a off-the-ground hug that had emotion blossoming into pain behind her eyes, threatening to burst into an outpouring of pent-up longing and heartache.
Before she could bring herself to struggle, he swept her around and into an embrace that no longer pretended to be about dancing.
She began to shake. Recollections of his possession were brutal, accomplices to his passion, to his eyes as they bore down, burned down on her. She needed a reprieve. She needed…Needed. “Leandro, I—I…”
He wouldn’t let her find words. He lifted her, making her feel weightless, soaring. His arms fused her to his chest, where she’d once nestled for hours, under which she’d writhed in ecstasy, where she’d dreamed of being again every day of the past eight years.
She moaned her greed, her welcome. His eyes grew voracious. Volcanic. She wanted him to devour her, destroy her.
But he only watched her, singed her with the emotions fast-forwarding across his face. Why wouldn’t he give anything to her? His lips, his breath, his possession? Did he want more than surrender?
She succumbed, gave him more, clutched
