Sandra Marton - The Sicilian's Christmas Bride

He was nothing to her anymore.

Or to Sam.

Sam didn’t know Dante existed. And Dante certainly didn’t know about Sam. He never would, either. She would see to that.

Tally knew her former lover well.

Dante hadn’t wanted her and surely wouldn’t have understood why she wanted Sam…But that didn’t mean he’d simply let her have Sam, if he knew.

Her former lover could be charming but underneath he was cold, determined and ruthless. She refused to think about how he might react if he knew everything.

Tally sighed and turned on the kitchen lights. Night had fallen; it came early to these northern latitudes. The coming storm the weatherman had predicted rattled the old windows.

She’d fled New York on a night like this. Cold, dark, with snow in the forecast.

What a wreck she’d been that night! Pretending to be sick, then packing her clothes and scribbling that final note. All she’d been able to think about was getting away before Dante showed up.

She wasn’t stupid. She’d known he hadn’t wanted her anymore. He’d been removed and distant for a while and sometimes she’d caught him watching her with a look on his face that made her want to weep.

He was bored with her. And getting ready to end their affair, but she wouldn’t let that happen. She’d end it first. It would be quicker, less humiliating…

And safer, because by then she had a secret she’d never have been foolish enough to share with him.

So she’d made plans to leave him. And she’d done it so he wouldn’t be able to find her, even if he looked for her. Not that she thought he would. Why would a man go after a woman when she’d saved him the trouble of getting rid of her?

Even if he had, maybe out of all that macho Sicilian arrogance made all the more potent by his power, his wealth, his gorgeous face and body—even if he had, he’d never have found her. He’d never dream she’d flee to a tiny village in New England. He knew nothing about her. In their six months together, he’d never asked her questions about herself.

Not real ones.

Would you prefer Chez Nicole or L’Etoile for dinner? he’d ask. Shall I get tickets for the ballet or the symphony?

Things a man would ask any woman. Never anything more important.

Well, yes. He’d asked her other things. Whispered them, in that husky voice that was a turn-on all by itself.

Do you like it when I touch you this way? And if what he was doing seemed too much, if it made her tremble in his arms, he’d kiss her deeply and say, Don’t stop me, bellissima. Let me. Yes. Let me do this. Yes. Like that. Just like that…

She was trembling even now, just remembering those moments.

“You’re a fool,” Tally said, her voice sharp in the silence of the kitchen.

Sex with Dante had been incredible, but sex was all it was, even though lying beneath him, feeling the power of his penetration, his possession, sometimes made her want to weep with joy. But it didn’t make up for the fact that he’d never once spent the entire night in her bed or asked her to come to his.

Stay with me, she’d wanted to say, oh, so many times. But she hadn’t. Only the once, when the words had slipped out before she could stop them…

Only the once, when she’d forgotten that all her lover wanted was her body, not her heart.

Tally turned her back to the window.

So what?

Why would she have wanted a man to tie her down, give her a baby and then turn his ever-wandering eyes elsewhere as her father had done, as a man like Dante Russo would surely do?

It was the meeting with Walter Dennison that had her feeling so strange, that was all. Once she put that behind her, she’d be fine.

And it was time to get moving. Be here at four, Ms. Sommers, and please be prompt.

She smiled as put on her coat and grabbed her car keys. All those years in New York had made her forget how pedantic a true Yankee could be.

AS USUAL, the weatherman had it wrong. Snow was already falling as if someone were shaking a featherbed over the town.

The snow dusting the woods and fields with a blanket of white as Tally drove past would have made a beautiful Christmas card. In the real world, it made for a dangerous drive. The narrow road that led into the heart of town already wore a thin coating of black ice, and the new snow hid stretches of asphalt as slick as glass.

Her old station wagon needed better snow tires. The rear end slewed sickeningly as she turned onto Main Street and her stomach skidded with it, but there were no other vehicles on the road and she came through the turn without harm to anything but her nerves.

Only two cars were parked in the bank’s lot, the aged maroon Lincoln she recognized as Dennison’s and a big, shiny black SUV that looked as if it could climb Everest in a blizzard and come through laughing.

Dennison would have sent his employees home early because of the storm. The SUV probably belonged to some tourist on his way to ski country who’d stopped to use the ATM.

Tally parked and got out of the station wagon. The double doors to the bank opened as she reached them, revealing Walter Dennison wearing a black topcoat over his usual gray suit.

“You’re late, Ms. Sommers.”

He whispered the words. And shot a quick look over his shoulder. Tally felt a stab of panic. The black car. The paleness of Dennison’s face. His whisper.

Was the bank being held up?

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to peer past him, “but the roads—”

“I understand.” He hesitated. “Ms. Sommers. Tally. There’s something you need to know.”

Oh, God. It was true. She’d walked into a holdup in progress—

“I sold the bank.”

She stared at him blankly. “What?”

“I said, I sold the bank.”

He might as well have been speaking another language. Sold the bank? How could he have done that? The Dennison family had started the Shelby Bank in the early 1800s.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Dennison. Why would you—”

“It’s nothing for the town to worry about. The new owner will keep everything just as it is.” Dennison cleared his throat. “Almost everything.”

His eyes shifted from hers, and Tally’s stomach dropped. There could only be one reason he’d wanted to see her.

“What about the new payment arrangements on my loan?”

She saw Dennison’s adam’s apple move up, then down. He opened his mouth as if he were going to speak. Instead, he shouldered past her, turned up his collar and went out into the storm. Tally stared after him as his lean figure was lost in a swirling maelstrom of white.

“Mr. Dennison! Wait!” Her voice rose. “Will this affect my loan? You said the new owner will keep everything just as it is—”

“Not quite everything,” a familiar voice said.

And even as her heart pounded, as she swung toward the open bank doors and told herself it couldn’t be true, she knew what she would see.

That voice could belong to only one man.

DANTE SMILED when Taylor turned toward him.

Her face was white with shock.

Excellent. He’d wanted her stunned by the sight of him. Things were going precisely as he’d intended, despite how quickly he’d had to work. He’d put his plan in motion in less than a week, first convincing the old man to sell and then getting the authorities to approve the sale, but he was Dante Russo.

People always deferred to him.

This morning, he’d phoned Dennison and told him he’d be there at three. Told him, as well, to notify Taylor to be at the bank at four.

Promptly at four.

And, of course, not to mention anything about the bank’s new ownership.

Dante’s lips curved in a tight smile. He’d figured Taylor would be on edge to start with. A woman who’d put up her home as equity for a loan of $175,000.00 she couldn’t pay would not be at ease. Add in Dennison’s refusal to explain the reason for the meeting and the warning to be prompt, her nerves would be stretched to the breaking point.