Dante's Shock Proposal Page 2

  “He’s no one important,” she said, but held her hand out for her phone again. Something stabbed him in the gut—he’d say it was guilt, but, with the things he’d done in the past, only one thing had the power to shame him. No, more like vicarious embarrassment. He hit the back arrow to clear the message from the screen and placed the phone in her upward-turned palm.

  “You know, you only ever have to ask me for anything once.”

  If that. She was his favorite surgical nurse for good reason. He scheduled his most difficult surgeries on Mondays and Thursdays—the days he’d been able to claim her from the surgery rotation. He’d even once bribed another surgeon to get her on a Tuesday.

  Even without medical school, he wouldn’t be surprised to hear of her conducting surgery on the side. With her in the OR, it was almost like having a second surgeon on standby. She anticipated his needs.

  It was hard to think of this sexy, sarcastic creature as the same person. Even when she got quiet and the embarrassment he’d known was coming wiped the sass right off her face.

  “He stood you up?” Dante asked, more gently than anything else he’d said to her.

  “He was supposed to be here an hour ago, but it seems he magnanimously bowed out after leaving me to wait for over an hour, so I didn’t meet him and fall helplessly in love...because he’s never been attracted to Large Women. Capital L on that.”

  Like he hadn’t read it already.

  Large with a capital L. Yeah, that had to hurt.

  The mojitos arrived and she took a deep drink. He followed suit, for once not sure what to say. Stood up by someone she’d never met, and she’d worn that dress? That’d have made an impression on the man.

  She hit the drink hard and eyed the dance floor again. “They make great mojitos...”

  Uncomfortable. Speaking to fill the air with words, any words.

  “I always hire good people.” He tried again. “Why were you meeting a man you didn’t know wearing that dress?”

  “You haven’t heard the rumor mill?” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, to speak closer. “I’m surprised. Someone questions or lectures me about it nearly every day now.”

  “I don’t chat at work, makes it easier to keep things clean.” Which was supposed to make it easier to keep his two worlds separate and ignorant of one another. “So what’s the rumor?”

  “I’m being fixed up on five blind dates by the more insistent nurses on Eight Blue.” The neurological unit at Buena Vista. Their unit. “None of them have been all that thrilling, though. The first two couldn’t carry on a conversation if their lives depended on it. Then that jerk, and, you know, I don’t care if he didn’t show up, he counts as number three. They get two more fix-ups, not three. Not my fault they picked so poorly.”

  “Why have they focused their attention on you?”

  The question she’d been dreading—it had started to feel like a trap anytime anyone asked it—but Lise liked to live her life in the open, so she’d answer. She didn’t hide things. She didn’t keep secrets. She didn’t lie. If someone called a woman Large, Lise would’ve at least made commentary on people being rude. Unlike Dante.

  Whatever. She couldn’t waste time working out what was going on in his head. Better to be open, and let the chips fall where they may. It was preferable that people reject her for who she really was than to be fooled into loving her then turn her life inside out when they found out she wasn’t perfect.

  “Because I decided to start a family on my own, and they’re all basically horrified that I’m sperm-shopping or, as they call it, ‘giving up on love’ and ‘not waiting for my soul mate.’” She rolled her eyes, and looked back at the dance floor.

  Chatting with Real Living Dante was much less satisfying than sharing the sexy imaginary banter that occasionally took place in her head when she wasn’t busy doing something important. Imaginary Dante would’ve already convinced her that she was perfectly shaped and that he loved the way she looked. Imaginary Dante would’ve compared her to Venus, and Venus would’ve come in second.

  Imaginary Dante was definitely better.

  “I see.” He said it like he agreed, pulling her gaze back to him, and there was a look—not The Look, a judgmental look. “That’s why you have yellow duck nursery photos in your phone?”

  “Maybe...”

  “Sounds like you’re having a bad evening, Bradshaw.” He leaned his elbows on the table, like they were close friends who talked close. Definitely not like he was about to kiss her, that’d have been an Imaginary Dante move.

  So she leaned back again. “Lise. If I’m calling you Dante, call me Lise.”

  First he failed to discount the notion that she was overweight, and now dissing her Maternity Manifesto and the awesome, adorable, happy and cheerful ducky room?

  Enough.

  She didn’t have to sit with him, pretending not to be bothered by Jefferson’s abject failure to arrive, followed up by his text-based slap in the face. This wasn’t the hospital, it was a dance club. Dr. Valentino wasn’t even there. He was probably off being cold and indifferent while heroically and brilliantly saving lives somewhere, and she didn’t like Dante, dance club owner, bar band pianist.

  “This night’s getting less thrilling by the minute. If you’re going to try and speed up the evening’s deterioration by lecturing me too, you can...you can just shut it! Because you’re rude, and I was going to tell you how wonderful the music was too. But now I’m not going to!”

  Because her good friend mojito said it didn’t count if you said it like that.

  “And, for the record...” she lifted a finger when he opened his mouth to speak, shouting over the music from across the small table “...if a woman says someone called her Large, Big, or even Rotund, and she’s not, you’re supposed to say that other person is delusional. And even if she is, you have to say something about the other person being rude. That you did neither means you think I’m a Large Woman too, with all the capitals. I’m not. So...good day, Dante.”

  Another song popped onto the house system, perfectly timed. Lise grabbed her purse, slung it back across her torso to leave her hands free for Mr. Mojito, and stepped past him toward the dance floor.

  She’d gotten only one foot onto the polished tile floor when a large, warm hand clamped around her free wrist, stopping her escape.

  “You’re not a Large Woman, Lise. But you do a good job of hiding in oversized scrubs at work.” She didn’t look back at him, but he spoke the words over her shoulder, so near her ear that goose bumps raced up her arm, away from that warm, talented hand.

  Even if he was taking up for Sandy. Sandy, the one who’d picked Jefferson. Sandy, who must’ve been the one to label her Large.

  “They’re scrubs. And, if you haven’t noticed, I’m just a little top-heavy.” She turned to face him, and he took the opportunity to catch her mojito before she sloshed the contents on one or both of them, then tilted it back to drain the rest of the minty liquid before dropping the tumbler onto the tray of a passing server.

  The man had drunk her mojito. What did someone even say when their mojito was stolen from their own hand?

  Keep talking. Being speechless only proclaimed, I’m out of my depth and not smart enough to keep up with this insane conversation.

  Anything that would keep her from staring at his mouth, and thinking about the kind of lusty crush fantasies that mouth definitely could fulfill if he were so inclined.

  Pathetically adolescent and showing how badly she wanted company—enough to go on blind dates. Enough for drinking-glass-inspired lust. Pathetic.

  Just. Say. Something.

  “These stupid things affect what sizes I can wear, but the scrub tops are standard design, and everyone—even people who are actually proportionally built—looks dumb in them. Except you, you look goo
d in scrubs for some reason. I’d say you sold your soul for it but we’re both already in The Inferno. Besides, they’re comfortable, so it’s easy to work in them. And if I ever got tops fitting my hip dimensions I’d suffocate in my own cleavage.”

  Great. Great visual, strangled by bosoms.

  Dante grinned down at her, her second brush with amusement in his eyes, twice in fifteen minutes.

  She still couldn’t tell if he was laughing with her, or at her.

  Before she could say anything else to embarrass herself, he slipped his arm around her waist and took her newly mojito-free hand, flawlessly maneuvering her into dancing position and steering her backward onto the dance floor.

  Breathless, and more than a little gobsmacked, Lise allowed herself to be led. “We’re dancing now? Arguing makes you feel like dancing?”

  Maybe it was good he’d drunk her mojito, she’d clearly had too many.

  The firm arm around her waist pulled her close enough to demonstrate the need for her admittedly tent-like scrub tops—her lower half didn’t touch his, but her breasts pressed against the heat of his chest, and her still-free arm went automatically around his shoulders.

  “That dress is spectacular, and it fits you very well,” He said, hand firm on her waist to turn her into some dance her feet didn’t know. “Follow me.” He slowed down, stepped back enough for her to see his feet, and after she’d mimicked the pattern a couple times, his firm hands were on her again and he steered her in slow steps around the edge of the now much more crowded dance floor.

  Why was she going along with this? She’d gone to the dance floor to get away from him. And because she wanted to dance.

  But even with that rude phone business, the man was still incredibly sexy, and she’d been stood up. Dante was a satisfactory stand-in for sure.

  Don’t overthink it. Just dance with him.

  “Why this dress when you don’t know Jefferson?” he asked again, like she hadn’t heard him before and had chosen to answer the other, more important part of his question.

  Trying to understand him over the loud music meant she had to stare at his mouth, the corner of which had quirked up.

  Everything about this felt out of line.

  Stare at his mouth to understand and sound sane. Solid plan.

  Pretend to dance like she wasn’t the offspring of an ostrich and a three-legged goat.

  Ignore the tide-like sensations rushing up her arms and over her body from having his hands on her.

  No problem.

  “I did. And it’s new,” she admitted, and, as she’d done, he focused his attention on her mouth as she spoke. “I’ve been thinking of these dates as a kind of last hurrah before motherhood. Because I never really go out. Or date—mostly because it’s just way too much trouble. But I thought maybe if Jefferson played his cards right and wasn’t...”

  “Ugly?”

  Lise winced, but nodded.

  She should definitely stop talking. If she talked, the truth would come out. If she just didn’t say anything, that wasn’t lying, even if it was a slippery-slope sort of deception.

  Also, she should stop licking her lips.

  No matter that recognizing her before had put a damper on his wolfish expression, Dante seemed to have changed his mind. He looked at her mouth longer than she spoke, but his brows had come down in a completely different fashion, sex-laced anticipation darkening his eyes.

  She felt her ankle wobble and released his hand to throw both arms around his shoulders, holding tighter to him. The wobbly ankle added one more thing for her to concentrate on than her frazzled brain could handle.

  If she wanted—and if she could rationalize hooking up with him in any way that could be considered safe or sane—Dante would be her last hurrah.

  A last hurrah of epic proportions. He might even come with mojitos.

  Dante didn’t say anything, he just pulled her a little closer so that his mouth was at her ear and she could feel the slight stubble on his cheek as he sang the Spanish lyrics softly along with the music.

  The shivers his song brought rushing forth across her skin made his arms pull tighter, though he leaned back enough to look into her eyes again.

  “You should let me take a picture of you then text it back to him. Make him suffer for his bad decision.”

  And he wanted her, too. This was actually happening. Dr. Dante Valentino wanted her, even after he’d worked out who she was. Two years of nothing but business between them at the hospital, then they meet once outside the hospital...

  Why was he still talking about Jefferson?

  “You think that’ll make him suffer? For all we know, he snuck in, got one look at me, and left in a hurry.”

  “He didn’t,” Dante said, still holding her close, though he’d stopped steering her around and they now swayed in one place at the edge of the stage, out of the way.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. He’s straight, and if he’d seen you tonight... Trust me.”

  Trust him. As if that were the easiest thing in the world. Trust the sexy man who led a double life.

  On the other hand, what harm could a picture do? Maybe Jefferson wouldn’t suffer, but he might feel slightly guilty to see that she’d gotten dressed up and waited for him in a nightclub by herself for so long before he actually called it off. Teach him a lesson for the next woman he got fixed up with.

  “Okay,” Lise said, pulling back to get her phone from her bag. “But make me look good. Maybe there’s some kind of sexy filter we can use.”

  While she pulled the purse off and hung it properly on her shoulder, he stepped back in to murmur something unbearably sexy in her ear. Warm. Playful. And entirely too Spanish for her to understand at all.

  Even after three years in Miami, all she’d managed to understand was querida.

  But it was enough.

  A moment later he’d had her posed under the lights and taken a snap. Before she could even see it, he’d sent the picture to Jefferson.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  He handed the phone back. “It’s better to say nothing. Then all he’ll have is a bunch of questions, and that will make him suffer worse.”

  She righted her bag and stashed her phone, then found herself back in his arms as a faster song started.

  He pulled in close, that sexy mouth and fantastically gravelly voice still singing by her ear. Pressure at her side had her spinning and he stepped in until she felt him against her back, his hands landing on her hips.

  This couldn’t be the same man.

  She looked over her shoulder and saw Dr. Valentino, but in nearly every respect he was someone else with only tiny flashes of the man she knew peeking through—like when he did whatever he wanted and expected people to keep up or catch up.

  Catch up was all she could attempt. “Is this a salsa?”

  “No.” His voice came warm at her ear. “It’s a bachata. Simple moves. Hips, feet. Easier. Step-step-step-tap. Exaggerate the hips with the steps.”

  Seduced by dancing. That’s what this was. She could spot the symptoms, name them, and couldn’t bring herself to give a damn.

  Strong hands on her hips led her through the steps, the pressure of him at her back steering her as sure as he’d done when facing her, but in this position she could get a lot closer—feel the heated length of him. His thighs brushed the backs of hers, his chest moved against her back. And her bottom...

  When her body seemed to have learned the dance, he spun her back to face him and said nothing at all, though the looks he gave her brought back that surge of bold, powerful sexiness she felt.

  Heady and fueled by mojitos and bad decision-making, Lise stepped in before the dance was over—breaking step—and leaned up to press
her lips to the corner of his mouth. Even side on, he stopped dancing.

  He stopped everything.

  And he didn’t kiss her back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MISTAKE?

  Mistake!

  Lise broke her half-brave half-kiss and stepped back so swiftly that Dante’s arms broke loose from her waist.

  “I’m sorry.” She touched her mouth, remembered her lipstick, looked at his mouth, and then reached up to start smudging it off as best she could. “That was bad of me. I mean, five minutes ago we were fighting.”

  Rubbing someone’s mouth was almost as personal as kissing them.

  Right.

  She snatched her hand back. “Really, I’m sorry. I’m going to...”

  Die.

  She pointed back at the table and gave up saying words. A pivot and she hurried off in that direction.

  “Stop! Why are you so jumpy?” He caught up to her in two strides and slung an arm around her waist again, then took the closest hand as well. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “You didn’t kiss me back.”

  “They were signaling me from the stage. Snuck past while we were dancing. There’s nothing I’d like to do more than dance with you and kiss the jumpiness out of you. Don’t apologize for anything but your aim.”

  They’d reached the table and he turned her into the chair and scooted it in for her. But when she thought he was going to leave, she felt his hand fist in the back of her hair, heat and awareness spiked her chest. He tugged her head backwards over the chair, arching her neck until she looked straight up at him, the action so sudden, so unexpected, and her rum buzz left her speechless. All she could do was stare up at him. She could feel the pulse in her throat, fast and hard, ever increasing as she watched his expression.

  Tight enough to control her movements, but not so tight as to hurt, the tension spreading out over her scalp sent shivers through her.

  Swiftly, and with far better aim, he leaned in and covered her mouth with his own.

  Lise had never been kissed so thoroughly, so hungrily. So...shockingly. She felt a kind of limpness creep up her spine and straight to her jaw. His tongue plunged into her mouth, from zero to light speed in seconds, coaxing her to stroke against his.