Dante's Shock Proposal Read online

  As if she could even consider breaking away from him in that position, his free hand cupping and holding the front of her throat, fingers stroking there without pressure but still burning her skin. It excited her, coiling in her chest so that she couldn’t catch her breath from Dante’s brand of blatant sensuality, fueled with more than a hint of danger. The taste of his mouth, a hint of the mojitos they’d been drinking, and something more thrilling than she could even have imagined before that second, intoxicated more fully than alcohol could, and she lost awareness of how long they kissed, knew only that her hands crept up, aching, empty and seeking.

  When someone nearby hooted in appreciation, Dante broke the kiss, lifting his head enough for them to see one another. Promises danced in his deep brown eyes and she couldn’t look away even if she’d wanted to.

  “Stay for the next set,” he said, face still inches from hers. “But don’t dance with anyone else unless you want me jumping off the stage and reminding you why you’re waiting for me.”

  Mute and breathless, she could only nod. The command in his voice was something she recognized from his way at work, in surgery, and not one piece of her wanted to disobey.

  He kissed her again, a soft little kiss as if to seal the deal, then lifted her head back to where it should be. His fingers slid from her hair and stroked down over the back of her head once to right her usually smooth locks, before he returned to the stage.

  Oh, she was going to make a mistake. Big mistake.

  And it’d be worth it.

  Dante hoisted himself onto the stage, bypassing the need to weave past the other musicians to reach his piano. He’d no more sat than the first notes of the next set rang out from the horns to his left.

  Thank heaven it was a fast number. His only outlet was his hands right now, and they could only move with the music, not fast enough to deal with the energy surging through him.

  From memory, without even needing to think about it by now, he began to play.

  For once he didn’t fall into that peaceful place where he felt between worlds. His mind didn’t blank at all.

  It filled with Lise. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had excited him this much.

  When he’d first seen her, every drop of blood in his body had hummed, pressure everywhere increasing in a kind of awareness he’d have called supernatural if he wasn’t supposed to be a rational surgeon. He’d immediately known there was someone in the club worth seeing.

  But his interest—while authentic and entirely sexual—had gotten a little off track when something about her had struck him as familiar. He’d started clicking through the possibilities as to why.

  Slept together before? No. That body would be impossible to forget.

  Someone who’d been in the club before? No. He’d only owned it for five years, but if he’d ever seen her there, he would’ve paid attention. Would’ve gotten her number.

  Someone he’d known in his past? One of his former marks? No, she wouldn’t have looked at him like that if that was the connection.

  Hospital? Family of patient? Staff?

  Then it had crystalized.

  Bradshaw. This morning’s nurse. He’d seen her not even ten hours ago, and would see her again Monday morning. Would she have this magnetic draw hidden in gray cloth and without the sexy makeup and inferno-red lips?

  Not if she went home with him tonight—and the way she blushed and smiled said she would. Things could get messy at work. He was already certain she’d not tell his secret, but this might be too big a hope.

  The song ended and another began, but he couldn’t change his thoughts as easily as he changed keys. He wanted her and that was reason enough to engage in a little after-hours fun.

  The eye-roll when she’d spoken of marriage told him she wouldn’t take one night out of context. That helped. That made it easy. Why was he still thinking about it?

  The lights made it impossible to see her or her table and he wanted to look at her. When the next song rounded out and his hands were free, he snatched a radio from the side, turned away from the crowd. Quietly, he issued an order for Max, Manager of The Inferno, to have the lights lowered to anything but spotlights.

  When the lighting shifted to swirls of color over the dance floor, his vision cleared.

  Still at the table, he confirmed, but she sat there staring at her phone now, a tiny, satisfied, smug little smile curling one corner of her now naked mouth.

  Jefferson had texted back after getting the photo.

  Suffering. Good. Just as Dante expected. A little light manipulation of the man who’d humiliated the woman coming home with him tonight. It felt like justice, not that he could really tell the difference between justice and vengeance these days.

  Time came for the piano to join in the next song again, and he finally let the music take him. Forty-five more minutes, a half hour break, and then another long set before he could do what he really wanted: drag Lise home with him and peel that dress off her.

  * * *

  While Dante played, Lise’s courage started to wane. Her desire was there—had been there all the time, bubbling under the surface of her quiet everyday life—since she’d gotten the job in Neurosurgery. Ignored. Designated unimportant—a luxury, a frivolous, stupid luxury that had no business in her daily life. But it felt different now. She’d had the lusty crush for years, and it had never caused her insides to quake.

  One night could be amazing, or it could lead to life-plan-altering complications.

  As much as she wanted him to jump down from the stage, capture her head and kiss her senseless again, what would it do to their work relationship? Had that kiss already changed their work relationship? Would she already be unable to look at him without imagining his hands in her hair and on her bare throat?

  She loved her job. She also loved the money—which had enabled her to buy a little cottage of her very own in pricy Miami. Money had gotten her to the first goal on her list of what a responsible woman would do before having a child.

  One kiss could be forgotten.

  One night with Dante...wasn’t worth her future plans.

  The very idea of losing her unconceived child opened a cavern inside her, refining her focus.

  Right.

  Remember the plan. Even knocking it off schedule was unacceptable, or would be as soon as she selected the best donor and worked out a schedule of some sort.

  Who even knew how long or how many tries it might take to get pregnant once she’d found The One from her database?

  Good decision.

  While she gave herself a mental pep talk, her cell phone buzzed—another message from Jefferson, this time with an ETA.

  * * *

  Dante swung the door of his office closed a little harder than he meant to, knocking a jacket off the hooks on the door. He left it. Max usually spent his evenings on the floor, which suited Dante—it meant he could have solitude in the office they shared whenever Dante wanted.

  Lise wasn’t there. She hadn’t waited, and he’d been so certain she would. Worse, as much as he’d fiddled with her phone earlier tonight, he hadn’t gotten her number.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so misjudged someone. He’d given her exactly what she’d wanted, but she’d left anyway.

  Had she left when Jefferson had finally decided to come groveling—something he felt confident he’d accomplished for her? He could check security tapes, but it didn’t really matter. Her decision. He was just angry about effectively being stood up by a woman who wanted him.

  The phone in his pocket buzzed, interrupting one of his favorite pastimes—analyzing others—and he fished it out before flinging himself on the leather sofa he occasionally napped on between sets.

  This wasn’t the emergency ringtone from his answering service or th
e hospital. He didn’t have to answer it right now—it could wait until tomorrow, or later.

  One rule governed his time at the club: don’t violate the sanctuary. Don’t bring the outside in, don’t take the inside out. Lise’s appearance tonight had completely obliterated his rule.

  Turning the screen up, he read a text from the latest Valentino wife—Cassie, married to his twin—with a request for a consult tomorrow at Seaside. His day off, but he never turned down those requests and texted back to confirm.

  Lise being there had felt like a violation until he’d been completely turned on by her. But even as the thought came, he knew Lise wasn’t the reason he’d answered the text—she didn’t have his number either.

  Over the past few months he’d watched all his brothers marry and start families. That was why he’d answered. Why he’d even opened the text after seeing who it was from. They all had bigger lives, which to him meant the possibility more things could go wrong and need fixing. Fixing problems was his primary role in the family.

  Wives and kids meant more people to take care of. His circle had expanded from three to seven, with eight and nine still gestating. That kind of serious growth demanded more of his attention—even within the sanctuary.

  He must be crazy even thinking about trying to increase those numbers further by finding a wife of his own. Not that he had the first clue as to how to go about it.

  Another text came in before he could even drop the phone on the sofa, ripping a sigh from him. He stared at the polished black gadget in his hand for a full minute before he flipped it over and read the next message.

  Santiago—middle brother—and his wife Saoirse requested he come to dinner tomorrow.

  That one he didn’t have it in him to answer right now. Newlyweds. He was surrounded by newlyweds, and he heard from them all far more regularly than he had before they’d all coupled off. Had they organized efforts to take care of him? Because that was how he felt—irritatingly taken care of, the absolute last thing he needed. It would continue until he married. The last Valentino bachelor must be looked after...

  The trauma they’d faced in childhood brought that compulsion out in all of them, maybe most in him, but his care had done the job—they were still together enough for him to feel overly tended.

  In their shoes, Dante would’ve been doing the math—he’d never brought a woman to meet them, or dated one woman for any length of time. He’d never given it much thought until they’d all married off, and now he became aware of how he stuck out as single. But marriage was normal, expected. And keeping up appearances was always important.

  Dropping the phone on the sofa, he laid his head back and closed his eyes, focusing on the between-sets music that got feet on the dance floor. That had gotten him and Lise on the dance floor.

  Someone would knock if he fell asleep before the last set. Or if he lost track of time, fantasizing about stripping Lise of that hot dress.

  He just wished he knew her better, knew whether her self-esteem would’ve let her leave with the man who’d stood her up and insulted her when he’d come groveling.

  Jefferson had been easy. Lise, apparently, wasn’t as easy to figure out.

  Now, what if he wanted to torture her for standing him up, make her regret and come groveling...

  * * *

  Monday morning, Dante stood at the scrub bay, looking over the team getting things ready for the morning’s surgery.

  Lise wasn’t there.

  He tilted his head to catch sight of the clock, his jaw tightening enough that he had to open his mouth to relieve it. Walking out at the club he could forgive. But being late for surgery?

  “Carrasco. Dónde está Bradshaw?” The words flew out before he’d even fully realized his irritation. She was never late. What had changed? Just the kiss? Had she gone on another blind date then overslept in her last hurrah?

  “Spanish today, Dr. Valentino?” She tilted her head, but answered, “I’ve not seen her.”

  Spanish. At work. First time for everything.

  It surprised him, but he couldn’t even pretend to himself that his irritation was all about her being late. He switched to English—control was important. “Has anyone heard from Bradshaw? She wouldn’t no-show.”

  “I can call HR and scheduling, see if she’s called in,” Carrasco said.

  Although she’d already scrubbed in to prep, and picking up a phone would mean she would have to scrub in again, Dante said, “Do it.”

  A moment later, she was in the scrub bay, dialing.

  Again Thursday’s question came: had Lise left with Jefferson?

  That was four days ago. If she’d gotten into trouble that long ago...

  He fumbled the scrub brush and it fell into the sink. Containing a sigh, he grabbed a new one and started over.

  Carrasco spoke with someone, heard her confirm that Lise hadn’t called in.

  “Not with HR,” she confirmed, and dialed another number.

  He didn’t want another surgical nurse for this procedure. Lise was the best. He wanted Lise. Carrasco technically was also a surgical nurse, but he had Lise for today, it was on the schedule.

  “I’m here!”

  The sound of Lise’s voice had him turning from the sink, relief tinging his irritation so that he didn’t quite know how to feel, which of course ticked him off. “Couldn’t get out of bed this morning, Bradshaw?”

  He took in her appearance, and he felt his neck heat. The too-big scrub top she always wore had been replaced by one with a different cut—one that wrapped over her chest like that dress had done.

  She’d made the gray scrubs sexy.

  “Nothing so restful as that.” She rushed around the small bay, getting what she’d need to start scrubbing. “I know I’m a little later than usual, but we’re still a good fifteen minutes from the start of the surgery...”

  Dante didn’t want excuses. He also didn’t want to cause a scene at the hospital, even if she threw him off balance yet again. He wanted Old Lise, not the one who knocked him so hard she had him wondering if maybe he was the mark here.

  She stepped to the open bay beside him and began the process of cleaning her hands.

  Hair covered by scrub cap—how he always saw her. No makeup—but no lower face cover yet. He’d like the chance to look at her clean-faced—or grill her for an excuse. But it would have to wait.

  If she hadn’t wanted to face him after their brief time at The Inferno, he’d put that straight to her. No reason they couldn’t be professional. It had been a little kissing, not as much as he admittedly still wanted, but they’d survive.

  He exited the bay, leaving the nurses to finish scrubbing in. Another tech gowned and gloved him, and he took a moment to make sure everything was as he wanted before the patient arrived.

  “Are you going to report in about your date last week?” another member of the team asked as soon as Lise stepped into the OR proper.

  “No. It’s really not the time for that. If you want a report, I will be happy to make one after surgery.”

  Voice tight. Posture stiff. Happy? Yeah, right. No way could he misread that reaction.

  He just didn’t know whether it was Jefferson or their dancing making her unhappy now.

  If the date had shown up he hadn’t made a better impression on her. Unless it was their dalliance making her unhappy.

  What the devil was wrong with him? He’d never had this much trouble reading someone. At least, not since those early days on the cons that had almost gotten him arrested in his youth. Repetition had improved how well he could read between the lines, except when it came to Lise.

  The door opened and in rolled the trolley with his patient on it, a woman in her thirties who had three children.

  That was what he needed to focus on, doing well by this
patient and her family. Never be the one who broke a family.

  He always learned what he could about his patients so he could keep in mind what was riding on successful surgery. He took a moment to check with her, make sure she understood what the neuro-endoscopy entailed, and to reassure her again that he’d do his best. Things he always did for his patients, even those who didn’t have children at home or in the waiting room—or, as had been the case with him, waiting in the chapel, praying it all would go all right.

  His gentle encouraging words delivered, he nodded to the anesthetist. The sooner their patient was unconscious, the sooner she’d stop worrying. And, he hoped, the sooner he’d have out the Rathke cleft cyst growing behind her pituitary gland.

  One more tally removed from the ledger where he kept memories of his old ways, and he hoped to eventually get out of the red.

  * * *

  No sooner had Dante left the surgical suite than Sandy Carrasco repeated her earlier demand.

  “Tell us how the date went.”

  Lise had avoided thinking about the date all weekend, and that had included preparing what she was going to say when inevitably asked.

  “Oh, just great, I guess.” Messing with rude people was a bad habit she’d apparently picked up from Dante.

  When Sandy laughed, Lise went with it.

  “I got a brand-new dress for the evening. Jefferson and I had spoken briefly on the phone a few days before and confirmed where we’d meet in texts—deciding on a club he liked. Since I never go to clubs, I got the new red dress. I arrived, went in on my own as he wasn’t waiting for me outside. Drank a mojito. Danced.”

  “He was inside, waiting?”

  “Oh, no. He wasn’t there, either. I amused myself. Mojitos. Dancing. Talking with a handsome musician.” Not. Dante. Don’t mention Dante. Then she laid out being stood up, the Large Woman nonsense, and that he’d tried to come after she’d sent him a picture of her red dress.