[Fontaines 01.0] The Sweet Taste of Sin Read online

  He glances over at me, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t realize you were paying attention.”

  “It’s hard to miss it,” I say with a shrug. “Are you working on a sequel?”

  This time, he can’t seem to stop himself from slipping into a scowl. “What are you after, Ash?”

  “Nothing. Just wondering.” I gaze out the window at the passing houses. “This movie’s a big deal.”

  “And I’m damn near sick of promoting it.” There’s no ignoring the bitterness in his voice. “I’d prefer to talk about something else.”

  “Fine.”

  We don’t speak much on the rest of the ride home. I should have known he’d avoid my questions. But any annoyance I feel at his responses dissolves when we reach my house. The hospital gave me a crutch to use until my ankle heals, but Dante’s having none of it. Without a word, he lifts me in his arms again, and he carries me all the way inside to my bed. If he’s angry at me for prodding—or for taking up his entire day with my injury—he doesn’t show it. Instead, he’s unspeakably gentle—tender, even—as he settles me down on my comforter.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks as he carefully props my leg up on a pillow.

  I nod, afraid that if I say anything this sudden fluttery feeling in my chest will overwhelm me.

  Dante heads into the kitchen to find us some food, and the minute he’s out of earshot, I pull out my phone and dial Jack. It’s a little awkward with my left wrist in a brace, but I manage. He picks up on the second ring.

  “Among the living, are we?” he says cheerfully. “I was just about to give you a call. How’s that hangover treating you?”

  “Jack, Dante’s here,” I hiss.

  “Whoa, seriously? At your house?” He laughs. “Sounds like our little plan went well. What ridiculous excuse did he give you?”

  I’m more than willing to give Jack every last detail later, but Dante could walk back in here any second, so I need to be brief.

  “I fell in the shower,” I whisper quickly into the phone. “It really screwed up my ankle. And then he called and I thought it was you and I ended up blurting out everything before I realized my mistake. He insisted on taking me to the ER.”

  “Shit.”

  “And now he’s in my kitchen making me food and I have no idea what to do.”

  “Jesus, Ash. I hope they gave you some good drugs. You’re going to need them.”

  “I need to get him out of here,” I say. “But I don’t think he’ll leave unless he thinks I have someone here to help me.”

  “You know I’d normally be there for you, Ash, but I promised Evan I’d go to his brother’s birthday dinner after work.”

  “I know. I wasn’t asking you to come, I just—”

  I cut myself off as Dante strides back into the room. Damn it. No time to hash out a plan.

  “Thanks for checking up on me,” I say sweetly into the cell. “I’ll see you later. I love you.”

  On the other end of the call, Jack snorts a laugh. “Still working the jealousy angle, I see. I think you’ll manage him just fine. I’ll call you back on my next break, I just—Mike! Where are you going with that? That needed to be at Studio E two hours ago!”

  I hang up, not wanting to impose on Jack any more than I already have. When I drop the cell on the nightstand, Dante is watching me, his jaw rigid.

  “That was Jack,” I say.

  “I gathered.” His eyes have darkened, and he’s standing a little too still.

  “He’s going to come by as soon as he can.”

  “Mm,” he replies, his mouth a hard line. He moves toward me—slowly, like a great cat stalking its prey—until he stands right over my bed. “But he’s not here now.”

  My breath catches in my throat as he reaches out, and panic rises in my chest as his fingers brush my cheek.

  “Where’s the food?” I squeak.

  His fingers still, but his eyes still burn bright. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in their depths, standing out against the darkness of his gaze.

  “You don’t have any food in your fridge or pantry,” he says, the words rolling slowly off his tongue.

  “I usually just eat at the bakery,” I say, pulling back. “I don’t cook or bake much here. But I’m really hungry.”

  He withdraws his hand—but not before I see a flicker of something in his eyes.

  “I’ll order you something, then.” He pulls his cell out of his pocket.

  “You don’t need to do that. I can order it. You’ve done enough already, and I’m sure you have lots to do today.”

  “And who will answer the door when it arrives?”

  “I’ve got a crutch now,” I remind him. “And Jack—”

  “Will get here as soon as he can, I know. And when, approximately, will that be?”

  I don’t have an answer ready, and he takes full advantage of my silence.

  “I’ll wait with you until he gets here,” he says, still staring at me. “And in the meantime, I’m getting us both some lunch.”

  This is an argument that I know I’ll never win—at least in my current condition.

  “Fine,” I concede, adjusting the pillow below my ankle. “But you should probably leave after that. I’d rather not have you and Jack get into a fight when he gets here.”

  “Why would we fight?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  There’s a spark in his eye now, but that darker emotion is still there, too, making him look all the more devilish. “This conversation isn’t over, Ash. But I’m going to go ahead and put in an order. Do you have a taste for anything?”

  “There’s a menu for a good Chinese place on the fridge,” I say, willfully ignoring the way he lingered over the word taste. “My favorite dishes are circled.”

  As soon as he leaves, I grab my phone again. Calling Jack again isn’t an option, but I intend to try Mama Pat—she should be able to get here long before my friend, and that means I might be able to rid myself of Dante sooner rather than later. I don’t trust myself alone with him—not with the looks he’s been giving me.

  Right as I hit the call button, though, I remember that it’s her granddaughter’s first birthday today. Mama Pat stayed an hour late yesterday to work on the cake, and she spent most of that time beaming and telling me stories about little Daisy. There’s no way I can call her away from that, no matter how desperate my situation.

  With a sigh, I return the phone to the nightstand. So much for escaping Dante’s company anytime soon.

  Admit it, I think. You like that he’s taking care of you. You like that he rushed over here to make sure you were okay.

  Yeah, but how much does that really mean? I haven’t seen or heard from him in three years. And though I was the one who ended it back then, it was his actions that made me take that step. Sometimes I wonder if it was all just a passing fling for him. If I only imagined the intensity of our connection.

  You didn’t imagine last night, I tell myself. But I still don’t know what the hell to do about it.

  When Dante returns, my heart leaps into my throat. For the first time since he showed up this morning—hell, since he walked back into my life—I allow myself to really look at him, to face the demon who broke my heart.

  His dark hair is slightly ruffled, and I wonder if it fell that way on its own or if he’s been running his hand through it. He used to do that—run his hand through his hair—while he was working, thinking his way through a problem in his script.

  And I used to run my fingers through his hair when we were making love.

  My belly warms as I let my eyes drop to his face, to that strong mouth with those eager, demanding lips, and then up to those rich, mesmerizing eyes. He’s looking back at me, watching me take him in, and in those eyes I see things I don’t want to see. That I’m not ready to see.

  Why is he doing this to me?

  I turn and grab a book from my nightstand, but that doesn’t stop Dante from returning
slowly and deliberately to the side of my bed.

  “The food has been ordered,” he says, his voice too low for such mundane conversation.

  “Mm. Thank you.” With my good hand, I flip the novel open to the page where I left my bookmark.

  “Ashlyn. I told you our previous conversation wasn’t over.”

  “The one where you were pretending you didn’t intentionally cause a scene with my boyfriend last night?” The word boyfriend still feels weird on my tongue.

  “I didn’t cause a scene,” he drawls. “I simply did what any man would do when a woman needs help.”

  My eyes are still on my book. “Jack could have helped me.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  Anger surges through me, and my eyes finally snap up to his face. “Because you didn’t give him the chance.”

  Dante’s gaze catches and holds mine. “He wasn’t there with you on the beach. I was.”

  “And you’re the whole reason my ankle is sprained in the first place.”

  “You know that was an accident. And I’ve done everything I can to make amends for that, in spite of your rather amusing efforts to shame me out of it.”

  “I’m not shaming you!” I snap. His presence so close to me is making me nervous, shaky, but I refuse to break his gaze. “And can you stop hovering?”

  Without missing a beat, he sinks down on the bed beside me. “Is this better?”

  Not in the least. He’s even closer now. So close that I’m having trouble thinking. So close that his hip presses against my thigh. So close that his fingers could reach any part of my body.

  “You’re provoking me on purpose,” I say.

  One corner of his mouth tilts up. “You always were easy to provoke.”

  “Well, stop. I’m not yours to provoke anymore.”

  There’s that dangerous darkness again. “You’re this Jack’s to provoke?”

  “Jack doesn’t need to provoke me. And what the hell is that look for?” I suddenly remember the words he murmured to me last night before handing me over to my friend: You’ll never convince me that man gives you even half of what I did.

  “It’s just that I never expected you to end up with a guy like that.”

  “A guy like what? You hardly even talked to him last night. You don’t know anything about him.”

  “I’ve seen him around. He works for Fairlake Films, doesn’t he?”

  For a split second, panic seizes me—Does he know this is all a ruse?—but if he does, he would have led with that. Dante isn’t one for games.

  “Yes, he works there. Why does it matter?”

  His leg shifts, pressing closer to mine. “It doesn’t.”

  My heart is in my throat. I swallow it back down. “Then what’s your point?”

  “In our earlier conversation you seemed to suggest he would fight for you. Is that true?”

  My answer is a reflex: “Of course he would. You saw how angry he was last night.”

  Something flashes in his eyes. “That wasn’t anger. At best, that was mild annoyance.”

  “And this is ridiculous.”

  I try to open my book again, but his hand covers the page. “You’re not avoiding this conversation, Ash.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to sit here and listen to your opinions on my boyfriend.” The more times I use that word, the more naturally it rolls off my tongue—even though in my gut it feels dead wrong.

  “He’s not right for you.”

  “You’re not right in the head.”

  “I’m serious, Ash.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t trust my love life to you. I’ve already made that mistake once.”

  That shuts him up—at least for a moment.

  “I don’t care whether you think he’s right for me,” I continue, glad to finally have the upper hand. “As I said back at my bakery, I’ve moved on with my life. I don’t require your opinions anymore.”

  Dante’s hand is still spread against my book, and he presses down until I’ve lowered the novel to my lap.

  “I still have opinions,” he says, his voice lower, rougher than it was a moment ago. “Especially where you are concerned.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You need a man who can match you,” he says. “Your temper. Your emotion. Your passion. This Jack doesn’t match you.”

  “And you’re an expert on this how?”

  He leans dangerously close. “You know how.”

  I don’t know anything except that I’m no match for the man in front of me. And that I really should tell him to get up, to leave, but I can’t.

  My heart nearly stops as he reaches out and brushes a bit of hair out of my face. The touch feels so natural—and why shouldn’t it, when he’s touched me like that a hundred times before? Once again, all I have to do was blink and it suddenly feels as if no time has passed between us at all.

  Why did he have to come back into my life?

  He smells the same. Feels the same. And he has the same effect on me now that he did back then, in spite of everything. It’s not something a body forgets, being this close to Dante. His presence alone makes me breathless, but being so close to him, feeling his heat and his breath and his fingers stroking my hair… This is bad. Very bad.

  I force myself instead to think of the pain—of that night when everything fell apart. The years have done little to dull the hurt, to make me forget.

  “Ash,” he says, the rumble of his voice drawing me back into the present. He’s still touching me—in fact, his hand has curled around the side of my face, and his eyes have softened just enough to make my insides go weak.

  I turn my face away from him.

  “I don’t know what you want,” I say, “but I have nothing to give you.”

  “Because of Jack.”

  “Among other reasons.”

  I don’t have to be any more specific than that—I can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows I’m referring to how things ended between us the last time around. But he doesn’t rise, doesn’t look away.

  “Ash.”

  “Don’t,” I say, holding up a hand. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  He presses his lips together. That’s another thing he always did when he was working through a plot issue in one of his scripts.

  And then he leans toward me. And though he doesn’t touch me this time, the movement sends a wave of anticipation through my body.

  “Will he fight for you?” he asks, his voice rough. “This Jack fellow—how badly does he want you?”

  “I’ve already told you he’ll fight for me,” I whisper. “And even if he weren’t in the picture, I’d fight for myself against you.”

  I mean it to sting, but instead, the corner of Dante’s mouth tilts up. He was already too close, but now he shifts even nearer, putting his lips right against my ear the way he did last night.

  “Convince me,” he growls.

  My good hand rises to his chest. I intend to push him away, but when I feel the heat of him beneath my palm, I suddenly find it hard to move.

  “Convince me,” he repeats, softer this time. His hand rises to catch my wrist, and though he isn’t holding me against him, he might as well be, so affected am I by that touch.

  I want to convince him. And at the same time, I want to sink into his arms, to taste his lips, to lose myself in him again like I did all those years ago.

  And I might have done it, too, if the sound of my doorbell weren’t suddenly chiming through the air.

  We both jump.

  “Food,” I say, a little too breathlessly. “You need to answer the door.”

  The look in his eyes tells me that food is the last thing on his mind, but when the doorbell rings again, he gets up without a word.

  The minute he’s gone, I grab my phone again. I want to send an S.O.S. to Jack, but I stop with my thumb hovering over the screen. What good will it do to message him? It’s not like I expect him to leave work or to blow off his plans with Evan to
night. I might be desperate, but I’m not that selfish.

  But what the hell do I do? Because one thing’s for sure: the longer Dante stays here, the more likely I am to make a terrible mistake.

  Remember your story, I tell myself. You have a “boyfriend.” Just keep reminding yourself of that fact until you believe it yourself. Not that it seems to be that much of a deterrent to Dante.

  It’s funny, because in spite of my negative opinion of him, I never thought he’d support infidelity. But between his dealings with Emilia and his shameless behavior toward me, I guess he’s changed more than I thought. That knowledge unsettles me more than it should—my body might find him familiar, but in many ways, this man is a stranger.

  Still, it’s hard to convince myself of that when he comes back into the room with our Chinese food in his arms.

  “I presume you’re still fine with eating on the bed?” he asks.

  He uses the word still. It’s a subtle reminder of the handful of times we ate takeout in bed—sometimes naked.

  I say nothing as he settles down on the other side of the bed. Nothing as he hands me my sesame chicken. We eat in silence—he must be hungry, to let me get away with ignoring him. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to notice the smooth, measured ease of his movements as he lifts his chopsticks to his mouth. It makes my tongue go dry.

  I cough, and Dante looks over immediately.

  “I forgot to get you something to drink,” he says, rising. “What do you want? Water? Soda? Beer?”

  “Water’s fine.” No alcohol, not around him.

  He leaves for the kitchen, and I try not to follow him with my gaze on his way out. Try not to recognize how comfortable he is, making his way around my house. He’s almost as familiar with my home as I am, and it’s too easy to forget that he hasn’t been here in years. A bittersweet ache pulses in my chest. My parents left this house to me when they died, and I’ve lived here ever since. It’s been too long since I’ve seen anyone else treat it with the sort of easy familiarity that Dante now does. Even Jack, who’s been here more times than I can count, still has to ask me where to find the silverware half the time.

  Don’t start slipping now, I remind myself. Remember the pain.

  He returns quickly, a glass of water in either hand, and I swallow down the lump in my throat and give him what I hope is a neutral smile. “Thank you.”