CHAPTER ONE
THE HOTEL BALLROOM was a Christmas fairyland.
Evergreen garlands hung with silver and gold ornaments were draped across the ceiling; elegant white faux Christmas trees sparkled with tiny gold lights. Someone said there’d even be a visit from Santa at midnight, tossing expensive baubles to the well-dressed and incredibly moneyed crowd.
Nothing could ever compare with New York’s first charity ball of the holiday season.
Dante Russo had seen it all before. The truth was, it bored the hell out of him. The crowds, the noise, the in-your-face signs of power and wealth…
But then, for some reason everything bored him lately.
Even—perhaps especially—the high-octane excitement of his current mistress as she clung to his arm.
“Oh, DanteDarling,” she kept saying, “oh, oh, oh, isn’t this fabulous?”
That was how she’d taken to addressing him, as if his name and the supposed-endearment were one word instead of two. And fabulous seemed to be her favorite adjective tonight. So far, she’d used it to describe the decorations, the band, their table and the guests.
A month ago, he’d found Charlotte’s affectations amusing. Now, he found them almost as irritating as her breathless, little-girl voice.
Dante glanced at his watch. Another hour and he’d make his excuses about an early-morning meeting and leave. She’d protest: it would mean missing Santa’s visit. But he’d assure her Santa would bring her something special tomorrow.
A little blue box from Tiffany, delivered to her apartment building not by Saint Nick but by FedEx.
He would see to it the box held something fabulous, Dante thought wryly. Something that would serve not only as a gift to make up for ending the night early but as a goodbye present.
His interest in Charlotte was at an end. He’d sensed it for days. Now, he knew it. He only hoped the breakup would be clean. He always made it clear he wasn’t interested in forever, but some women refused to get the message, and—
“DanteDarling?”
He blinked. “Yes, Charlotte?”
“You’re not listening!”
“I’m sorry. I, ah, I have a meeting in the morning and—”
“Dennis and Eve were telling everyone about their place in Colorado.”
“Yes. Of course. Aspen, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Eve said, and sighed wearily. “It’s still gorgeous—”
“Fabulous,” Charlotte said eagerly.
“But it’s not what it used to be. So many people have discovered the town…”
Dante did his best to listen but his attention wandered again. What was the matter with him tonight? He didn’t feel like himself at all. Bored or not, he knew better than to let his emotions gain control.
Giving free rein to your feelings was a mistake. It revealed too much, and revealing yourself to others was for fools.
That conviction, bred deep in his Sicilian bones by a childhood of poverty and neglect, had served him well. It had lifted him from the gutters of Palermo to the spires of Manhattan.
At thirty-two, Dante ruled an international empire, owned homes on two continents, owned a Mercedes and a private jet, and had his choice of spectacularly beautiful women.
His money had little to do with that.
He was, as more than one woman had whispered, beautiful. He was tall and leanly muscled, with the hard body of an athlete, the face of Michelangelo’s David and the reputation of being as exciting in the bedroom as he was formidable in the boardroom.
In other words, Dante had everything a man could possibly want, including the knowledge that his life could very well have turned out differently. Being aware of that was part of who he was. It helped keep him alert.
Focused.
Everyone said that of him. That he was focused. Tightly so, not just on his business affairs or whatever woman held his interest at the moment but on whatever was happening around him.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he couldn’t keep his attention on anything.
He’d already lost interest in the conversation of the others at the table. He took his cue from Charlotte, nodded, smiled, even laughed when it seemed appropriate.
It bothered him that he should be so distracted.
Except, that was the wrong word. What he felt was—What? Restless. As if something was about to happen. Something he wasn’t prepared for, which was impossible.