And then everything went black.
WHEN SHE OPENED HER EYES, she was in an enormous, canopied bed in a softly lit room.
Where was she? What had happened? Something terrible. Something that carried within it the seeds of disaster.
She sat up against a bank of silk-covered pillows—and everything came rushing back. Dante. Samantha. Her baby in her lover’s arms. Her baby, here, in this place, where three years’ worth of secrets might untangle like a skein of yarn.
Tally started to push the comforter aside. She had to find Sam. Take her home…
“Cara. What are you doing?”
Dante’s voice was harsh. He stood in the door between the bath and the bedroom, his tall, powerful figure shadowy in the light.
“Where’s my baby?”
“Samantha is fine.”
He came toward her, a glass of water in one hand, a small tablet in the other. Tally brushed aside his outstretched hand.
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the nursery. Asleep.”
“I want to see her.”
“I told you, she’s fine.”
Tally swung her feet to the floor. “Don’t argue with me, Dante! I want to see her now.”
“The tablet first.”
She glared up at him. She knew him well; enough to know he wasn’t going to let her get past him until she obeyed his command.
“What is that?”
“Just something to calm you.”
“I don’t need calming, damn it!”
“The doctor disagreed.”
“You called a doctor?”
“Of course I did,” he said brusquely. “You fainted.”
“Only because—because I was stunned to see my daughter. You had no right—”
“Take the tablet.” His mouth twitched. “Then you can tell me what a monster I am, for flying Samantha here so she could be with you.”
She glared at him one last time. Then she snatched the glass from his hand, dumped the tablet in her mouth and gulped it down with a mouthful of water.
Tell him what a monster he was? No. She wasn’t going to waste the time. You couldn’t argue with Dante Russo. He was always right, so why bother? She’d take Sam and leave.
But first, she had to get dressed.
The realization that she was undressed surged through her. She was wearing a nightgown of pale blue silk, its thin straps scattered with pink silk rosebuds, the kind of gown only a man would buy for a woman.
An ache, sharp as a knife, pierced her heart. Was the woman Dante had bought it for as lovely as the gown? She must have been, for him to have given her something so fragile and exquisitely beautiful. For him to have made love to that woman here, in his home, where he had never made love to her.