Not just a wife. Tally. His Tally. Because that was how he thought of her, how he’d always thought of her, even three years ago…
What was that?
Dante cocked his head. Music? Chimes. No. Not chimes. Bells. Church bells. Of course. It must be midnight, and this was Christmas Eve.
He swallowed hard. So what? Christmas was for fools. A holiday that celebrated a miracle, except miracles were in painfully short supply in today’s world.
When was the last time he’d seen anything remotely like a miracle?
When was the last time he’d held Tally in his arms?
The sound of the bells came to him again, filled with poignancy and hope that floated on the soft sea breeze. Dante swallowed again but he couldn’t ease the constriction in his throat.
“Tally,” he whispered, and the name was sweeter than the music of the bells.
Tally was his miracle. She always had been.
And he’d turned his back on that miracle, ruined his one chance at love, at happiness, out of pride, arrogance, all the things she’d accused him of, rather than admit the truth.
He loved Tally. Now, three years ago, forever. He adored her.
And he knew exactly why she’d left him.
He had been about to end their affair, just as she’d said, and it hadn’t had a damned thing to do with boredom. The truth was the great Dante Russo had been terrified of putting his heart in a woman’s hands, of saying, Here I am, cara. A man, nothing more. A man who loves you and can only hope you love him in return because without you, I am nothing. My life is nothing.…
Dante took a shuddering breath.
“Tally,” he whispered, and turned toward the house.
TALLY LAY HUDDLED in her bed, eyes hot and gritty with tears.
Ridiculous, wasn’t it? To weep over Dante? He wasn’t worth it. Not anymore.
He had shown his true colors today. He was the cold, brutal, arrogant tyrant she’d always called him…
Tally rolled onto her back and stared up at the dark ceiling. No. That wasn’t true. Dante had been wonderful today, quick and courageous and tender with Sam, and with her…
Until she’d told him what she should have told him a very long time ago.
She could be honest about this, at least. Dante wasn’t a tyrant, he was a man in pain. She had told him a lie that had cut to the bone. Now he was hurting. And a man like Dante Russo knew only one way to deal with pain.
He struck at its cause.
And she—she was the cause.
A sob caught in Tally’s throat and she rolled over and buried her face in the already-damp pillow.
If only she’d told him the truth that day in Vermont, when he’d first seen Sam. If only she’d said, “Dante, this is your child. I kept her from you and I kept myself from you, too, because—because I loved you. Because I knew I’d die if you turned away from me.”
Would he have laughed? Or would he have opened his arms to her? She’d never know. It was too late. She’d finally told him the truth, that Sam was his and that she loved him, but it didn’t matter.
He wanted Sam, not her. And she couldn’t blame him for that. Her lies had destroyed everything.
Too late, the beat of her heart said, too late, too late, too—
What was that?
Tally sat up, head cocked. Bells? Yes. Bells, chiming sweetly through the night. Why would bells be…