Page 55 of Girl Anonymous

Already the tiny table was getting crowded.

Already her stomach growled.

Señor Alfonso gestured. “Eat! While we prepare more!”

What could Maarja do? Her hostility toward Dante was completely understandable, but Señor Alfonso didn’t deserve the anger overflow. She smiled and thanked him, and while she did, Dante tore off a small chunk of bread, dipped it in the bubbling oil, and when she turned her head to glare at him, he put it to her lips.

Him, she could be rude to, but Señor Alfonso and his sous chef stood beaming and waiting, so she let Dante feed her and…she collapsed against the back of the bench. Man, it was good. For one moment, while she chewed, she closed her eyes to allow the full fruity taste of the salty oil and the tough bread fill her senses…and when she opened them, the chefs had retreated and Dante was looking at her as if he craved sex rather than food…

“Shrimp?” He didn’t wait for her agreement, but used the tiny fork to spear one. He blew on it to cool it, then took it inhis fingers and put it to her lips. She tried to take it from him, but he coaxed, “You’ll love it. Señor Alfonso said so. Just a bite.”

It was a shrimp.

It was also surrender.

But she was tucked into the corner behind a table with a big broad-shouldered guy leaning toward her, who smiled like he knew stuff he shouldn’t know, which probably he did, considering he’d been watching her on her own damned video camera… She bit into the shrimp and chewed and moaned.

“Fuck.” He shifted as if he was uncomfortable.

“No,” she snapped.

He wasn’t listening, he was too busy choosing the best bits for her, murmuring about the briny olives and the six-month-old cheese and the way the bread crust crumbled and fell into the oil…and each word was foreplay. Señor Alfonso and his staff kept bringing tapas, hot and cold. Ludwig, the restaurant’s stuffed shirt continental waiter/maître d’, poured wine, keeping their glasses topped off, while she mellowed and admitted secrets like, “Thesepatatas bravasare fabulous, but I really love a big baked potato with bowls of crisp bacon, sour cream, grated cheddar, and Irish butter lined up in front of me.” And, “Now that I’ve triedJamón ibérico, I can die happy.”

Dante nodded and looked as if he filed it all away for future reference, which niggled at her in a worrisome way.

Finally, she had to lean back and shake her head. “No more.”

Dante chuckled, loud and deep in his chest. “We’ve just begun.”

CHAPTER 26

Maarja slapped her hand on the table hard enough to make the glasses jump. “No!”

Señor Alfonso, headed for their table with a plate of cream-filledmiguelitos, made an abrupt turnabout.

She might have had too much wine. Or her frustration had boiled over. Or both, because the easiness caused by the good food turned to confrontation, and she made the accusation that haunted her. “Maybeyouput the bottle in my drawer.”

Dante had the guts to look surprised. Then he followed her train of thought and nodded slowly. “Because I had allthis—” he waved a hand around “—planned.”

“Yes!”

“I can see the logic, but I didn’t have the bottle, and I don’t know who did. You’ll have to take my word for it, because I can’t prove that.” He leaned closer again, blocked her in with his shoulders and his intensity. “I’m good at preplanning. I knew it might be necessary to get you out of your home in a hurry, so almost before you left the hospital with Alex, I handled it. I’m fast on my feet; the appearance of the bottle gave me the opportunity to mark you as mine. Not casual-lover mine, but this-is-serious-and-if-you-hurt-her-you’ll-be-sorry mine.”

“I’m notyours. I’m not a thing to be marked. Or possessed.”

“Theydon’t think that way. A woman is definitely a thing to be possessed and a pawn to be used.”

She spotted it right away; he hadn’t addressed an important issue. “Theythink of me as a possession. What doyouthink?”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “That you’re mine.”

He didn’t lie. She had to give him that. He stared her right in the eyes and told her what he thought…and felt.

She needed out from behind this table, away from this sense that fate, in the guise of Dante Arundel, had her trapped. “Time to go.” She pushed at his shoulder.

He slid backward off the bench, moved the table out to make it easy for her to stand, shook Señor Alfonso’s hand, and thanked him for the lovely meal. She did the same, then turned toward the back door.

Dante took her arm. “We have a room here.”

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