The Sicilian's Christmas Bride. Sandra Marton

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      IT WAS A LONG WEEKEND.

      Charlotte left endless messages on his voice mail. They ranged from weepy to demanding, and he erased them all.

      Saturday morning, he heard from the detective his attorney had contacted. The man asked for everything Dante knew about Taylor.

      “Her name,” he said, “is Taylor Sommers. She lived in the Stanhope, on Gramercy Park. She’s an interior decorator.”

      There was a silence.

      “And?” the man said.

      “And what? Isn’t that enough?”

      “Well, I could use the names of her parents. Her friends. Date of birth. Where she grew up. What schools she attended.”

      “I’ve told you everything I know,” Dante said coldly.

      He hung up the phone, then walked through his bedroom and onto the wraparound terrace that surrounded his Central Park West penthouse. It was cold; the wind had a way of whipping around the building at this height. And it had snowed overnight, not heavily, just enough to turn the park a pristine white.

      Dante frowned.

      The detective had seemed surprised he knew so little about Taylor, but why would he have known more? She pleased his eye; she was passionate and intelligent.

      What more would a man want from a woman?

      There had been moments, though. Like the time he’d brought her here for a late supper. It had snowed that night, too. He’d excused himself, gone to make a brief but necessary phone call. When he came back, he’d found the terrace door open and Taylor standing out here, just as he was now.

      She’d been wearing a silk dress, a little slip of a thing. He’d taken off his jacket, stepped outside and put it around her shoulders.

      “What are you doing, cara? It’s much too cold for you out here.”

      “I know,” she’d answered, snuggling into his jacket and into the curve of his arm, “but it’s so beautiful, Dante.” She’d turned her face up to his and smiled. “I love nights like this, don’t you?”

      Cold nights reminded him of the frigid winters in Palermo, the way he’d padded his shoes with newspaper in a useless attempt to keep warm.

      For some reason he still couldn’t comprehend, he’d almost told her that.

      Of course, he had not done anything so foolish. Instead, he’d kissed her.

      “If you can get over your penchant for cold and snow,” he’d said, with a little smile, “we can fly to the Caribbean some weekend and you can help me house-hunt. I’ve been thinking about buying a place in the islands.”

      Her smile had been soft. “I’d like that,” she’d said. “I’d like it very, very much.”

      Instantly, he’d realized what a mistake he’d made. He’d asked her to take a step into his life and he’d never meant to do that.

      He’d never mentioned the Caribbean again. Not that it mattered, because two weeks later, she’d walked out on him.

      Walked out, he thought now, his jaw tightening. Left him to come up with excuses explaining her absence at all those endless Christmas charitable events he was expected to attend.

      But he’d solved that problem simply enough.

      He’d found replacements for her. He’d gone through that season with an endless array of beautiful women on his arm.

      On his arm, but not in his bed. It had been a long time until he’d had sex after Taylor, and even then, it hadn’t been the same.

      The truth was, it still wasn’t. Something was lacking.

      Not for his lovers. He knew damned well how to make a woman cry out with pleasure but he felt—what was the word? Removed. That was it. His body went through all the motions, but when it was over, he felt unsatisfied.

      Taylor was to blame for that.

      What in hell had possessed him, to let her walk away? To let her think she’d ended their affair when she hadn’t? A man’s ego could take just so much.

      By Monday, his anger was at the boiling point. When the private investigator turned up at his office, he greeted him with barely concealed impatience.

      “Well? Surely you’ve located Ms. Sommers. How difficult can it be to find a woman in this city?”

      The man scratched his ear, took a notepad from his pocket and thumbed it open.

      “See, that was the problem, Mr. Russo. The lady isn’t in this city. She’s in…” He frowned. “Shelby, Vermont.”

      Dante stared at him. “Vermont?”

      “Yeah. Little town, maybe fifty miles from Burlington.”

      Taylor, in a New England village? Dante almost laughed trying to picture his sophisticated former lover in such a setting.

      “The lady has an interior decorating business.” The P.I. turned the page. “And she’s done okay. In fact, she just applied for an expansion loan at—”

      The P.I. rattled on but Dante was only half listening. He knew where to find Taylor. Everything else was superfluous.

      How surprised she’d be, he thought with grim satisfaction, to see him again. To hear him tell her that she hadn’t needed to leave him, that he’d been leaving her—

      “…just for the two of them. I have the details, if you—”

      Dante’s head came up. “Just for the two of what?” he said carefully.

      “Of them,” the P.I. said, raising an eyebrow. “You know, what I was saying about the house she inherited. A couple of realtors suggested she might want something newer and larger but she said no, she wanted a small house in a quiet setting, just big enough for two. For her and, uh…I got the name right here, if you just give me a—”

      “A house for two people?” Dante said, in a tone opponents had learned to fear.

      “That’s right. Her and—here it is. Sam Gardner.”

      “Taylor.” Dante cleared his throat. “And Sam Gardner. They live together?”