Dante's Honor-Bound Husband by Day Leclaire

mouth. “For the sake of my sanity, please try.”
    â€œWell, when you put it like that…”
    She closed her eyes, if only to shut out the sight of him. And though she didn’t think she’d sleep, the instant she snuggled against him, she went under.
    Â 
    A loud pounding woke Gianna the next morning. She bolted upright in bed, disoriented. Confusion battled with a sudden, overwhelming alarm, made worse by the empty indentation beside her.
    â€œConstantine?” His name escaped, edged with panic.
    â€œRight here.”
    At some point he’d left the bed and returned to the chaise. At the commotion emanating from below he stood, looking strong and rested despite all they’d been through the night before. His air of calm immediately relaxed her. He still wore the trousers from his tux, but hadn’t bothered to don the shirt or jacket he’d loaned her the night before, possibly because she’d left them in a heap in the corner of the bathroom.
    She vaguely recalled hearing him in the shower at some point in the early hours of the morning, though a dark shadow clung to his jaw indicating he hadn’t borrowed a razor, and his hair fell across his brow in heavy, unruly waves. Despite that, his “morning after” look made him almost unbearably appealing.
    He checked his watch. “Don’t get up. I’ll see who it is.”
    â€œWhat if it’s David?”
    He didn’t hesitate. “Then he’ll soon regret ever coming near you.”
    She despised the wave of fear that swept through her when she thought about David. She’d never experienced that before. Nor had she ever considered herself weak or vulnerable. He’d stolen her innate feeling of security and, for that alone, she’d never forgive him. As for the rest, she’d find some way to make him pay for drugging her, for attempting to assault her. Because there wasn’t a doubt in her mind he would have done precisely that if she hadn’t gotten away.
    Determined not to surrender to cowardice, she tossed aside the covers and swept up her robe. She tied the sash around her waist in a quick, angry motion, then followed Constantine from the bedroom. He opened the front door just as she reached the foyer. To her horror, Primo stood there, his gaze moving from a half-dressed Constantine to Gianna in her bathrobe, bare feet and bed-head hair.
    Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good.
    â€œMay I come in?” Primo asked, excruciatingly polite.
    Gianna thrust her hands through her hair in an effort to smooth the unruly curls. Not that it helped. It simply drew attention to the horror of it all. “Of course. We…I wasn’t expecting you.”
    â€œThis I can see.”
    â€œI’ll start a pot of coffee,” Constantine said, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
    She didn’t know which was worse. The fact that he’d deserted her. Or the fact that—from her grandfather’s perspective—he was familiar enough with her home to fix the coffee. Not that he was. But it certainly must seem that way to Primo. Warmth burned her cheeks and she avoided his gaze.
    She trailed after Constantine like a caboose on a runaway train, helpless to prevent it from careening onward to its predetermined destination. She didn’t have a hope in hell of preventing the coming disaster. Still, she was driven totry. “Just so you know, this isn’t what it looks like,” she said, in an attempt to divert the impending train wreck.
    â€œIt looks like Constantine has spent the night.”
    Gianna reddened. Sharp curve ahead! “Well, yes, he did. But not the way you mean.”
    â€œAnd which way is that, chiacchierona? ” he asked gently.
    â€œHe…we…I—”
    â€œCream? Sugar?” Constantine interrupted.
    Primo waved aside the offer. “Black. And strong enough to grow hair on my chest. At my age I could use