by Maya Banks
“So you came back?”
“For now.” Dante shrugged. “I am back in Australia to try and sort things out and make my decision. I have a major trial coming up in a week’s time so I am still working, but I am not taking on any new cases. You see now why it seemed pointless to renovate the garden when I do not know if Alex will even be here to enjoy it. But I think that Hugh and Katrina are hoping if they can do something—anything—to improve things, there is more chance that I will stay.”
“And is there?” Matilda asked, surprised at how much his answer mattered to her. “Is there a chance you might stay?”
“My family is in Italy,” Dante pointed out. “I have two brothers and three sisters, all living near Rome. Alex would have her nona, nono and endless cousins to play with, I would have more family support, instead of relying on Katrina and Hugh, but...” He halted the conversation then, leaving her wanting to know more, wanting a deeper glimpse of him. Wondering what it was that kept him here, what it was that made him stay. But the subject was clearly closed. “It cannot be about me,” Dante said instead, giving a tight shrug, and there was a finality to his words as he effectively ended the discussion. But Matilda, wanting more, attempted to carry it on.
“What about your work?”
“I am lucky.” He gave a dry smile. “There is always someone getting into trouble, either here or in Italy—and being bilingual is a huge advantage. I can work in either country.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Matilda asked, knowing that she was crossing a line, knowing the polite thing to do would be to leave well alone, but her curiosity was piqued, her delectable salmon forgotten, barely registering as the waiter filled her wine glass. “Defending those sorts of people, I mean.”
“I believe in innocent until proven guilty.”
“So do I,” Matilda said, staring into that brooding emotionless face and wondering what, if anything, moved him. She’d never met anyone so confident in their own skin, so incredibly not out to impress. He clearly didn’t give a damn what people thought of him; he completely dispensed with the usual social niceties and yet somehow he managed to wear it, somehow it worked. “But you can’t sit there and tell me that that guy who killed—”
“That guy,” Dante broke in, “was proved innocent in a court of law.”
“I know.” Matilda nodded but it changed midway, her head shaking, incredulity sinking in. She certainly wasn’t a legal eagle, but you’d have to live in a cupboard not to know about some of the cases Dante Costello handled. They were Big, in italics and with a capital B. And even if that man she had read about really had been innocent, surely some of the people Dante had defended really were guilty. His job was so far removed from hers as to be unfathomable, and bewildered, she stared back at him. “Do you ever regret winning?”
“No.” Firmly he shook his head.
“Never?” Matilda asked, watching his lips tighten a touch, watching his eyes darken from dusk to midnight.
“Never,” Dante replied, his single word unequivocal. She felt a shiver, could almost see him in his robes and wig, could almost see that inscrutable face remaining unmoved, could see that full mouth curving into a sneer as he shredded seemingly irrefutable evidence. And anyone, everyone, would have left it there, would have conceded the argument, yet Matilda didn’t, green eyes crashing into his, jade waves rolling onto unmovable black granite.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know I don’t,” Matilda admitted. “Yet I still don’t believe you.”
And that should have been it. She should have got on with her meal, he should have resumed eating, made polite small talk to fill the appalling gap, but instead he pushed her now. As she reached for her fork he reached deep inside, his words stilling her, his hand seemingly clutching her heart. “You’ve been proud of everything you’ve done.”
“Not everything,” Matilda tentatively admitted. “But there’s certainly nothing big league. Anyway, what’s that got to do with it?”
“It has everything to do with it,” Dante said assuredly. “We all have our dark secrets, we all have things that, given our time again, we would have done differently. The difference between Mr or Ms Average and my clients is that their personal lives, their most intimate regrets are up for public scrutiny. Words uttered in anger are played back to haunt them, a moment of recklessness a couple of years back suddenly relived for everyone to hear. It can be enough to cloud the most objective jury.”
“But surely, if they’ve done nothing wrong,” Matilda protested, “they have nothing to fear.”
“Not if I do my job correctly,” Dante said. “But not everyone’s as good as me.” Matilda blinked at his lack of modesty, but Dante made no apology. “I have to believe that my clients are innocent.”
She should have left it there, Matilda knew that, knew she had no chance against him, but she refused to be a pushover and refused to be swayed from her stance. She wasn’t in the witness box after all, just an adult having an interesting conversation. There was no need to be intimidated. Taking a breath, she gave him a very tight smile. “Even if they’re clearly not?”
“Ah, Matilda.” He flashed her an equally false smile. “You shouldn’t believe all you read in the newspapers.”
“I don’t,” Matilda flared. “I’m just saying that there’s no smoke without fire...” She winced at the cliché and began to make a more eloquent argument, but Dante got there first.
“There are no moments in your life that you’d dread coming out in court?”
“Of course not!”
“None at all?”
“None,” Matilda flushed. “I certainly haven’t done anything illegal, well, not really.”
“Not really?” Nothing in his expression changed, bar a tiny rise of one eyebrow.
“I thought we were here to talk about your garden,” she flared, but Dante just smiled.
“You were the one who questioned me about my work,” Dante pointed out. “It’s not my fault if you don’t like the answer. So, come on, tell me, what did you do?”
“I’ve told you,” Matilda insisted. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m sorry if you find that disappointing or boring.”
“I’m never disappointed,” Dante said, his eyes burning into her, staring at her so directly it made her squirm. “And I know for a fact that you have your secret shame—everyone does.”
“OK,” Matilda breathed in indignation. “But if you’re expecting some dark, sordid story then you’re going to be sorely disappointed. It’s just a tiny, tiny thing that happened when I was a kid.”
“Clearly not that tiny,” Dante said, “if you can still blush just thinking about it.”
“I’m not blushing,” Matilda flared, but she knew it was useless, could feel the sting of heat on her cheeks. But it wasn’t the past that was making her blush, it was the present, the here and now, the presence of him, the feel of his eyes on her, the intimacy of revelation—any revelation.
“Tell me,” Dante said softly, dangerously, and it sounded like a dare. “Tell me what happened.”
“I stole some chocolate when I was on school camp,” Matilda admitted. “Everyone did,” she went on almost immediately.
“And you thought that you’d look an idiot if you didn’t play along?”
“Something like that,” Matilda murmured, blushing furiously now, but with the shame and fear she had felt at the time, re
living again the pressure she had felt at that tender age to just blend in. She was surprised at the emotion such a distant memory could evoke.
“So, instead of standing up for yourself, you just went right along with it, even though you knew it was wrong.”
“I guess.”
“And that’s the sum total of your depraved past?” Dante checked.
“That’s it.” Matilda nodded. “Sorry if I disappointed you.”
“You didn’t.” Dante shook his head. “I find you can learn a lot about a person if you listen to their childhood memories. Our responses don’t change that much...”
“Rubbish,” Matilda scoffed. “I was ten years old. If something like that happened now—”
“You’d do exactly the same,” Dante broke in. “I’m not saying that you’d steal a bar of chocolate rather than draw attention to yourself, but you certainly don’t like confrontation, do you?”
Shocked at his insight, all she could do was stare back at him.
“In fact,” Dante continued, “you’d walk to the end of the earth to avoid it, steal a chocolate bar if it meant you could blend in, stay in a bad relationship to avoid a row...” As she opened her mouth to deny it, Dante spoke over her. “Or, let’s take tonight for an example, you ran to the toilet the moment you thought you had upset me.”
“Not quite that very moment.” Matilda rolled her eyes and gave a watery smile, realising she was beaten. “I lasted two at least. But does anyone actually like confrontation?”
“I do,” Dante said. “It’s the best part of my job, making people confront their hidden truths.” He gave her the benefit of a very bewitching smile, which momentarily knocked her off guard. “Though I guess if that’s the worst you can come up with, you really would have no problem with being cross-examined.”
“I’d have no worries at all,” Matilda said confidently.
“You clearly know your own mind.”
“I do.” Matilda smiled back, happy things were under control.
“Then may I?”
“Excuse me?”
“Just for the sake of curiosity.” His smile was still in place. “May I ask you some questions?”
“We’re supposed to be talking about your garden.”
He handed her a rolled-up wad of paper. “There are the plans, you can do whatever you wish—so that takes care of that.”
“But why?” Matilda asked.
“I enjoy convincing people.” Dante shrugged. “And I believe you are far from convinced. All you have to do is answer some questions honestly.”
The dessert menu was being offered to her and Matilda hesitated before taking it. She had the plans, and clearly Dante was in no mood to discuss foliage or water features, so the sensible thing would be to decline. She’d eaten her main course, she’d stayed to be polite, there was absolutely no reason to prolong things, no reason at all—except for the fact that she wanted to stay.
Wanted to prolong this evening.
With a tiny shiver Matilda accepted the truth.
She wanted to play his dangerous game.
“They do a divine white chocolate and macadamia nut mousse,” Dante prompted, “with hot raspberry sauce.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Matilda said, and as the waiter slipped silently away, her glittering eyes met Dante’s. A frisson of excitement ran down her spine as she faced him, as this encounter moved onto another level, and not for the first time today she wondered what it was about Dante Costello that moved her so.
Chapter 3
“You will answer me honestly?”
His smile had gone now, his deep, liquid voice low, and despite the full restaurant, despite the background noise of their fellow diners, it was as if they were the only two in the room.
His black eyes were working her face, appraising her, and she could almost imagine him walking towards her across the courtroom, circling her slowly, choosing the best method of attack. Fear did the strangest thing to Matilda, her lips twitching into a nervous smile as he again asked his question. “You swear to answer me honestly.”
“I’m not on trial.” Matilda gave a tiny nervous laugh, but he remained unmoved.
“If we’re going to play, we play by the rules.”
“Fine.” Matilda nodded. “But I really think you’re—”
“We’ve all got secrets,” Dante broke in softly. “There’s a dark side to every single one of us, and splash it on a headline, layer it with innuendo and suddenly we’re all as guilty as hell. Take your ex—”
“Edward’s got nothing to do—”
“Location, location, location.” He flashed a malevolent smile as Matilda’s hand tightened convulsively around her glass. “Just one more business dinner, just one more client to impress. Just one more garden to renovate and then, maybe then you’ll get his attention. Maybe one day—”
“I don’t need this,” Matilda said through gritted teeth. “I’ve no idea what you’re trying to get at, but can you please leave Edward out of this?”
“Still too raw?” He leant back in his chair, merciless eyes awaiting her response.
“No,” Matilda said tersely, leaning back into her own chair, forcing her tense shoulders to lower, forcing a smile onto her face. “Absolutely not. Edward and I finished a couple of months ago. I’m completely over it.”
“Who ended it?”
“I did,” Matilda answered, but with renewed confidence now. She had been the one who had ended it, and that surely would thwart him, would rule out his image of a broken-hearted female who would go to any lengths to avoid confrontation.
“Why?” Dante asked bluntly, but Matilda gave a firm shake of her head.
“I’m not prepared to answer that,” she retorted coolly. “I had my reasons. And in case you’re wondering, no, there wasn’t anyone else involved.” Confident she’d ended this line of questioning, sure he would try another tack, Matilda felt the fluttering butterflies in her stomach still a touch and her breathing slow down as she awaited his next question, determined to answer him with cool ease.
“Did you ever wish him dead?”
“What?” Appalled, she confronted him with her eyes—stunned that he would even ask such a thing. “Of course not.”
“Are you honestly stating that you never once said that you wished that he was dead?”
“You’re either mad...” Matilda let out an incredulous laugh “...or way too used to dealing with mad people! Of course I never said that I wished that he...” Her voice faltered for just a fraction of second, a flash of forgotten conversation pinging into consciousness, and like a cobra he struck.
“I’m calling your friend as a witness next—and I can assure you that her version of that night is completely different to yours...”
“What night?” Matilda scorned.
“That night,” Dante answered with absolute conviction, and Matilda felt her throat tighten as he spoke on. “In fact, your friend clearly recalls a conversation where you expressed a strong wish that Edward was dead.” Dante’s words were so measured, so assured, so absolutely spot on that for a tiny second she almost believed him. For a flash of time she almost expected to look over her shoulder and see Judy sitting at the other table, as if she had stumbled into some macabre reality TV show, where all her secrets, all her failings were about to be exposed.
Stop it, Matilda scolded herself, reining in her overreaction. Dante knew nothing about her. He was a skilled interrogator, that wa
s all, used to finding people’s Achilles’ heels, and she wasn’t going to let him. She damn well wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking her.
“I still don’t know what night you’re talking about!”
“Then let me refresh your memory. I’m referring to the night you said that you wished Edward was dead.” And he didn’t even make it sound like an assumption, his features so immovable it was as if he’d surely been in the room that night, as if he’d actually witnessed her raw tears, had heard every word she’d sobbed that night, as if somehow he was privy to her soul. “And you did say that, didn’t you, Matilda?”
To deny it would be an outright lie. Suddenly she wasn’t sitting in a restaurant any more. Instead, she was back to where it had all ended two months ago, could feel the brutal slap of Edward’s words as surely as if she were hearing them for the first time.
“Maybe if you weren’t so damn frigid, I wouldn’t have to look at other women to get my kicks.”
He’d taunted her, humiliated her, shamed her for her lack of sexual prowess, demeaned her with words so vicious, so brutal that by the time she’d run from his house, by the time she’d arrived at Judy’s home, she’d believed each and every word. Believed that their relationship had been in trouble because of her failings, believed that if only she’d been prettier, sexier, funnier, he wouldn’t have had to flirt so much, wouldn’t have needed to humiliate her quite so badly. And somehow Dante knew it, too.