Dark Heart of the Sun (Dark Destinies Book 1) (10 page)

Chapter 10

In Vino Veritas

Cassidy knew she was dreaming, and yet she could not wake. In her dream, the heat of the sun rising beyond her bedroom windows morphed into bone-gripping cold, and the sheets became drifts of snow shifting beneath her hands and feet. The babbling radio alarm was drowned out by the howl of wind sweeping down from craggy peaks.

She had to find him.

The air was thin and brittle up in the mountains, and the sky so deep and blue it bordered on black. Nothing survived here but the wind. Snow slithered as she staggered.

“Cass? What are you doing here?”

Jackson’s voice was the only thing recognizable about the man-shaped bundle of winter gear, its face obscured by a hood, goggles, and mask. She shook her head, her hair whipping about her face. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

He couldn’t help; she had to find him on her own.

“You’re going the wrong way, Cass,” Jackson called as she trudged towards the barren cliffs. “There’s nothing up there.” His voice faded, shredded by the landscape, eaten by the sky.

Damn it, I don’t have time for this. Where are you? What do you want from me?

Her bare foot slipped on something buried in the snow. She bent to dig down, exposing a body. She brushed the snow off the prominent cheeks and forehead and out of the hollows around the eyes. Then she sat back and stared.
What are you doing here?

Dominic opened his eyes. The pupils constricted to invisible pinpoints in the glaring light, and gold flecks glittered in his hazel irises. His smile dimpled his cheeks. Then he laughed into the sky. The sound echoed off the mountains before fading away, vanishing the way his body vanished, melting into the snow without a trace.

She reached for him.
No!

With a shuddering gasp, Cassidy came awake. Her heart raced, and her body felt sluggish and sore as though she had climbed the mountain for real. Sweat trickled down her sides. Morning sunlight stabbed to the back of her eyeballs and into her brain. Clasping both hands over her face, she groaned and rolled to her side.

She had spent an entire night in the same bizarre lucid dream. Every time had been a little different, but each time she found him, he vanished. Dominic. Why the hell wasn’t she dreaming of looking for Jackson? Or hiding from Jackson?

Eddie mewed where he sat at her feet, his thick tail wrapped around neatly placed paws and green eyes huge with inquiry. She stole a glance at the radio clock. Seven-thirty-four. She should be half way to work by now. “Shit.”

A stack of bills beside the radio caught her eye. Several hundreds and fifties and a pile of twenties and tens half obscured a note of exquisite handwriting.
For AC repair. D.

“About freaking time.” Though she’d have to talk to him about coming into her room . . .

The air rushed out of her. Misery-soaked memories rushed in. She pressed a hand to her forehead, mercifully free of pain after a long night dreaming in a bed she didn’t recall getting into. But it took no imagination at all to fill in the blanks.

She flopped back into her pillows. “Holy shit.”

Cassidy
knew the cook was up when the music changed. The soulful country tunes drifting up the stairs like cool mountain air disappeared, replaced by a sophisticated, languorous cosmopolitan beat that sounded more Europe than Caribbean.

“Good bye Radio Denver, hello Radio St. Barth.” She sighed and combed out her damp hair.

Her stomach growled. Deciding to take him by his word when she found the fridge stocked to capacity this morning, she hadn’t eaten when she got home. But if he was going to make dinner, why couldn’t he get up at a decent hour?

Not that she was in any great hurry to see him tonight. He had held her hair while she lost her lunch and then carried her passed out body to bed, where he thankfully refrained from undressing her. Not what she would have expected of him after more than a week of bickering. Of course, neither would she have imagined him cooking dinner, and judging by the sounds coming from the kitchen, that was what he was doing. Perhaps she had misjudged him?

Eddie hustled into the room, his ears back, shaggy body low to the ground, and disappeared under the bed without so much as a glance in her direction. Definitely not a Nick fan. “Well, I didn’t ask you.”

Shorts and tank top felt too casual for a presumably French-themed dinner, so she studied her three options. An off-the-shoulder eggplant gown Jackson’s mother had helped her pick out for the engagement party? Overkill. The sleeveless, dusty blue dress that made her eyes pop off her face? Two inches shorter than her comfort zone. Which left a slinky blue and green knit she had bought because she hoped Jackson would appreciate it for its clingy profile. Not that he had noticed the first and last time she wore it for him at that disastrous family dinner.

With a sigh, Cassidy shrugged into the knit dress and tucked the plunging neckline into respectability. She didn’t bother with shoes, but applied some eyeliner and lip-gloss and a dusting of powder over the bruise on her neck. Her sunburned reflection still looked chagrined. Damn it, her face didn’t hide much. Every ounce of awkwardness she felt about the dress—and last night—radiated in spades. Resigned, she summoned a smile, squared her shoulders, and descended the stairs.

In the kitchen, the rattling of pots and pans competed with the French pop music. The chef was his usual somber self in the black workout pants and V-neck T-shirt, but a pair of flip-flops and a red and white checkered apron completed his look tonight. A thin leather strap confined his hair, emphasizing the striking planes and angles of his face.

She stood and watched him lay into a pile of vegetables with a serious-looking knife, which he wielded with the casual ease of long practice.

“
Bonsoir
, Cassidy,” he said without looking up. “Are you feeling better tonight?”

She closed her eyes for a moment as embarrassment scalded her. “Much. Thank you.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder, and his cheeks dimpled with a smile. “I’m glad.”

The plate of French bread suddenly looked very interesting. She perched on one of the bar chairs at the counter, retrieved a slice, and spread it with a thick green paste that smelled enticingly of olives and spices. She chewed slowly, enjoying the flavor while Dominic retrieved a bottle of wine and a glass.

“Dressed, dry,
and
civil,” she said. “I’m not sure I know who you are anymore.”

He slanted her a look of spine-tingling mischief. “Madame, you have no idea who I am.”

And there he was, the Dominic she knew so well, sharpening his tongue for an attack. Much better. “Oh, I know you’re a pain in the ass, insufferably full of yourself, and have zero respect for privacy.”

He paused in the application of corkscrew to bottle, baffled.

“I could have found the money on the kitchen table. There was no need to leave it in my room.”

“Ah.” A final twist and pull uncorked the wine. “I was there anyway,
chère
, to make sure you were all right.”

“Well, it makes me uncomfortable. Don’t do it again.”

A tiny frown furrowed his forehead as he splashed some wine into the glass. “As you wish, Cassidy.
Paix.
”

She stared at him, disoriented by the argument that wasn’t, and his expression brightened again.

“Peace?”

“Peace,” she repeated. No, she didn’t know him. Not at all.

He pushed the glass toward her. “Tell me what you think.”

Grateful for the change of subject, she sipped. Flavors of fruit and earth washed over her tongue in a pleasant swirl. She licked her lips. “Mmm. What is it?”

Unrestrained pleasure lit his face. “French.”

“Of course.” She scoffed, but couldn’t help smiling. “Silly me.” He filled her glass. “And you? Where’s yours?”

“None for me,” he said with a rueful little noise. “I am driving the skillet.” And with that, he turned back to the stove where things began to sputter and bubble.

Cassidy drank more of the wine, feeling the mellow alcohol settle in her bloodstream. Considering his words, she added ‘recovering alcoholic’ to her mental list of observations. Well, at least he had the willpower to stay on the wagon. Her opinion of him ticked up a smidgeon.

She watched him cook. Every movement was sure and precise. Lean muscles flexed in his bare arms. Strong, capable arms. Arms that had carried her to bed . . .  Damn. Time for another slice of bread.

“About last night . . . thank you. But . . . you didn’t have to do that. I could have managed.”

“An old habit,” he said, sounding a little distracted as he uncovered the marinade pan and moved several fillets around in the sauce with a pair of kitchen tongs.

“Really? You carry unconscious women to bed on a regular basis?”

“I did a little more than that,
non
?” One of the fillets landed in the skillet and sizzled forcefully.

“Yes. You did. None of which you had to do.” Or required discussion while preparing dinner.

“An old habit,” he said again, working the fish in the pan, his expression unfocused. “You make me remember so many.”

“And . . . is that a good thing?” He didn’t sound convinced.

“
Peut-être.
We will see.” He nodded toward a paper lying on the kitchen table. “I see you got a quote for the air conditioner.”

“Yes,” she said, eager to change the subject again. “It’s outrageous, isn’t it? The whole system is shot and needs to be replaced. I got a verbal quote from another company that was actually four hundred dollars more. Tomorrow I’ll call—”

“I already signed this one. I will give you the rest of the money.”

“You did? Just like that?”

“This is basic maintenance of my property,
non
? It should be done. What did you expect?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I expected an argument. Can’t imagine why.”

He flashed a quick smile that threatened to melt her insides. “I can see reason. When I want to.”

“Then I’ll get it scheduled. Thanks.” She shook her head, as relieved as she was exasperated. “You drive me crazy, Nick.” She hesitated. No, he wasn’t a Nick. He was mysterious and raw, as surreal as he was charming, both obscure and blinding in the same breath. And he fit his beautiful, haughty name to perfection. “Dominic,” she amended.

He crossed the kitchen to top off her glass, his expression not quite smug, but also not quite innocent. “I know,” he murmured. She could have sworn he purred.

Nursing the wine and nibbling the bread, she watched him work the stove, adding ingredients, checking consistencies, adjusting temperatures. Her mouth watered with the delectable aromas swirling in the air. “Looks like you know what you’re doing.”

“My family trained me,” he said as though digging for every word. “My parents studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. My sisters and I were raised in the kitchen of our restaurant. When we were old enough to hold a pot, we were put to work.”

“Restaurant? Your family owns a restaurant on St. Barth?”

“
Oui.
Maison de la Mer
. On the beach. You can watch the sunset over the sea from the patio.”

On the radio, right on cue, a woman made an announcement in rapid French, followed by the Radio St. Barth tag line and more music. Cassidy imagined a tiny dot of land in the sea, bathed in sunshine, surrounded by warm oceans, and frequented by visitors from the most glittering capitals of Europe. An island awash in comfort and peace. Paradise. “And you left that for . . . here? Why?”

He didn’t respond right away. “Islands sometimes are too small.”

“Ah. I see.” Relationship issues. Of course. “Think you’ll ever go back?”

“I doubt it.” He picked up the bottle and added a measure to one of his pots. Then he filled her glass yet again.

“Hey. If you keep this up, you may end up having to carry me to bed again.”

“You are obviously enjoying it. I’m glad someone is.”

“Or you’re trying to get me drunk so you can carry me to bed and take advantage of me.” Of course, saying that out loud was proof positive that she was just about there. Her inner censor—never the keenest to begin with—was packing it in for the night.

Mischief drowned the shadows in his expressive eyes. “If I was going to do that,
ma chèrie
, I would not need you drunk on anything but me.”

“Oh, you think I’m that easy, do you?”

“No. I am that good. Seduction is my gift.”

“Good God. Does that hurt? Being that full of yourself?”

He grinned. “Here. Try this for me.”

She sniffed at the sauce coating the steaming end of a cooking spoon he extended to her. The delightful seasoning made her mouth water and ignited irresistible wickedness. Two could play this game.

Very deliberately, she put her lips around the tip and sucked. She closed her eyes, savoring the flavor, then moaned a little when the spoon slid out of her mouth. The taste was exquisite, both bold and delicate, and her senses writhed in culinary ecstasy. But she forced her face to remain at least somewhat neutral and made a huge show of tasting, licking her lips, frowning in thought, and sampling the spoon for seconds and thirds as though undecided. When she stole a peek at the chef, she was pleased to see the dark scowl and slack jaw. He looked like he had forgotten how to breathe.

“Mmmm. I guess it’s all right.”