Dante's Twins. Catherine Spencer

as someone accidentally spattered a drink down the skirt of her dress. Offshore, a school of bottle-nosed dolphins leaped in graceful arcs to the delight of the audience on the terrace. Still, he’d continued to dominate the scene.

      She hadn’t needed an introduction to know who he was. Even in a crowd of sixty, there was no mistaking Dante Rossi. He stood taller than the other men, larger than life.

      As if they knew he was different, special, his dinner jacket clung more possessively to his shoulders, his starched shirt gleamed whiter against the warm olive of his skin.

      He stood beside the balustrade separating the terrace from the beach, engaged in conversation with Carl Newbury, one of his vice presidents. But as Leila came down the steps from the main house and attempted to merge inconspicuously with everyone else, Dante had lifted his head and lanced her with such a stare that she stopped, as paralyzed as if she’d been caught in the act of stealing the jewels hanging around the neck of the woman standing nearest to her. And just like that, it had begun.

      With a dismissive gesture, he cut off Carl Newbury in midsentence. Leila saw his mouth move, could almost lip-read his question Who’s she?

      The vice president turned to look. When he saw who it was his boss had expressed interest in, he allowed his face to settle into lines of holier-than-thou disapproval and mouthed, “That’s her!”

      Dante’s observation had grown more acute, fastening on her features with an intensity from which she could not detach herself. But the hostility she braced herself to withstand hadn’t materialized. Instead, another kind of awareness knifed through the atmosphere, strange, electric, thrilling. It rippled over her and whether or not she wished to, Leila found herself staring back at him, transfixed.

      Where moments before she’d been surrounded by a blaze of color and movement and noise, suddenly Leila felt encased in silence and solitude. Carl Newbury melted into insignificance, too minor a player to merit notice. The women’s gorgeous designer dresses paled. The animated buzz of conversation ebbed to the quiet murmur of waves lapping a distant shore.

      In all the world there were only the two of them: Dante and she, potentially opposed from a professional standpoint, but at the same time, trapped in an inexplicable harmony that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with primitive sexual knowledge. A modern Adam and Eve, their association already poisoned by the serpent of resentment which had coiled around her from the moment she’d been hired to replace the ailing Mark Hasborough.

      Dante had recovered first and moved, breaking the spell. Without taking his attention from her face, he lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers. A waiter bearing a tray of pineapple-garnished drinks had appeared at his side. Indicating to his vice president to take two glasses and follow, Dante had moved with sinuous grace among the throng of employees and spouses to where she waited. Carl Newbury minced along at his heels, as eager to corner her as a mongoose about to dispose of a snake.

      “Dante,” he’d bleated, rocking on the balls of his feet and smirking, “allow me to introduce Mark’s replacement and the newest buyer to come on board at Classic Collections. This is—”

      “Leila Connors-Lee.” Dante’s voice, as potent in its impact as everything else about him, had washed over her, eliminating Newbury in its undertow. He had unusual, beautiful eyes, their blue-green depths rivaling the clarity of fine aquamarines, and he had learned to use them to powerful effect. Framed in lush black lashes, they assessed her brazenly from head to toe, a cool sweep of appraisal that left her feeling stripped to the bone. “Of course,” he said, relieving Newbury of both drinks and passing one to her. “You couldn’t possibly be anyone else.”

      A more naive woman might have thought he was referring to the fact that she didn’t fit the blond corporate wives’ image, but Leila hadn’t been fooled. He’d heard the gossip, the innuendos. Why else was he subjecting her to such thorough observation?

      Vibrantly conscious of the electricity sparking between them and wreaking devastation on her composure, Leila had struggled to project an air of professional detachment. Refusing to crane her neck to meet his gaze, she’d addressed his mouth instead and murmured coolly, “How do you do, Mr. Rossi? I’m very honored to be here. Poinciana Island is beautiful.”

      In all fairness, he tried to match her aloofness. “We both know you’re very lucky to be here,” he corrected her, his handsome lips enunciating the word quite distinctly.

      She’d lifted her chin a fraction. “You’re referring, no doubt, to the fact that it’s rare for such a very new member of the company to earn a place at its annual retreat.”

      “Among other things,” he replied, taking her elbow and steering her toward a quiet corner where their conversation wouldn’t be overheard.

      None of the others had tried to join them but they noticed that he’d singled her out and they watched, some with slightly malicious anticipation and a few—mostly the women who’d befriended her—with sympathy and encouragement

      “So,” he said, swirling his glass of rum punch and raising it in a brief salute, “how did you manage it?”

      “What?” she’d replied, deciding two could play at being obtuse. “Getting myself hired by Classic Collections Limited?”

      “We can begin with that, if you like.”

      He’d spoken as if it was immaterial to him how she answered; as if he didn’t really give a rap who she was or how she’d managed to wheedle her way into this select gathering, and that he was merely going through the motions of pretending an interest in her.

      But the tension in his tall frame had betrayed him for all that he lounged so casually against the terrace balustrade and declined to look at her, choosing instead to stare out to sea. Behind that veneer of indifference he was as conscious of her as was she of him.

      The intense awareness that had sprung to life the moment their eyes met continued to writhe between them, its threat not if it would strike, but when. It left her heart pulsating unevenly and the palms of her hands clammy with foreboding.

      But if some parts of her had shrunk from the danger of him, other parts had thrilled to it Underneath her clothing, in places no man had ever seen let alone touched, her flesh grew warm and alive. For the first time in her life she had found herself in thrall to an attraction so uncontrollable, it left her breathless.

      He was the most compelling, the most exciting man she’d ever met. That she should have leaped to such a momentous conclusion in a matter of minutes had made not a whit of difference. She simply knew, as surely as she knew her own name. He was her destiny.

      “I came across your company ad in a trade magazine and decided to apply for the job,” she’d said, somehow managing to disguise her inner commotion with a calm that was as superficial as the smile shaping her mouth.

      “Why?”

      Money and the debts she’d undertaken to honor were too squalid a topic to mention when magic swirled in the air. “Because,” she said lightly, “it sounded interesting and I was ready for a change.”

      He favored her with a slow, engaging grin. “You must also like a challenge. From what I understand, you’ve not had much experience in the Canadian import business.”

      “No,” she admitted, warmed to the soul by his smile, “but I’m willing to learn. I do speak Mandarin fluently, and I’m intimately acquainted with the way business is done in the Orient.”

      “Intimately?” He’d purred the word with such a wealth of meaning that, fleetingly, she wondered if she’d misread his interest in her. She knew that some of her male colleagues, in particular Carl Newbury, believed it had taken more than talent for her to come by her job.

      “I was born and raised in Singapore and have traveled extensively through the Far East,” she’d said rather stiffly. “How would you describe that?”

      He’d brushed his fingers up her arm, the way one might soothe a nervous animal. “What does it matter? The