Mistresses: After Hours With The Boss. Maisey Yates

looked at her, his dark eyes glittering. “I looked in myself, and saw the potential for terrible things. And since that day I haven’t felt anything. I find my power from somewhere else, a place I can control.”

      She felt like someone had reached into her chest, grabbed her heart and squeezed it tight. “Dante … you’re helping me. I look in you and I see so much good.”

      “Then you are blind.” He stood up and walked off the terrace into the house, and all she could do was stare at his back retreating into the shadows.

      She’d seen that emptiness again. That same look he’d gotten in the hall just before he’d snapped at her. That same look he’d had in her office when they’d kissed. She’d taken it for emotionlessness but it wasn’t that.

      It was something else. Something worse. Something she was afraid she couldn’t help him with.

       CHAPTER NINE

      HE heard crying. He moved to a sitting position in bed and swung his legs over the side, his feet planted on the carpet.

      Ana was crying.

      He stood and walked out of his room, striding down the hall. He opened the door to the nursery, casting a sliver of light into the room. He saw Paige, sitting in the rocking chair, holding Ana, rocking her, patting her back. Ana was crying still. And so was Paige. Glittery tracks down her cheeks.

      His first instinct was to turn away. To walk away from the scene as quickly as possible, go back to bed. Shut down the strange emotions that were rising up, pressing on his throat.

      “Is everything okay?”

      “No,” Paige said thickly. “She’s been crying for an hour and she won’t stop. I’ve tried everything. I fed her, I changed her. I’m holding her. I turned the light on, I turned it off. I don’t know what else to do.”

      “I’m sure it’s nothing you’re doing wrong.”

      “What if it is?” she whispered, despair lacing her voice.

      He took a step into the room, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “Babies cry, for no reason sometimes.”

      He’d heard that said, though he wasn’t sure where.

      “But Ana doesn’t, usually.”

      “Does she have a fever?” That seemed a logical question.

      Paige put her cheek down on Ana’s head. “I don’t think so.” She smoothed her hands over the baby’s brow. “She doesn’t feel warm to me. Does she feel warm to you?”

      He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. She was a tiny creature, fragile. Small-boned. Delicate. He didn’t want to put his hands on her.

      “I don’t think she’s warm,” he said.

      Paige put her hand on the baby’s forehead. “No, you’re right. I don’t think she is. Could you sing to her?”

      “Sing?” he asked.

      “A lullaby.”

      His breath stalled in his throat, got trapped there. “I don’t know any lullabies,” he lied.

      “Oh … that’s okay.” She patted Ana on the back. “I tried to sing and she just cried harder so I thought maybe you could …”

      “Sorry,” he said, curling his fingers into fists, fighting the urge to run from the room.

      For that reason alone he had to stay. Dante Romani did not run. He would not.

      Ana hiccuped, her tiny shoulders jerking with the motion. Her cries slowed, quieted, until they became muffled, sporadic whimpers.

      He watched her for a few moments, silence settling between them as Paige continued to rock Ana until the whimpering ceased altogether.

      “See, she was just crying,” he said, trying to sound certain. Trying to feel some control over the situation when the simple fact was, he had none. There was a nursery in his home. There was a baby here. A woman. She had her things in his closet.

      No, nothing was in his control anymore.

      “I guess she was,” Paige whispered.

      She got up from the chair and walked over to the crib, placing Ana gingerly onto the mattress, then straightening, freezing for a second while she waited to see if the baby would wake up.

      The room stayed silent.

      “She seems like she’s asleep now,” Paige whispered.

      “You should sleep, too,” he said. She looked tired. Sad.

      She wrapped her robe around herself, a little tremor shaking her body. “No. I don’t … I don’t think I could sleep right now.”

      The desolation in her tone did something to him. Made his stomach feel tight.

      “Hungry?” he asked.

      She shook her head. “Not really. But do you have chocolate?”

      He let out a long, slow breath. Paige was upset, obviously, and while he would usually walk away and get back in bed without a twinge of guilt, he couldn’t do that now. He wasn’t going to take the time to analyze why. “We’ll have to go raid the cupboards and find out. I’m not certain.”

      “How can you not be sure if you have chocolate?” They walked out of the nursery and left the door open so they could hear Ana if she woke.

      “I’m not accustomed to raiding my kitchen at odd hours.”

      “I guess that’s why you have washboard abs and I don’t.” Her eyes were trained meaningfully on his bare torso. Her complete lack of guile amused him, and aroused him. She didn’t try to hide her open appraisal of him. And yet, it was different than the sort of open gazes he was used to seeing. There was no extra motive with Paige, only admiration.

      He looked back at her, treating her to the same, intense study she’d treated him to. Her T-shirt molded to her breasts, her pajama pants sitting low on her hips. Too baggy for his taste. He wanted to see the curves beneath. “I have no complaints about your figure.”

      She stopped and turned sharply. “Oh, really?”

      He shouldn’t have said that. There was no point in fostering the attraction between Paige and himself. It wasn’t good for either of them. She did something to him. Tested him in ways he’d never been tested before.

      Detachment was normally simple for him. This time, not so much. But he couldn’t pull the compliment back now. He wasn’t the sort of man to lie to a woman, or charm her to get her into bed, but he still knew enough to know that this was a subject to tread carefully with. Could sense that the wrong words could break her, or lead her to believe he could give things he simply could not.

      “Every inch of you is beautiful,” he said. It was the truth, not flattery. Though why he was compelled to speak it in that way, he wasn’t certain.

      She flushed scarlet. “You haven’t seen every inch of me.”

      “Yet,” he said, the word escaping without his permission and hanging between them, heavy and, he realized in that moment, stating the inevitable.

      “No,” she said, turning away from him and continuing down the stairs and into the kitchen.

      “No?”

      “You and I both know it would be a very bad idea.”

      “Why is that, Paige?” he asked. “What harm could come from a bit of fun?” There was so much wrong with that sentence. He knew exactly what harm resulted from sex and passion. Which was precisely why his sexual encounters were void of passion. Passion wasn’t required for release. It was perfunctory. The right