By Mary Calmes
Six years in the past, Noah Wheeler went to fulfill his boyfriend, Dante Cerreto, on the airport, and his international ended. Dante was once kissing another person and claimed to be in love. So Noah took his heartbreak—and the sonogram photos in their surrogate child—and closed the door at the colossal photo of what he inspiration his lifestyles will be, focusing as an alternative at the piece of the dream he acquired to maintain, being a father.
Now on holiday in Las Vegas, Noah by chance runs into the Cerreto family members, after which the fellow himself, and learns that not just was once he deceived, yet Dante was once besides. Now Dante desires to make up for misplaced time, six years’ worthy, and to do this he wishes Noah, the single guy he’s ever enjoyed, and charm, the daughter he didn’t be aware of he had, to provide him an opportunity at happiness. Dante’s going to need to take a crash path in conversation and seduction, notwithstanding. Noah’s unlikely to fall in love simply to be damaged back.
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And then the worst horror of all. ’ He used her name. In the voice that she had heard him use dozens of times—a hundred times—on that night. She had heard it said calmly, heard it said softly, heard it said huskily, seductively, passionately, demandingly. And finally, she had heard her own name used as a cry of fulfilment, as he had lost himself in her. But always, always, in that voice. Anton? She didn’t dare to speak his name aloud, fearing that she might be tempting fate by doing so. That she might turn into reality what she still fervently hoped was just a delusion, a trick of sound combining with her overactive imagination.
The sun was behind him so that she had to squint against it to see his face. But she already knew, and her heart was racing so fast that she was sure it would escape the confines of her chest. Already she couldn’t breathe and her mind was frozen in stunned horror. Perhaps it was because of that, or perhaps it was the sun dazzling her eyes, but something made her lose her grip, slip and fall. She reached for the rim of the pool, missed, and went under, still gasping for breath. Water in her ears and eyes, she didn’t hear anything, couldn’t see anything.
She would much rather have escaped to her room and stayed hidden there all night. But there was no escape. Cyril Antonakos liked a formal dinner in the evenings and he expected his family and guests to dress up for it. So she had been forced to put on the elegant peacock-blue silk dress he had told her to wear, pin her hair up into an elegant roll at the back of her head and sit down at the big wooden table to endure the worst sort of torture by food. She had no idea at all what she was supposed to be eating, only that it had as much taste and texture as stewed sawdust and that it was impossible to swallow anything because her throat seemed to have closed up completely.