Page 2 of Dante (Members From Money Season 2. #153)

Magda Deloitte had hopes, ones that she had been nurturing for the past three months. Her light blue eyes centered on the source of that hope. Dante Livingston was not an easy man. An incredible lover and a very inventive one, but out of bed, he was aloof, arrogant and rude.

The press labeled him ruthless, something she was inclined to agree with.

They had been seeing each other whenever she was in town, and she had a feeling that he did not miss her when she was gone.

Or was even jealous that she had been paired with some very hot and successful movie stars.

It irked her that the man was so impenetrable and difficult to read.

She was not vain, well maybe a little bit. But she knew what she could see in the mirror. Her dark hair was shimmering, reaching to her waist and her body was supple and curvy. She was five years older than he was and she worried about the age difference.

She worked hard to maintain the shape and had used the famous plastic surgeon to the stars to tighten a few places here and there. She often thought it was unfair of the good Lord to allow women to age rapidly, while men, well, they just keep going, don't they?

At thirty-two Dante Livingston was a prime example of a magnificent male specimen.

He was tall, topping six foot three, his body tanned all the way through with long and muscular joints.

His shoulders were broad, stomach as flat as a pancake.

There was a dusting of dark hair on that spectacular chest.

Not to mention the thick denseness of his dark hair and those eyes. She sighed softly. Tawny gold as it had been described in several magazines and could see right through you.

His mouth was stern, because he rarely smiled, but full and the man could kiss. Even now, she could feel her heart picking up speed at the thought of what those lips could reduce her to.

"Problems?" she asked softly as he hung up the phone.

He had left the bed to take a phone call, and she was hoping fervently that it was not one that was going to take him out of her apartment. Her heart took a dive when he looked over at her as if he was just now remembering that she was there.

"A glitch in China," he told her briefly.

He was still naked and comfortable with it. His golden eyes reminded her too uncomfortably of a wolf on the prowl, flickered over her bared breasts without the slightest emotion on his face.

"Do you have to leave?" It was Saturday and she was fervently hoping he would take her to dinner.

"Shortly." He rose gracefully, approaching the bed in that loping animal grace of his, eyes holding hers.

"I'm going to the club." He sat on the edge of the bed.

Lifting one hand, he trailed long fingers over her bare skin, noticing absently that she was shivering.

"We can entertain each other until then. "

"I was thinking we could go to dinner." Her juices were already churning.

"Rain check." He slid in and turned her to face him. The kiss knocked her back several steps and had her senses reeling. It did not take long for her to be completely lost in his embrace.

Later, when the room had quietened and only the city's distant pulse came through the windows, Magda watched him dress with the same intent complexity she reserved for a new script.

Dante moved with unhurried purpose, his movements betraying none of the storm that sometimes flickered behind those golden eyes.

She knew better than to expect him to linger.

Still, hope curled in her chest, stubborn as ever.

He buttoned his shirt, the fabric crisp against bronze skin, then paused to look at her, unreadable.

"Don't wait up."

"Will you call?" she asked and hated the way her voice sounded too soft, too vulnerable.

He gave a half-smile, the kind that could be mistaken for a promise but never was.

"If I can."

In another life, she thought she might have pressed for more, but Magda Deloitte had learned that intense desire, like any good performance, required a careful balance of giving and retreating. She pulled the silk sheets closer, masking her disappointment behind a practiced smile.

"Have fun at the club, Dante."

He laughed, low and effortless, and for a moment, he almost seemed human. Then, with a last glance, he was gone, leaving the faintest trace of his cologne and the echo of possibility.

Magda let her head fall back against the pillows, eyes tracing the ceiling's plasterwork. Outside, the night pressed on, restless as her longing, a longing that, despite herself, she wasn't ready to let go.

The Elite Club was not only exclusive and pricey, but it was also old and established, a building that had been there right after the war of 1812.

At first it catered to certain members. You had to be white and of a certain background to attain membership.

And you had to be descendants of those members.

Men only, no women allowed. While everything had changed in that respect, women were still not allowed to become members.

It was a men's only deal, and it remains that way to this day.

With all the changes, and there were many, the club still maintained its high standards and sat on several hundred acres of land.

It was a graceful and elegant building, maintaining its solid structures and sat proudly on top of a crest, overlooking acres and acres of moss green foliage.

The lawns were spectacularly treated, trees with their leaves as green as the lawns waved in the breeze.

Flowers bloomed all year round and were tenderly tended to by a team of expert gardeners.

The club was not allowed to lose that standard and catered to hundreds of men from a variety of backgrounds.

Royalties from all over the world, the cream of the crop when it comes to businessmen, the idle rich, ones who just live off their parents' wealth and those who had forged their own paths. Men who had come from nothing and made something of themselves.

Dante Livingston was one such person and it constantly amused him to see those same men who would never have given him a second look, sidling up to him and asking for financial advice.

He was not into the pomp and glamor and considered himself a simple man but had been persuaded to give the membership a shot.

He also had to admit that he liked the place, the ambiance and especially the women who hung around men of substance. The wives were a different story altogether. They too were also from varied backgrounds and had become forces that were making a hell of a lot of difference.

He might not believe in the happily ever after crap, but he had seen the dopey looks on men who had somehow become his friends, that look of absolute devotion.

One such member was plying him with drink and caustically discussing politics and politicians. Jackson Colby was one who knew the rougher edges of life and was also a world-famous artist.

"It seems to me that instead of highlighting the guy's failing attributes, you should do something about it," Dante drawled as he eased back on the expensive scotch. He would be spending the night, but he wanted a clear enough head for a business call to Japan, later tonight.

"Like bloody what?"

"Like trying to run for president yourself." Dante watched in amusement as his friend's face took on a blank shocked expression, his mouth dropping open.

"Are you high?"

"I never do drugs," he murmured conversationally. "Personally, I think it's an escape hatch and a coward's way out."

"You think I should run for president."

"You have the guts, the money and the look. And I think you would make a great POTUS."

Jackson leaned back in his comfortable chair and eyed his friend closely.

"I could say the same damn thing about you."

Dante's stern lips curved slightly.

"I don't have certain attributes."

"And those might be?"

"My background is far from stellar." He held up a hand when Jackson opened his mouth to speak. "Yeah, I know yours is not stellar. Hell, we're both unlikely candidates, come to think of it."

Amused, Jackson studied his drink for a moment before responding.

"I don't think that matters. The standards concerning who runs for office have taken a distinct nosedive over the past few years. As long as you have a voice and some very wealthy friends and spout enough BS for people to believe, you're a shoo-in."

Dante's response was a derisive snort. His gaze swung towards the prince from a small country who was evading his bodyguards and making a nuisance of himself.

Obviously drunk, he was also hitting on the daughter of a senator who wasn't really pleased with the unwanted attention.

Dinner hour at the club, always interesting.

"Feels strange, doesn't it?" His friend's drawl had his gaze swinging back.

"What does?"

"Us." He sawed his hand between them. "The former dregs of so-called society. Now rubbing shoulders with the crème de la crème." He jerked his head at the prince who was now protesting loudly in his language.

"You just read my mind." Dante's tone was cynical, his eyes glinting. "Years ago, we wouldn't have been welcomed within one hundred feet of this exalted place. No matter how much money we're rolling in."

Jackson grinned, picked up his drink and took a sip.

He had been brought up in the system just like Dante had been, he and his brother and they had been fortunate to be adopted by people who had shown them incredible love.

But he had never gotten used to the pomp and glitter of the wealth they were blessed with.

"Rolling in?"

Dante shrugged, his eyes icing over as the prince reared up and shoved at the wait staff.

"Relax man." Jackson, anticipating his move, laid a hand on his friend's hand. Jerking his head, he indicated the situation was being handled. Discreetly.

"Bronson is diplomatic and persuasive." They both watched as the brawny almost seven feet 'keeper of order' waded in and took charge of the situation.