Page 8 of Dante (Members From Money Season 2. #153)

At first it felt as if she was dreaming. The buzzing sounded as if it was inside her head, cutting into her brain. And it continued. Muttering to herself, she opened her eyes slowly, blinking as the light from the room pierced the darkness. She surfaced slowly and realized that it was her phone.

Who the hell could be calling her at this hour? Swiveling her head, she looked at the clock. At damn near six in the morning on a Saturday? Grabbing up the phone, she stared at the LED and felt her heart pounding. Work!

Fumbling slightly, she pushed the icon and answered.

"Where the hell is the Bailey file?"

Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headboard and gave herself credit for not sighing or cussing. The man was impossibly rude and incredibly impatient. She also had to bite her tongue as she was about to remind him what time and day it was.

"The Bailey file?"

"I asked you to prepare talking points for the meeting. Where's the file?"

"You said the meeting is on Monday. Today is Saturday." She also gave herself points for patience.

"Well, Bailey called and wants to meet today. You did not prepare the file?" His deep voice sounded accusing.

"I was halfway through when you told me to do something else."

There was a pause, during which, she swung her legs off the bed. There goes her Saturday morning and the plans she had made.

"I'm on my way. What time is your meeting?"

"Seven." He told her abruptly, before hanging up.

"Good morning, Ms. Vernon. How are you today? So sorry I woke you on a Saturday when you should be sleeping, especially after the very hectic week you had." Hissing out a breath, she headed for the bathroom to get ready.

The shower ran hot, scalding away the remnants of sleep and leaving her mind clear, if not exactly bright.

She dressed quickly, pulling on the first clean blouse she found, and gathered up her laptop and a half-finished cup of coffee.

Her phone buzzed twice more. One, a curt text with the address for the meeting, the other, an all-caps REMINDER about needing "ABOVE-AVERAGE EFFORT" for the Bailey account.

She gritted her teeth, biting back the retort that hovered on her tongue.

By 6:22 she was in her car, engine humming with reluctant purpose, the city barely stirring in the early gray light.

The streets stretched out ahead, empty, silent, expectant.

As she drove, she mentally rehearsed the talking points she'd prepared so far, making a mental note to double-check the numbers and find that email Bailey's assistant had sent last week.

She pulled into the parking lot at 6:45, her pulse finally steady.

She allowed herself a moment, sitting behind the wheel, hands gripping the steering wheel as if she could squeeze the irritation from her veins.

Then, straightening her shoulders, she marched toward the building, resigned but determined.

If the day was going to demand her best, it would get it. Just not with a smile.

Despite her resolve to be coolly professional, she felt the usual jolt as she stepped into the outer office and got an eyeful of him.

He was wearing full black. Sweater, faded denims and leather boots and looked darkly intense and completely dangerous.

And impatient. When he eased off the desk and glanced at his watch, she had to force herself to smile.

Thinly. Sailing by him without a greeting, she sat at her desk and keyed in the password.

Bringing up the file, she tapped a few keys and sent the document to print.

Dante tried to think of her the way he would with his former assistant. But hell, this one had marched in wearing skintight jeans, a boxy white shirt and her hair was mussed, as if she had just rolled out of bed. And she had, he mused. When he called, she had sounded sleepily sexy.

Now her scent was wrapped around his goddamned throat, like an anchor and his awareness of her was pissing him off. Moving away from the desk wasn't making a bloody difference. She wasn't wearing a stitch of makeup or any sort of accessories. And she sure as hell didn't look professional.

He was about to ask her to hurry it up when the phone rang.

Reaching for it, she propped it against her shoulder and continued typing.

"Mr. Livingston's office. Courtney speaking." She glanced over at him as she continued typing.

"Hold for me." Pressing the button, she put the phone down.

"Larry Vanderbilt wants to know if you're still on for the tennis match. Said he called on your mobile, but it went straight to voicemail."

A frown touched his brow as he considered. He was pressed for time, but he had promised, and it was for charity.

"Yes," he clipped.

"Note it on my schedule. Are you about finished?"

"Yes." She tapped print and reached for the phone to relay the message. Plucking a folder from the lap drawer, she quickly placed the document securely inside and labeled it.

"I just sent the updated schedule to your phone."

Taking the folder, he leafed through it quickly.

"Good."

"Anything else?"

He stood there staring at her for a few seconds, before shaking his head.

"Thanks," he remembered to say, his tone brusque.

"Of course." She was sliding away from the desk when she noticed a file partially hidden behind the desktop.

"Did you leave this here?"

"No. What is it?"

He came closer as she opened the folder.

Inside were several crisp sheets of paper, their letterhead unfamiliar. A logo in deep blue, formal and understated. She scanned the topmost page, brow furrowing as she took in the first few lines.

"It's addressed to you," she said, handing the folder over, her voice low.

He glanced at the heading, eyes narrowing in recognition.

"From the Foundation," he murmured, flipping through the documents with growing curiosity.

"Must have come in with the morning mail," she offered, watching his expression shift.

"Could be important. I'll look it over now." He set the folder atop his planner, the tennis match and the rest of the day's obligations momentarily forgotten as he read through the unexpected correspondence.

"Anything I should know?" There was something about his expression before it was shielded. Something she could not identify.

"No. I'll deal with it. I'll be in my office for a few more minutes, you may go."

She waited until he had stepped into his office before making a face.

The man was impossibly rude. She was about to buzz the intercom and ask if he wanted something to eat but thought better of it.

There was no way she was going to take more of his insults.

She had much better things to do with her time.

Shoving back from the desk, she cleaned up and left.

Inside his office, Dante hesitated before opening the folder again.

Someone had snuck up to the top floor and left it on her desk.

The same bastard who had been plaguing him for several months now.

His bastard of a father, who thinks that after leaving him in the not so capable arms of a mother who had abused him, that he could come back into his life.

He stared at his own name printed in indelible ink, the signature at the bottom of the page blurred by an unsteady hand.

Outside, the city hummed along its relentless track, unbothered by the private storms brewing in locked offices.

Dante pressed his thumb against the paper, feeling for hidden seams, some clue that would explain why after all these years, the Foundation, his father, had reappeared now, dragging old ghosts out into the sterile light of day.

A surge of anger flared and subsided, replaced by a colder, more calculating resolve.

He would not be ambushed by sentiment, nor by the lure of unfinished conversations.

The envelope contained exactly what he'd expected: a lifeline, a leash, the pretense of reconciliation.

He set his jaw and began reading in earnest, eyes scanning for traps, for fine print with barbed hooks.

The clock on the wall ticked, marking time in neat increments as his certainty built. This was a move, nothing more. A piece played on a board he had never chosen, but one he refused to abandon. Whatever overture or threat the Foundation thought to deliver, they'd find him prepared this time.

He folded the first letter with care, tucking it back into the folder.

The rest he left unread for now. He needed to think.

He needed air, and the truth, and perhaps, though he'd never admit it, the quiet assurance that history could be rewritten, even if only by the act of refusing to play by its rules.

He stood and crossed to the window, the city lights flickering in the dusk, and let himself believe, just for a moment, that he could outmaneuver destiny itself.

Well, the damned folder had done one good thing for him. It had taken his thoughts from matters that should never be an issue. Rubbing a hand at the back of his neck, he tried to shake her loose.

She did not go back to sleep when she returned home.

How could she? After dashing to the office and getting that file ready for that wretched man, she was certainly in no mood to just go back to bed and tuck the sheets over her.

She was wide awake and revved. It had been an eventful week. And she had enjoyed every minute of it.

Letting herself inside, she dropped the key fob into the bowl on the entrance table and went straight to the kitchen.

Her stomach was acting up a little bit and the decision to make some tea while at the office had not panned out.

Setting the kettle to boil, she rooted out the chamomile and fetched the honey.