The Sicilian's Christmas Bride - Sandra Marton

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old station wagon needed better snow tires. The rear end slewed sickeningly as she turned onto Main Street and her stomach skidded with it, but there were no other vehicles on the road and she came through the turn without harm to anything but her nerves.

      Only two cars were parked in the bank’s lot, the aged maroon Lincoln she recognized as Dennison’s and a big, shiny black SUV that looked as if it could climb Everest in a blizzard and come through laughing.

      Dennison would have sent his employees home early because of the storm. The SUV probably belonged to some tourist on his way to ski country who’d stopped to use the ATM.

      Tally parked and got out of the station wagon. The double doors to the bank opened as she reached them, revealing Walter Dennison wearing a black topcoat over his usual gray suit.

      “You’re late, Ms. Sommers.”

      He whispered the words. And shot a quick look over his shoulder. Tally felt a stab of panic. The black car. The paleness of Dennison’s face. His whisper.

      Was the bank being held up?

      “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to peer past him, “but the roads—”

      “I understand.” He hesitated. “Ms. Sommers. Tally. There’s something you need to know.”

      Oh, God. It was true. She’d walked into a holdup in progress—

      “I sold the bank.”

      She stared at him blankly. “What?”

      “I said, I sold the bank.”

      He might as well have been speaking another language. Sold the bank? How could he have done that? The Dennison family had started the Shelby Bank in the early 1800s.

      “I don’t understand, Mr. Dennison. Why would you—”

      “It’s nothing for the town to worry about. The new owner will keep everything just as it is.” Dennison cleared his throat. “Almost everything.”

      His eyes shifted from hers, and Tally’s stomach dropped. There could only be one reason he’d wanted to see her.

      “What about the new payment arrangements on my loan?”

      She saw Dennison’s adam’s apple move up, then down. He opened his mouth as if he were going to speak. Instead, he shouldered past her, turned up his collar and went out into the storm. Tally stared after him as his lean figure was lost in a swirling maelstrom of white.

      “Mr. Dennison! Wait!” Her voice rose. “Will this affect my loan? You said the new owner will keep everything just as it is—”

      “Not quite everything,” a familiar voice said.

      And even as her heart pounded, as she swung toward the open bank doors and told herself it couldn’t be true, she knew what she would see.

      That voice could belong to only one man.

      DANTE SMILED when Taylor turned toward him.

      Her face was white with shock.

      Excellent. He’d wanted her stunned by the sight of him. Things were going precisely as he’d intended, despite how quickly he’d had to work. He’d put his plan in motion in less than a week, first convincing the old man to sell and then getting the authorities to approve the sale, but he was Dante Russo.

      People always deferred to him.

      This morning, he’d phoned Dennison and told him he’d be there at three. Told him, as well, to notify Taylor to be at the bank at four.

      Promptly at four.

      And, of course, not to mention anything about the bank’s new ownership.

      Dante’s lips curved in a tight smile. He’d figured Taylor would be on edge to start with. A woman who’d put up her home as equity for a loan of $175,000.00 she couldn’t pay would not be at ease. Add in Dennison’s refusal to explain the reason for the meeting and the warning to be prompt, her nerves would be stretched to the breaking point.

      His smile faded. The only thing that would have made this more interesting was if Samuel Gardner was with her, but from the investigator’s comments, he’d gathered that his former mistress’s new lover didn’t stand up to life’s tougher moments.

      “Why didn’t Sam Gardner sign for the loan?” he’d asked Dennison.

      The old man had looked at him as if he were insane.

      “Buying a bank on a seeming whim, suggesting something anyone in town would know is impossible…You have a strange sense of humor, Mr. Russo,” he’d said with a thin-lipped Yankee smile.

      Dante stood away from the door.

      Dennison was wrong. There was nothing the least bit humorous about this situation. It was payback, pure and simple.

      And it was time Taylor knew it.

      “Aren’t you going to come inside and face me, cara?” he said, his tone deliberately soft and coaxing. “Perhaps not. Facing me is not your forte, is it?”

      He saw her stiffen. She probably wanted to run, but she didn’t. Instead, she raised her chin, squared her shoulders and stepped inside the bank. He had to admire her courage, the way she was girding herself for confrontation.

      She had no way of knowing that nothing she could do would be enough. The news he was going to give her was bad, and it delighted him to do it.

      “Hello, Dante.”

      Her voice trembled. Her face had taken on some color, though it was still pale. Three years. Three years since he’d seen her…

      And she was still beautiful.

      More beautiful than his memory of her, if that were possible. Was it time that had made her mouth seem even softer, her eyes wider and darker?

      Still, time had not been completely kind. It had affected her in other ways.

      Purple shadows lay beneath her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in an unbecoming knot and he had the indefensible urge to close the distance between them, take out the pins and let all those lustrous cinnamon strands tumble free.

      He let his gaze move over her slowly, from her face all the way to her feet and back again. A frown creased his forehead. He’d never seen her in anything but elegantly tailored clothing. Designer suits and gowns, spiked heels that could give a man dangerous fantasies, her face perfectly made up, her hair impeccably cut and styled.

      Things were different now. The lapels of her coat were frayed. Her boots were the no-nonsense kind meant for rough weather. Her hair was in that ridiculous knot and her face was bare of everything but lipstick—lipstick and the shadows of exhaustion under her eyes.

      He spoke without thinking. “What’s happened to you?” he said sharply. “Have you been ill?”

      “How nice of you to ask.”

      She was still pale but her gaze was steady and her words were brittle with sarcasm. He moved quickly; before she could step back he was a breath away, his hand wrapped around her arm.

      “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

      A flush rose in her cheeks. “I’m not ill. I’m simply living in the real world. It’s a place where people work hard for what they have. Where you can’t just snap your fingers and expect everyone to leap to do your bidding, but then, what would you know of such things?”

      What, indeed? It was none of her business, of anyone’s business, that he’d started his life scrounging for money, that he’d worked his hands raw in construction jobs when he came to the States, or that he could still remember what it was like to go to sleep hungry.

      He’d never snapped his fingers and never would, but he’d be damned if he’d explain that to anyone.

      “And

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