Chapter 8: The Unexpected Visitor

Elena was elbow deep in paint supplies when the door to the community center opened, bringing with it a gust of cold November air and the kind of presence that made every head in the room turn.

She didn't need to look up to know who it was. She'd felt his arrival like a shift in atmospheric pressure, the way animals sense a storm coming.

"We're closed for renovations," she called out, not bothering to glance over her shoulder as she sorted through paintbrushes. "Come back Monday."

"Even for your most generous donor?"

That voice. Deep and smooth, with an edge of amusement that made her spine stiffen. Elena straightened slowly, wiping her paint-stained hands on the old t-shirt she'd thrown on that morning, and turned to face Dante Salvatore.

He stood framed in the doorway like he'd been photoshopped there, all sharp angles and expensive tailoring that probably cost more than her monthly rent. The morning sunlight caught the dark waves of his hair, and those eyes—God, those penetrating gray eyes—fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

It had been three days since their last encounter at his penthouse, three days since she'd fled after realizing just how dangerously attracted she was becoming to a man who represented everything she'd sworn to avoid. Three days of throwing herself into work, of pretending that kiss hadn't happened, that she hadn't felt the world tilt on its axis when his mouth claimed hers.

"What are you doing here?" Elena crossed her arms, acutely aware that she looked like a mess. Paint splattered jeans, hair thrown up in a careless bun, not a trace of makeup. Next to his perfection, she felt like something the cat dragged in.

Dante stepped inside, and Marcus Chen materialized behind him like a well-dressed shadow, closing the door against the cold. "You've been avoiding my calls."

"I've been busy."

"For three days straight?" He moved closer, his gaze sweeping over the center's main room. They'd started painting yesterday, covering the tired beige walls with a vibrant blue that one of the kids had picked out. Drop cloths covered the floor, and the air smelled sharply of fresh paint and possibility. "I wanted to discuss the timeline for the new computer lab."

"Send Marcus. Or email me. You didn't need to come in person." Elena turned back to her supplies, determined not to let him see how his proximity affected her. How her pulse jumped every time he was near, how her skin felt too tight, how some traitorous part of her wanted to close the distance between them and finish what they'd started three nights ago.

"Maybe I wanted to see you."

The words hung in the air between them, loaded with meaning she wasn't ready to examine. Elena's hands stilled on a paintbrush.

"Mr. Salvatore." She forced herself to face him again, to meet those storm-gray eyes without flinching. "What happened at your penthouse was a mistake. We both know that. You're a donor. I run this center. That's the extent of our relationship."

Something flickered across his face, too quick to read. "Is that what you tell yourself?"

"It's the truth."

"You're lying." He moved closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne, something dark and expensive that made her head spin. "To yourself and to me. I felt the way you responded when I kissed you, Elena. That wasn't a mistake. That was inevitability."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "Your ego really is astronomical, isn't it?"

"It's not ego when it's fact." His voice dropped lower, intimate. "You felt it too. That pull between us. You're just too stubborn or too scared to admit it."

"Scared?" Elena's temper flared, the one she usually kept locked down tight. "You think I'm scared of you?"

"No." Dante reached out, his fingers brushing a smudge of paint from her cheek with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the intensity in his eyes. "I think you're scared of yourself. Of what you want. Of what it might mean if you let yourself have it."

The touch sent electricity skittering across her skin. Elena jerked back, putting distance between them before she did something stupid like lean into his hand, like admit he was right.

"You don't know anything about me," she said, but her voice came out shakier than she'd intended.

"I know more than you think." He studied her with that unnerving focus, like he could see straight through every defense she'd constructed. "I know you work sixteen hour days and eat most of your meals standing up. I know you haven't taken a day off in six months. I know you lie awake at night wondering if you're doing enough, if you're making a difference, if any of this matters."

Elena's breath caught. How could he possibly know those things? The private fears she barely admitted to herself?

"I know," Dante continued, his voice softening, "because I used to be the same way. Before I learned that burning yourself out doesn't save anyone. It just leaves you empty."

"Is that what happened to you?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. "Is that why you're so..."

"Cold? Distant? Emotionally unavailable?" A bitter smile curved his lips. "Those are the terms people usually use."

"I was going to say guarded."

Something shifted in his expression, a crack in that perfect armor. For just a moment, she glimpsed the man beneath the billionaire facade, and what she saw there made her chest ache. Pain. Loss. A loneliness so profound it took her breath away.

Then the mask slammed back into place.

"Elena!" Sarah burst through the back door, tablet in hand, her eyes wide with excitement. She skidded to a halt when she saw Dante, then flushed. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't know you had a visitor."

"It's fine." Elena grabbed onto the interruption like a lifeline. "What is it?"

"The grant came through. The one we applied for last month? They approved us for the full amount. Fifty thousand dollars!" Sarah practically bounced. "We can finally fix the roof and upgrade the kitchen and—" She stopped, seeming to remember they weren't alone. "Sorry. I can come back."

"No, it's okay. That's amazing news." Elena found herself smiling despite everything, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. This was good. This was what mattered. Not whatever complicated, dangerous thing was happening with Dante Salvatore.

When she looked back at him, though, something had changed. He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read, something almost like hunger, but deeper. Darker.

"You should celebrate," he said quietly. "Good news should be celebrated."

"We will. Pizza party for the kids next week, probably." Elena tried for lightness, but the air felt charged, heavy with unspoken words.

Dante pulled out his phone, typed something quickly. "Marcus will coordinate with you about the computer lab installation. We're aiming for completion by the end of next month."

Just like that, they were back to business. Safe, professional, distant.

"Thank you," Elena said. "Really. What you're doing for this place, for these kids... it matters."

"I know." He moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at her over his shoulder. "Elena?"

"Yes?"

"That kiss wasn't a mistake. And eventually, you're going to stop running from what's between us." His eyes held hers, pinning her in place. "The only question is how long you're going to make us both wait."

Then he was gone, Marcus trailing behind him, leaving Elena standing in the middle of her paint-splattered community center with her heart racing and her mind spinning.

Sarah cleared her throat. "So... that was intense."

"Shut up."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on with you and the hot billionaire, or do I have to guess?"

"There's nothing going on." Elena grabbed a paintbrush with more force than necessary. "He's a donor. That's all."

"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." Sarah grinned. "For what it's worth, the way he looks at you? That's not how donors usually look at the organizations they support."

Elena didn't answer. She couldn't, because she was too busy remembering the heat in Dante's eyes, the certainty in his voice when he said she'd stop running.

The worst part was, she was afraid he was right.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting a message from the hospital about Miguel's recovery or another email about grant paperwork.

Instead, it was a text from an unknown number: Dinner. Tonight. 8pm. I'll send a car. Don't argue.

Elena's fingers hovered over the keyboard, a thousand refusals forming in her mind. This was exactly what she shouldn't do. Getting closer to Dante Salvatore was like playing with fire when you were standing in a pool of gasoline.

But even as she thought it, she found herself typing: Where?

The response came immediately: My place. We need to talk. And Elena? Wear something that's not covered in paint.

She could practically hear the amusement in his voice.

Against every ounce of common sense she possessed, Elena felt herself smile. Then the smile faded as reality crashed back in. What was she doing? This was dangerous. Reckless.

Everything she'd sworn she wouldn't be.

Another text arrived: And Elena? This time, don't run.

Her hands were shaking as she shoved the phone back in her pocket. Sarah was watching her with knowing eyes.

"Nothing going on, huh?" her assistant said dryly.

Elena picked up the paintbrush, determined to lose herself in work, to forget about gray eyes and dangerous promises and the way her heart had started beating in a rhythm that spelled out his name.

But as she painted, one thought kept circling through her mind: What secret was Dante Salvatore hiding? And why did she get the feeling that whatever it was, it was going to change everything?