At Her Latin Lover's Command: The Italian Count's Command / The French Count's Mistress / At the Spanish Duke's Command. Susan Stephens
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again, striding so fast along the broad landing that she had to half-run to keep up.
‘Talking about houses,’ he flung back at her curtly, ‘I might as well tell you that I am selling my place in Knightsbridge. I will live here in future.’
‘Suits me,’ she muttered.
Coming to a halt in front of an enormous pair of double doors flanked by huge Chinese vases, he glanced without pity at her glacial profile.
‘I’m not sure you realise the implications. When the Knightsbridge house is sold, you will have nowhere to live,’ he informed her, clearly imagining she would gasp with horror.
So she did nothing of the kind. She’d manage. Always had. ‘I expected no less from you,’ she assured him loftily and was pleased when he flushed at the insult.
Despite Lizzie’s urging to take Dante to the cleaners, she’d decided to keep her dignity and independence. Apart from a modest maintenance for Carlo, she wouldn’t take a penny from him. She’d rather starve than be beholden to a man who’d treated her so callously.
Dante scowled at her. ‘My lawyers will see that you get nothing from me in a divorce settlement. You can support yourself.’
‘Yes. There’s always whoring,’ she said sarcastically, reminding him of his vile suggestion on the e-mail. She felt some satisfaction when he stiffened, his entire body taut with suppressed fury. Glancing at the door and with her stomach doing somersaults, she asked, ‘Is Carlo in here?’
‘No,’ he snapped. ‘It’s my study. Come in.’
Her disappointment was profound. Apparently she was to wait till Carlo woke up. And she could do nothing to hurry him. Out of sheer spite, he’d make her wait. Well, wait she would. As long as it took.
Dante opened the door and with a characteristic, gentlemanly gesture he stood to one side. But his manners were only superficial. No gentleman would have behaved so badly.
Steeling herself to perhaps an hour of hanging around, Miranda stalked into the room—only to catch her breath in wonder.
‘Oh! That’s incredible!’ she whispered in reluctant awe.
Her huge eyes were fixed on the open glass doors on the opposite side of the room, which framed the most wonderful view she’d ever seen in the whole of her life. Drawn to it, unable to resist its invitation, she crossed the Persian-carpeted floor and stepped onto the balcony outside as if in a dream. But when she placed her hands on the wrought-iron rail, she found it was hot to her hands and snatched them away with a small cry.
‘I should have warned you,’ Dante muttered.
Striding rapidly out to join her, he turned her hands over and examined her palms, frowning at the pale pink bar of heat on each one. For a moment she felt dizzy, assailed equally by heavenly perfumes from the garden and the nearness of him—his flawless olive skin, the dark brows and thick black lashes, that peaking mouth she had kissed and tasted and hungered for so many times.
‘It’s…nothing!’ she insisted huskily. ‘I’m fine!’ Shaken by her lingering desires, she stared up at him in dismay.
And, looking a little startled by her halting protest, he jerked his hands from hers, which were tingling, darn them, and that was nothing to do with the very minor marks on her palms. Because she also tingled down the entire length of her body and way, way within. Delicious. Devastating. She shifted unhappily.
‘Not hurt at all, then,’ he drawled.
‘It would take more than that to wound me,’ she retorted, hating his sarcastic tone.
‘Yes. You have a monumentally thick skin.’
‘I’d call it a determination to tough things out,’ she countered.
And, taking a deep breath, she concentrated on the reason she’d come out to the balcony: to drink in the magical view and to take a minute or two to recover her energies before she could collect Carlo and start the journey home.
As she thought of that wonderful moment, almost immediately her shoulders relaxed. And because there was nothing else to do till her son woke from his sleep, she surrendered to the enjoyment of the scene before her. Even the most uptight person would have been entranced and she was momentarily spellbound, gazing at the view in rapt silence.
‘What do you think of Lake Como?’ Dante asked, close by and strangely tense.
‘I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s stunning,’ she replied softly.
‘Quite breathtaking,’ he growled.
‘It must be a glorious view to see when you wake. How long have you been here?’ she enquired curiously.
Only inches away from her, he replied, ‘A week.’ When she nodded and continued to gaze dreamily ahead, he muttered under his breath something that sounded like, ‘Irresistibile.’
Her head jerked around, her eyes wide and startled. ‘What?’
He frowned. ‘The view.’ His eyes became cruelly mocking. ‘Surely you didn’t think I meant you?’
‘Hardly!’ Hastily she dragged her brain into gear. She would keep calm. She must maintain her dignity.
‘To me,’ he said, ‘this place is more beautiful, more precious, than all the paintings on the walls, all the priceless antiques in the house. It is simply the perfection of nature.’
She wondered why he was giving the house the hard sell. To make her envious? Or… She swallowed nervously. To force her to agree that Carlo would be better off here?
Dante certainly seemed besotted with his inheritance. Though it wasn’t surprising. Like him, she gazed with appreciation across the lake at the huddle of ochre and sienna houses of the little villages nestling at the foot of wooded hills. High mountains—she presumed the Alps—rose behind them, their peaks slicing jaggedly into the sky.
Wildness and serenity combined. An extraordinary combination and one that reached deep into her and touched her heart.
Beside her, Dante shifted imperceptibly. She could feel his very warmth and detected the faint hint of vanilla, which perfumed his favoured aftershave and shower lotion. That—or tiredness—made her quiver.
‘You must be thrilled with what’s landed in your lap,’ she remarked with deliberate tartness, fighting her attraction for him.
He studied her, his gaze lingering a little too long for her comfort. ‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘Smell that air.’
‘Yes.’ She leaned cautiously over the balcony. ‘What is that wonderful scent?’
‘It comes from the fragrant ozmanthus by the pergola.’
‘It’s very intense,’ she said jerkily, bemused by the electric atmosphere. And all she could do was to utter banalities in the hope that her pulse rate would consequently fall.
Dante muttered something under his breath. ‘Yes. It’s the heat. And because there’s not a breath of wind. Como has many moods, which can change by the hour. At the moment the water could almost be a sheet of glass,’ he mused idly into the hushed, heady air, saturated with the divine scent.
Miranda despaired. Despite her suspicions about his motives for enthusing about the house, she was holding her breath again, unable to take her eyes from his rapturous face, which the late-afternoon sun had lit so that his profile looked as if it had been carved from beaten gold.
With a jolt she realised an unpalatable fact. He loved this house more than he’d ever loved her.
Tartly she hoped he’d be very happy with it. And that it would keep him satisfied at night. His love affair with the house was all-embracing. Well, she’d rather have the love of her child. She fidgeted, anxious now to turn the conversation to Carlo, but he spoke before she could do so.
‘There