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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the covers, which Dante had drawn back so that she could see her son. Carlo snuggled into them, his dark head almost disappearing. From a few feet away it would be hard to know he was there.
With loving motions she smoothed the oyster silk bedspread and hungrily watched her son sleeping. She was filled with happiness, with choking emotion, with uncontainable love.
Two weeks. It had been an eternity. Days, hours, minutes, seconds of interminable misery. But they would not be parted again. Dante had promised…
Remembering him, she looked around. He was watching her, his dark eyes silvery from the reflected light of the moon. For a moment it almost seemed as though they were full of tears but she knew it was an illusion when he growled in a surly tone,
‘I think I’m owed an apology.’
Her eyes widened and she rose unsteadily to her feet.
‘Why?’
‘You thought I’d brought you to my room to seduce you. Or do you think I might have tried rape?’ he grated.
Her elation faded and she bit her lip. She pushed her hand through her tumbling curtain of hair, trying to tidy it.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I panicked when I realised this was your room. It never occurred to me that Carlo would be here. It only goes to show how little I trust you, doesn’t it?’ she finished sadly. ‘Why is he in your bedroom, anyway?’
He stalked to the door and motioned for her to leave. Once outside, he launched into a tightly controlled explanation.
‘Carlo wouldn’t sleep on his own. Each night he stayed up with me, constantly asking when you were coming home. He would only fall asleep if I held him in my arms. If I put him in a bed of his own he knew, even in his sleep, that he wasn’t being cuddled and he’d wake up yelling.’
Miranda flinched. ‘Poor darling! He knew something was wrong—’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Dante said tightly. ‘Do you think it didn’t tear me apart? I couldn’t bear his misery. I began to take him into my own bed when I retired for the night. Now he’s happy to sleep there without me because he feels secure in it. In time I hope he’ll go to his own room. But for now, he needs love, Miranda!’ he added angrily. ‘He’s been starved of it, poor child—’
‘That’s absolute rubbish! Don’t you dare to accuse me without proof!’ she cried, close to breaking point.
And to her dismay, the world seemed to whirl around and she swayed unsteadily on her feet.
‘Che Dio mi aiuti!’ he swore, his strong hands immediately steadying her. ‘No more of this. You need to eat. It’s past ten o’clock and you have hardly eaten anything all day, I imagine.’
Miranda tried to remember. ‘I had coffee,’ she began. But could think of nothing else. She’d been too churned up to swallow a thing.
‘As I thought,’ he said with irritation. ‘No wonder you can hardly stand. Come down and eat with me.’
She shrank from the idea and the memories it aroused. Sometimes they had fed one another. And they had gone on to satisfy other, more urgent appetites.
‘It’s late. I’m tired,’ she demurred, afraid of her weakness, of the hold he had over her senses. ‘I’ll be fine when I get to bed—’
‘Do you want to be well tomorrow?’ he demanded. ‘To play with Carlo? To have some energy? D’accordo. You will eat something. I insist.’
She capitulated suddenly, realising that he was right. And discovered to her surprise that she was very hungry indeed. ‘Yes. I will. Now I’ve seen Carlo,’ she said, her face becoming soft and tender with motherly love, ‘I think I could eat for England.’
Dante said nothing but his hands dropped from her arms abruptly and he turned away from her, his expression stone-hard. Her happiness evaporated in the teeth of his hatred and she vowed again to prove her innocence—though how, she couldn’t imagine.
As they descended the stairs she felt alarmingly woozy from lack of food and too much caffeine, and grabbed the gleaming banister. She sensed an instinctive movement of Dante’s hand in her direction and then its withdrawal. He was very tense and she wondered why.
The meal was conducted in total silence apart from the scrape of silver forks on plates and the soft background music Dante liked during dinner.
Miranda concentrated on assuaging her hunger with an artistically arranged antipasto of Parma ham, pâté, pasta and diced vegetables, then prawns in raspberry vinegar followed by cheese and fruit. It was the kind of food which would once have pleased all her senses but Dante’s cold indifference ruined her enjoyment and turned it into nothing other than a necessary fuel for the body.
The vintage wine, however, gradually made her feel as if all her muscles were oozing into her melting bones. Flushed and bright-eyed, with her hair tumbling about her face, she popped the last grape into her mouth and wiped her fingers on the soft napkin.
‘I’ll turn in now,’ she said quietly, wondering how many silent dinners she’d have to endure over the coming years. Unusually emotional, she blinked and swallowed before she was able to add, ‘Perhaps you’d show me my room.’
He looked up and their eyes met. His frown smoothed out and was replaced by a longing so deep and visceral that she caught her breath, her lips parting and swelling. She had discarded her jacket and knew that the silk of her cream camisole was suddenly tight where her breasts had bloomed into new life.
She couldn’t speak, dared not move, and could only stare at him helplessly and hope that her stupid desire for him would vanish in time. Preferably during the next few seconds.
She took a deep breath and realised that she had innocently drawn Dante’s dark, hot eyes back to her straining breasts.
The atmosphere thickened and became suffocating. The pool of heat between her legs intensified. The magic was still there. For both of them. In her fantasy, they’d fall into one another’s arms and he would declare that he’d loved her all along and his uncle’s inheritance was purely a coincidence…
‘Go into my bedroom, turn right through the double doors into the adjoining apartment. I’ll lock the doors when I come up in a moment,’ he rasped.
It was as if he’d slapped her. He knew full well that she was aroused. The cynical curl of that sensuous mouth told her that. And because he believed her to be soiled goods, he was determined not to give way to his own desire. Or even to do the gentlemanly thing and escort her to her room.
Humiliated and struggling for composure, she stalled until she felt certain she could walk away with dignity.
‘Fine. And what time does Carlo wake?’ she asked coolly.
‘About seven.’
‘Will you be dressed by then?’ she enquired.
‘If the door’s unlocked, I’ll be dressed.’
‘I’ll knock, just in case,’ she said tartly, and she rose to her feet and stalked out, her heart breaking.
CHAPTER SIX
‘MIRANDA! Miranda!’
She was being shaken. Crying in fright, she fought her assailant and this time, this time, instead of being unable to move a muscle, she found her fists connecting with flesh.
This, too, had happened before, she thought. And sickness rose in her throat adding to the terror.
‘Get off me! Get off me!’ she screamed instinctively, utterly disorientated.
A hand clapped over her mouth—again. Please, sweet heaven, not again!
Normally her eyes stayed stubbornly shut during her nightmares, but now they snapped open. The light was on in her adjoining sitting room, allowing her to see