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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hating, and hurting. ‘I discovered that the lake can be dangerous. Like a tempestuous woman.’ His dark eyes seemed to simmer like hot coals as they settled on hers. ‘The water was not the deceptively calm surface we see now. It was wild and turbulent. And exciting at the same time.’
Something jerked inside her. What was he doing? The curl of his sensual mouth left her in no doubt as to his meaning. He’d often commented on the passion that simmered beneath her own cool exterior. Miranda struggled for mastery over the sudden rush of sexual hunger he’d deliberately aroused.
It was hardly surprising she still felt stirrings of desire. They’d been so good together. Shockingly uninhibited. They’d made love everywhere, any time, seemingly unable to get enough of one another.
Guido had put her straight about that. ‘Every man will grab the chance of having sex,’ he’d explained. ‘Doesn’t matter what the woman’s like. And Dante’s the most over-sexed man I know.’
She bit her lip. Had it just been sex and nothing else? Had he needed the strong stimulation of those erotic situations so that he could make love to her? She shrank from that explanation. It would be too humiliating.
Maybe everyone behaved as they did in private. She wouldn’t know. She was still naive, an innocent, with no other lover for comparison. At twenty-one, when they’d become lovers, she’d been untutored in the more intimate side of a relationship. He had awoken her to unbelievable delights and had cracked her ice-maiden image where sex was concerned.
Their first carnal encounter had been incredible and he’d reached a hitherto unknown, passionate side of her that had amazed them both. Over time their lovemaking had become even better, blissful and fulfilling. For her. She winced.
Every inch still burned for him, ached for the wonderful release that sex gave to her body. She groaned inwardly. It had been a mistake to let her mind run on like this!
Appalled, she averted her face to hide the flush of heat that tormented her from deep inside, through her protesting flesh and pulsing veins and out to her scorched skin.
‘Few things are what they seem on the surface,’ she muttered, thinking of his urbane manner and inner cruelty. ‘Maggots seem to head for the best-looking apple. It’s only when you bite into it that you discover the rotten core. Nothing’s perfect, is it?’
He scowled. ‘True. Though this view comes close to perfection. Perhaps that’s why I cannot resist it,’ he said cynically. ‘It will never be sullied.’
He drew in a huge breath, as if regretting that the same couldn’t be said for his wife. Miranda opened her mouth to demand to see Carlo but infuriatingly he forestalled her again.
‘My ancestors chose well to build the palazzo here three hundred years ago. My friends are envious.’ He hesitated and said carefully, ‘They all agree that anyone would leap at the chance to live here.’
Miranda’s eyes narrowed. He was excusing himself for succumbing to devious means to get his hands on the house.
‘It is very beautiful,’ she agreed coolly and drew breath to ask about Carlo.
‘The Severinis have always had an eye for beauty.’
Despite her anxiety, his velvety murmur fed her libido unnervingly. She sensed he was gazing at her and not the view, but this time she didn’t turn to confirm this. Didn’t dare. Being so close to him was already causing havoc inside her.
She must wind this up. Get Carlo. Go home. But she couldn’t resist one more dig because she was hurting so badly.
‘So have we all. The difference is that they think they can buy any beautiful thing they want,’ she replied in a withering tone.
He looked annoyed by her response. ‘Even beauty can be for sale,’ he drawled.
Did he mean her? She pruned in her mouth, refusing to give him the last word.
‘That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?’ she snapped, eyes blazing with indignation. ‘Houses, paintings, cars, women…they’re all trophies to you! I wonder how many people would have chosen an inanimate house over living flesh and blood?’
Dante’s eyes darkened with anger. ‘If the house is perfect and the flesh and blood has become rotten like your maggot-ridden apple, I imagine few would have difficulty in making a choice,’ he shot back.
She flinched, bridling at what he was implying. He thought she’d been drunk that night. It had given him the excuse to leave her. This could be her last chance to put him straight. Before she left him forever, he had to believe her. She’d never been able to bear injustices.
One day he would visit Carlo in England. Dante mustn’t ever feed lies to her son and blacken her name. Angrily she slanted her eyes in his direction and said sharply,
‘People see what they want to see. You jumped to the wrong conclusion. I was ill, not drunk.’ Her mutinous gaze met his and she had to bite her lip to stop herself from shrinking back at his look of disgust. But he was in the wrong, not her. So she tipped up her chin defiantly. ‘Have you never admitted to a mistake, Dante?’
‘I have never made one,’ he growled with force. ‘Other than that of marrying you.’
So emphatic. So sure. She shivered. Suddenly she wanted to get Carlo home. Needed her baby safe and sound and away from this megalomaniac.
‘You have made a mistake. I am determined that eventually you will know the truth.’ She drew in a rasping breath. ‘But I’ve had enough of this. I demand to see—’
‘You’re not in a position to demand anything!’ His eyes glittered like black stones and she shivered at his ruthlessness.
Weary of this, hungry for her beloved child’s embrace, she muttered tautly, ‘I think I am. You need me. You didn’t bring me here to discuss the skill of the Severinis in snaffling the most beautiful spot on Lake Como. What exactly do you want?’
‘Your cooperation,’ he replied. ‘Come inside.’
At last! She felt her pulses quicken. Slowly he would unravel his dignity and admit that on consideration he would be magnanimous and let her take Carlo. It was almost inconceivable that he’d confess that he couldn’t handle her son without her. He was a proud man. Losing face would be unthinkable. How would he explain away his failure to banish her from Carlo’s life?
Keyed up, she allowed herself to be seated in a gloriously comfortable soft kid chair, the arms of which she could not help but stroke. Guiltily she saw Dante watching her, his dark eyes two hot globes of black silk that threatened to make her as malleable as molten metal.
‘Tea?’ he murmured silkily.
She fumed at the delay. Yet all her senses stupidly sprang into life in response to his carnal expression. That was how he’d always seen her—as a convenient womb and a sex object.
‘Thank you,’ she clipped.
He would string this out, just to make her suffer. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it.
Restless, impatient, she crossed one long leg over the other. Noticed those mercilessly sensual eyes contemplating their slim, golden length. Felt the stirring of desire again and wondered how on earth she could feel like this when she despised every bone in his body.
It was just a trick of her sexual memory, she told herself bleakly. In time her desperate need for his touch would go. And when that happened she would be cold and emotionless once more—except where Carlo was concerned.
‘Carlo,’ she said flatly, by way of encouragement.
‘Yes. Carlo.’
As if they had all the time in the world, he poured from the silver pot, adding a slice of lemon and placing the almost transparent bone-china cup on a Venetian table beside her, before retiring behind his vast desk. He was utterly in charge of the situation.
She