The Mistress That Tamed De Santis. Natalie Anderson
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house in the heart of Antonio’s principality. And according to Salvatore Accardi now, her presence would attract nothing but sleaze to San Felipe.
‘Is it so terrible to provide a place for people to have fun?’ Bella asked, shrugging one of her delicate shoulders. She looked slender, but strong.
Antonio frowned at the direction—distraction—of his thoughts.
‘This isn’t about that,’ he said coldly. ‘This is revenge. This is setting up so you’re right in Accardi’s face.’
‘Is that what he told you?’ Her poise cracked briefly as anger flashed. ‘Do you honestly think you can believe everything—or anything—he says?’
At a gut level Antonio had never much liked Salvatore Accardi, but nothing had ever been proven. All those rumours of corporate and political corruption had remained only rumours. And if the man had the personal morals of an alley cat, that was his own business. He’d owned property in San Felipe for too long for Antonio to find reason to require him to leave.
Just as there’d been no reason to refuse a work permit and residency to Bella Sanchez.
And didn’t everyone have the right to be believed innocent until proven guilty?
In her white short pyjamas Bella looked both innocent and unbearably sensual, because that white cotton was thin and she wore nothing beneath it. And when she moved? He could see the outline of her slim waist and generous curves.
‘I’m not sure a venue like this suits San Felipe,’ he said tightly.
‘As if there aren’t other clubs?’ she questioned softly but her gaze was sharp. She almost leaned out of the window frame, making him acutely aware of her unfettered breasts. ‘This isn’t a sex club. There are no pole dancers or strippers.’ She lingered over her quiet words, but then her eyes glinted. ‘Definitely no drugs in dodgy back-room deals.’
Her voice shook with fierceness. He knew her mother, Madeline Sanchez, one of the world’s greatest ‘mistresses’ in a time when such things had been scandalous, had overdosed more than a year ago in a Parisian apartment. Everybody knew all there was to know about Bella Sanchez.
‘This is a legitimate bar and dance floor,’ she added more calmly. ‘And I’m a responsible club owner.’
‘You’re young and inexperienced.’ He paused pointedly. ‘In managing a commercial enterprise, that is.’
Her eyes widened, for a split second she looked furious. But he watched the change as she controlled her emotions once more—the stiffening of that already ramrod-straight spine, her smile so different from the one earlier, the hint of calculation as she glanced at his casual attire.
He braced. She was sizing him up and about to fire her own shot. And oddly, he was looking forward to it.
She swept her arm across her body in a dramatic gesture, drawing his attention to her attributes once more. ‘Why don’t you come in and find out for yourself?’ she invited in a sultry tone. ‘Come inside and see if you can find anything wrong with my club.’
It was a blatant dare—she’d switched into ‘Bella Sanchez, Sex Symbol’ without skipping a beat.
But it wasn’t that challenge that did it for him. Not that coy smile of sophisticated amusement. It was the emotion lurking in the backs of her eyes. The anger she was trying hard to control—that slight tremor in her fingers before she curled them into a fist.
‘Yes.’
He said it because she didn’t expect him to.
She thought he’d politely and coldly refuse, smile distantly and retreat, like the conservative Crown Prince he was. She’d called his bluff.
So he’d called hers. Because at this moment, he damn well felt like doing the last thing anyone—least of all her—expected.
And she hadn’t expected it. Her shock flashed for one satisfying second.
He waited while she unbolted the heavy door, opened it and stepped aside for him to enter. He paused just inside the room, watching as she closed the door and marched around him to lead the way.
‘No suspicious smells, see,’ she said pointedly. ‘Nothing illegal.’
The ground-floor space was sleek and smelled clean, not yet permeated with the lingering, less than fragrant scent of five hundred sweaty clubbers dancing there night after night.
He glanced up—away from the back view of her never-ending legs—and saw the decadent wallpaper and the wrought-iron railings protecting patrons who wanted to party on the mezzanine floor. The chandeliers gleamed even this early in the morning. He hadn’t been in a nightclub in a decade. He’d been crowned in his early twenties, but had been aware of the restraints on his behaviour for years before that. He’d always been dutiful. He’d had to be.
Only now he felt the stirrings of a desire he’d buried deep all those years ago. When had he last danced?
‘You’ll want to see the liquor licence.’ She stalked over to the main bar. ‘And there it is, exactly where it should be. The emergency exits are well marked,’ she added, all officiousness. ‘It was formerly a fire station, you know.’
He did know. But there’d be no putting out the fire in her eyes.
‘The rest of the paperwork is upstairs,’ she said defiantly, turning to face him.
‘So lead the way,’ he answered bluntly. He was committed now.
For a split second her shock was visible again.
Yes, Crown Prince Antonio would never ordinarily go up into the back room of a notorious nightclub in the sole company of a supposedly scandalous siren...but he felt like doing it just to see that reaction again.
He suppressed a smile as he followed her to one of the winding staircases that were like pillars at each side of the room. But as he climbed behind her his amusement faded.
He hadn’t been so alone with a woman so barely attired in years. And it shouldn’t have been a problem now. Except her legs went on for ever. He tried to tear his attention from them. Failed. Was relieved when they reached the mezzanine and she darted ahead to open another window. She then headed to a small alcove that hid a door marked ‘Private’.
Another flight of stairs.
This time he gave in to the temptation to look. She would never know. But there was the faintest flush on her porcelain cheeks as she waited for him to walk into her office.
The top floor was clearly her private space and very different from the dark and sensual decor of the club downstairs. This room was lighter, with white walls and a cream rug covering the floorboards. A large desk dominated the room. A laptop sat open on it, paper files spread beside it. A filing cabinet was behind the desk, while a couple of chairs sat at angles in front of it. But Antonio remained standing because there was another door—open—through which he could see a small kitchenette. And given she was wearing pyjamas, he figured it was safe to assume there was a bed in there too. Tension hit. This had been a mistake. And Antonio couldn’t afford any mistakes.
* * *
Bella stared. Crown Prince Antonio De Santis had accepted her challenge and was standing in her small office. She’d thought he’d decline, all unbending regal politeness. But it seemed he really had chosen this morning to inspect her business—obscenely early, name-dropping the man who refused to acknowledge her and dressed like that.
She’d recognised him the second he’d pulled back the hood of his sweatshirt but he looked nothing like the austere Crown Prince she’d seen on screens and in magazines. That man was tall and broad-shouldered, with not a hair out of place and almost always dressed in an immaculate midnight-blue suit. Perfect for the reserved, always polite but distant Prince.
The man in front of her now hadn’t shaved. His hair was mussed. He must have been out running or something