And she had never found anyone as attractive as Dante Di Sione.
She watched him put their bags down and walk over to the window to stare out at the wide green-grey sweep of the Sussex Downs, before turning to face her—his incredible lapis lazuli eyes narrowed. She waited for him to make some comment about the view, or to remark on the massive dimensions of her rather crumbling but beautiful old home, but to her surprise he did neither.
‘So,’ he said, beginning to walk towards her with stealthy grace. ‘How long have we got?’
‘Got?’ she repeated blankly, not quite sure of his meaning even when he pulled her into his arms and started trailing his fingertips over her body so that she began to shiver beneath the filmy fabric of her delicate dress. ‘For...for what?’
Dante smiled, but it was a smile edged with impatience and a danger that even Willow could recognise was sexual.
‘That depends on you, and what you want.’
‘What I want?’ she said faintly.
‘Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I thought that you were as frustrated by your sister’s interruption as I was. I was under the distinct impression that our fake relationship was about to get real, and in a very satisfying way. It would certainly be more convincing if we were properly intimate instead of just pretending to be. So are we going to play games with each other or are we going to give in to what we both clearly want?’ he murmured as he began to stroke her breasts. ‘And have sex?’
Willow quivered as her nipples tightened beneath his expert touch and even though his words were completely unromantic...even though they were the direct opposite of all those mushy rom-coms she used to watch—they were still making her feel something, weren’t they? They were making her feel like a woman. A real woman—not some pale and bloodless creature who’d spent so much time being hooked up to an intravenous drip, while cocktails of drugs were pumped into her system.
Yet this hadn’t been what she’d planned when she’d rashly demanded he accompany her here. She’d thought they were engaging in nothing more than an indifferent barter of things they both wanted. Unless she wasn’t being honest with herself. Face the truth, Willow. And wasn’t the truth that from the moment she’d seen him walk into the Caribbean airport terminal, her body had sprung into life with a feeling of lust like she’d never felt before? In which case—why was she hesitating? Wasn’t this whole trip supposed to be about changing her life around? To start living like other women her age did.
She tipped up her face so that he could kiss her again. ‘Have sex,’ she said boldly, meeting the flicker of humour in his smoky blue gaze.
He smiled and then suddenly what was happening did feel like a fantasy. Like every one of those mushy films she’d watched. He picked her up and carried her across the room, placing her down on the bed and pausing only to remove the battered old teddy bear that used to accompany her everywhere. She felt a wave of embarrassment as he pushed the bear onto the floor, but then he was bending his lips to hers and suddenly he was kissing her.
It was everything a kiss ought to be. Passionate. Searching. Deep. It made Willow squirm restlessly beneath him, her fingers beginning to scrabble at his shirt as she felt the rush of molten heat between her legs. And maybe he had guessed what was happening—or maybe this was just the way he operated—but he slid his hand beneath her skirt and all the way up her leg, pushing aside the damp panel of her knickers and beginning to tease her there with his finger. Her eyes fluttered to a close and it felt so perfect that Willow wanted to cry out her pleasure—but maybe he anticipated that too, because he deepened the kiss. And suddenly it became different. It became hard and hungry and demanding and she was matching it with her own demands—arching her body up towards his, as if she couldn’t get close enough.
She could feel the hardness at his groin—the unfamiliar rocky ridge nudging insistently against her—and to her surprise she wasn’t daunted, or scared. Maybe it was just her poor starved body demanding what nature had intended it for, because suddenly she was writhing against him—moaning her eagerness and her impatience into his open mouth.
He reached for his belt and Willow heard the rasp of his zip as he began to lower it, when suddenly there was a loud knock on the door.
They both froze and Willow shrank back against the pillows, trying to get her ragged breath back, though it took several seconds before she could speak.
‘Who is it?’ she demanded in a strangled voice.
‘Willow?’
Willow’s heart sank. It was Clover’s voice. Clover, the bride-to-be. Well-meaning and bossy Clover, the older sister who had protected her as fiercely as a lioness would protect one of her cubs. Just like the rest of her family.
‘H-hi, Clover,’ she said shakily.
‘Can I come in?
Before Willow could answer, Dante shook his head and mouthed, No, but she knew what would happen if she didn’t comply. There would be an outraged family discussion downstairs. There would be talk of rudeness. They would view Dante with even more suspicion than she suspected he was already going to encounter. The atmosphere would be spoiled before the wedding celebrations had even begun.
She shook her head as she tugged her dress back down, her cheeks flaming bright red as she readjusted her knickers. ‘Hang on a minute,’ she called, wriggling out of Dante’s arms and off the bed, mouthing, Don’t say a word.
His responding look indicated that he didn’t really have much choice but there was no disguising the flicker of fury sparking in his blue eyes.
Willow scuttled over to the door and pulled it open by a crack to see Clover outside, her hair in rollers and an expression on her face which couldn’t seem to make up its mind whether to be cross or curious.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Clover asked sharply.
For a minute Willow was tempted to tell her to mind her own business, or at least to use her imagination. To snap back that she had just been enjoying a glorious initiation to the mysteries of sex when she had been so rudely interrupted. What was it with her sisters that they kept bursting in on her at the most inopportune moments? But then she reminded herself of everything that Clover had done for her. All those nights she’d sat beside her, holding her hand and helping her keep the nightmares at bay.
Telling herself that her sister was only acting with the best intentions, Willow gave a helpless kind of smile. ‘I was just showing Dante the amazing view of the Sussex Downs.’
Clover slanted her a who-do-you-think-you’re-kidding? look. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said, loud enough for the entire first floor corridor to hear. ‘Dante. The mystery man who drove you here.’
‘My guest,’ said Willow indignantly.
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were bringing him?’ said Clover.
‘Maybe she wanted it to be a surprise,’ came a drawling voice, and Willow didn’t need to turn round to know that Dante had walked up behind her. She could tell from her sister’s goggle-eyed expression even before he placed his hand on her shoulder and started massaging it, the way she’d seen people do in films when they were trying to help their partner relax. So why did the tight tension inside her body suddenly feel as if it was spiralling out of control?
‘This is...this is Dante,’ she said, hearing the hesitance of her words. ‘Dante Di Sione.’
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Dante.’ Clover’s face took on the judgemental expression for which she was famous within the family. ‘Perhaps Willow could bear to share you enough to bring you downstairs for coffee, so that everyone can meet you. My mother is particularly keen to make your acquaintance.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ murmured Dante, increasing the pressure of his impromptu massage by a fraction.
Willow had barely shut the door on her sister before Dante turned her round to face him, his hands on her upper arms, his lapis lazuli gaze boring into he
r.
‘Why do you let her speak to you like that?’ he demanded. ‘Why didn’t you just ignore her, or tell her you were busy? Surely she has enough imagination to realise we were making out?’
Willow gave a half-hearted shrug. ‘She’s very persistent. They all are.’
He frowned. ‘What usually happens when you bring a man home with you?’
Willow licked her lips. Now they were on dangerous territory, and if she told him the truth, she suspected he’d run a mile. Instead, she shot him a challenging look. ‘Why, are you afraid of my sisters, Dante?’
‘I don’t give a damn about your sisters.’ He pulled her close against him. ‘I’d just like to continue what we were doing a few minutes ago. Now...’ His hand cupped her aching breast once more. ‘Where were we, can you remember?’
For a minute Willow let him caress her nipple and her eyes fluttered to a close as he began to nuzzle at her neck. She could feel the renewed rush of heat to her body and she wondered how long it would take. Whether they would have time to do it properly. But what if it hurt? What if she bled? Pulling away from him, she met the frustration in his eyes.
Was she about to lose her mind? Of course they wouldn’t have time. She’d waited a long time to have sex—years and years, to be precise—so why rush it and then have to go downstairs in an embarrassing walk of shame, to face her judgemental family who would be assembled in the drawing room like a circle of vultures?
‘We’ve got to go downstairs,’ she said. ‘For...for coffee.’
‘I don’t want coffee,’ he growled. ‘I want you.’
There was a pause before she could summon up the courage to say it and when she did it came out in a breathless rush. ‘And I want you.’
‘So?’
‘So I’m going to be a bridesmaid and I have to get my hair and make-up done before the ceremony.’ She swallowed. ‘And there’ll be plenty of time for that...later.’
Knowing he was fighting a losing battle—something he always went out of his way to avoid—Dante walked over to the window, trying to calm his acutely aroused body before having to go downstairs to face her frightful family.
He wondered what had made her so surprisingly compliant when her sister had come up here snooping around. He wondered what had happened to the woman who had flirted so boldly with him at the airport. The one who had demanded he be her escort as the price for returning his bag. He’d had her down as one of those independent free spirits who would give great sex—and her going-up-in-flames reaction every time he laid a finger on her had only reinforced that theory.
Yet from the moment he’d driven up the long drive to her impressive but rather faded country house, she had become ridiculously docile. He stared out at the breathtaking view. The magnificence of the distant landscape reminded him of his own family home, back in the States. Somewhere he’d left when he’d gone away to boarding school at the age of eight, and to which he had never really returned. Certainly not for any great length of time. His mouth twisted. Because wasn’t it something of a travesty to call the Long Island place a family home? It was nothing but a grand house built on some very expensive real estate—with a magnificent facade which concealed all kinds of dirty secrets.
He turned back to find Willow watching him, her grey gaze wary and her manner slightly hesitant—as if she expected him to say that he had changed his mind and was about to leave. He suddenly found himself thinking that she reminded him of a delicate gazelle.
‘Why are you suddenly so uptight?’ he questioned. ‘Is something wrong?’
Willow stilled and if she hadn’t fancied him so much she might have told him the whole story. But it was precisely because she fancied him so much that she couldn’t. He’d start treating her differently. He’d be overcautious when he touched her. He might not even want to touch her. Because that was the thing with illness—it did more than affect the person it struck; it affected everyone around you. People who were mature and sensible might try to deny it, but didn’t they sometimes behave as if the illness she’d once had was in some way contagious?
And why shouldn’t she forget about that period in her life? She’d been given the all-clear ages ago and now was her chance to get something she’d wanted for a very long time. Something as powerful and as uncomplicated as sexual fulfilment, with a man she suspected would be perfect for the purpose, as long as she reminded herself not to read too much into it. For the first time in her life, she had to reach out for what she wanted. Not the things that other women wanted—because she wasn’t asking for the impossible. She wasn’t clamouring for marriage and babies—just a brief and heady sexual relationship with Dante Di Sione. But she had to be proactive.
She smiled into his hard blue eyes. ‘I think it’s because I’m the youngest, and they’ve always been a little protective of me. You know how it is.’ She began to walk across the room towards him, plucking up the courage to put her arms around his neck. This close she could see into his eyes perfectly. And although she was short on experience, she recognised the desire which was making them grow so smoky.
And if she detected a flicker of suspicion lurking in their depths, then surely it was up to her to keep those suspicions at bay.
‘I don’t want to do it in a rush. I want to savour every single moment,’ she whispered, trying to sound as if she made sexual assignations with men every day of the week. ‘And don’t they say that the best things in life are worth waiting for?’
He framed her face in his hands and there was a split second when she thought he was about to bend his head and kiss her, but he didn’t. He just stared at her for a very long time, with the kind of look in his eyes which made a shiver trickle down her spine.
‘I hear what you’re saying and I am prepared to take it on board. But be very clear that I am not a patient man, Willow—and I have a very low boredom threshold. Better not keep me waiting too long,’ he said roughly as he levered her away from him, in the direction of the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
DANTE GLANCED AROUND at the guests who were standing on the newly mown lawn drinking champagne. He risked another glance at his watch and wondered how soon this would be over and he could get Willow into bed—but like all weddings, this one seemed never-ending.
The place had been a hive of activity all afternoon. The faded grandeur of Willow’s vast home had been transformed by legions of adoring locals, who had carried armfuls of flowers from the nearby village to decorate the house and gardens. Hedges had been trimmed and Chinese lanterns strung high in the trees. Rough wooden trestle tables had been covered with white cloths before being decked with grapes and roses and tiny flickering tealights.
It quickly dawned on him that the Hamiltons were the kind of aristocratic family with plenty of cachet but very little cash. The ceremony had taken place in their own church—he found that quite hard to believe—a small but freezing building situated within the extensive grounds. The bride looked okay—but then, all brides looked the same, in Dante’s opinion. She wore a white dress and a veil and the service had been interminable. No change there. But he’d found himself unable to tear his eyes away from Willow as she’d made her way up the aisle. He thought how beautiful she looked, despite a deeply unflattering dress and a smile which suggested that, like him, she’d rather be somewhere else.
Before the ceremony he had endured a meet-and-greet with her family over some unspeakable coffee, drunk in a room hung with dusty old paintings. Flora and Clover he’d already met and the remaining sibling was called Poppy—a startlingly pretty girl with grey eyes like Willow’s, who seemed as keen to question him as her sisters had been. Their attitude towards him had been one of unrestrained suspicion. They were curious about where he and Willow had met and how long they’d been an item. They seemed surprised to hear he lived in Paris and they wondered how often he was seeing their sister. And because
Dante didn’t like being interrogated and because he wasn’t sure what Willow had told them, he was deliberately vague.
Her parents had appeared at one point. Her mother was tall and still beautiful, with cheekbones as high as Willow’s own. She was wearing what looked like her husband’s old smoking jacket over a dress and a pair of wellington boots and smiled rather distractedly when Dante shook her hand.
But her attitude changed the instant she caught sight of Willow, who had been over on the other side of the room, finding him a cup of coffee. ‘Are you okay, darling? You’re not tiring yourself out?’
Just what was it with these people? Dante wondered. Was that a warning look from Sister Number Three being slanted in his direction? He got that Willow probably didn’t bring a lot of men home and he got that as the youngest daughter she would be a little overprotected. But they seemed to be fussing around her as if she was some kind of teenager, rather than a woman in her mid-twenties. And she seemed to be letting them.
But now the wedding was over, the photo session was finished and he was standing on a warm summer’s evening with a growing sense of sexual anticipation. He felt his mouth dry as he glanced across the lawn, to where Willow was listening to something her mother was saying, obediently nodding her blond head, which was woven with blooms and making her look even more ethereal than before. Her dress emphasised the razor-sharp slant of her collarbones and the slenderness of her bare arms.
Maybe her intrinsic delicacy was the reason why everyone seemed to treat her with kid gloves. And why her gaggle of interfering sisters seemed to boss her around so much.
Her mother walked off and Dante put his untouched drink onto a table, walking through the growing dusk until he was standing in front of her. He watched as her expression underwent a series of changes. He saw shyness as well as that now-familiar wariness in her eyes, but he saw desire too—and that desire lit something inside him and made him want to touch her again.
Di Sione's Virgin Mistress Page 5
