Di Sione's Virgin Mistress

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘I’m angry with myself,’ he said.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I should have chosen a less controversial way of getting my bag back. I shouldn’t have agreed to be your plus one.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘But you were very persuasive.’

  She didn’t answer immediately. He could see her finger drawing little circles over one of the peacocks which adorned her denim-covered thigh.

  ‘There must be something in that bag you want very badly.’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘But I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is?’

  The car had slowed down to allow a stray sheep to pick its way laboriously across the road, giving them a slightly dazed glance as it did so. Dante’s instinct was to tell her that her guess was correct, but suddenly he found himself wanting to tell her. Was that because so far he hadn’t discussed it with anyone? Because he and his twin brother were estranged and he wasn’t particularly close to any of his other siblings? That all their dark secrets and their heartache seemed to have pushed them all apart, rather than bringing them closer together...

  ‘The bag contains a diamond and emerald tiara,’ he said. ‘Worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.’

  Her finger stopped moving. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, I’m not. My grandfather specifically asked me to get it for him and it took me weeks to track the damned thing down. He calls it one of his Lost Mistresses, for reasons he’s reluctant to explain. He sold it a long time ago and now he wants it back.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe because he’s dying.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly, and he wondered if she’d heard the slight break in his voice.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said gruffly, his tightened lips intended to show her that the topic was now closed.

  They drove for a while in silence and had just hit the outskirts of greater London, when her voice broke into his thoughts.

  ‘Your name is Italian,’ she commented quietly. ‘But your accent isn’t. Sometimes you sound American, but at other times your accent could almost be Italian, or French. How come?’

  Dante thought how women always wanted to do things the wrong way round. Shouldn’t she have made chatty little enquiries about his background before he’d had his hand inside her panties yesterday? And yet wasn’t he grateful that she’d moved from the subject of his family?

  ‘Because I was born in the States,’ he said. ‘And spent the first eight years of my life there—until I was sent away to boarding school in Europe.’

  She nodded and he half expected the usual squeak of indignation. Because women invariably thought they were showcasing their caring side by professing horror at the thought of a little boy being sent away from home so young. But he remembered that the English were different and her aristocratic class in particular had always sent young boys away to school.

  ‘And did you like it?’ she questioned.

  Dante nodded, knowing his reaction had been unusual—the supposition being that any child would hate being removed from the heart of their family. Except in his case there hadn’t been a heart. That had been torn out one dark and drug-fuelled night—shattered and smashed—leaving behind nothing but emptiness, anger and guilt.

  ‘As it happens, I liked it very much,’ he drawled, deliberately pushing the bitter thoughts away. ‘It was in the Swiss mountains—pure and white and unbelievably beautiful.’ He paused as he remembered how the soft white flakes used to swarm down from the sky, blanketing the world in a pure silence—and how he had eagerly retreated into that cold space where nothing or nobody could touch him. ‘We used to ski every day, which wore us out so much that there wasn’t really time to think. And there were kids from all over the world, so it was kind of anonymous—and I liked that.’

  ‘You must speak another language.’

  ‘I speak three others,’ he said. ‘French, Italian and German.’

  ‘And that’s why you live in Paris?’

  His mouth hardened. ‘I don’t remember mentioning that I lived in Paris.’

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shoulders slump a little.

  ‘I must have read that on the internet too. You can’t blame me,’ she said, her words leaving her mouth in a sudden rush.

  ‘No, I don’t blame you,’ he said. Just as he couldn’t blame her for the sudden sexual tension which seemed to have sprung up between them again, which was making it difficult for him to concentrate. Maybe that was inevitable. They were two people who’d been interrupted while making out, leaving them both aching and frustrated. And even though his head was telling him that was the best thing which could have happened, his body seemed to have other ideas.

  Because right now all he could think about was how soft her skin had felt as he had skated his fingertips all the way up beneath that flouncy little dress she’d been wearing. He remembered the slenderness of her hips and breasts as she’d stood before him in her bra and panties—defiant yet innocent as she’d stripped off her bridesmaid dress and let it pool around her feet. He’d resisted her then, even though the scent of her arousal had called out to his hungry body on a primitive level which had made resistance almost unendurable. Was that what was happening now? Why he wanted to stop the car and take her somewhere—anywhere—so that he could be alone with her? Free to pull aside her clothes. To unzip her jeans and tease her until she was writhing in helpless appeal.

  He wondered if he’d been out of his mind to say no. He could easily have introduced her to limitless pleasures in his arms—and what better initiation for a virgin than lovemaking with someone like him? But it wasn’t his technique which was in question, but his inbuilt emotional distance. He couldn’t connect. He didn’t know how.

  ‘So why Paris?’ she was asking.

  Make her get the message, he thought. Make her realise that she’s had a lucky escape from a man like you.

  ‘It’s well placed for central Europe,’ he said. ‘I like the city and the food and the culture. And, of course, the women,’ he added deliberately. ‘French women are very easy to like.’

  ‘I can imagine they must be,’ she said, her voice sounding unnaturally bright.

  The car was soon swallowed up by the heavier London traffic and he noticed she was staring fixedly out of the window.

  ‘We’re nearly here,’ he said, forcing himself to make some conversational remark. To try to draw a line under this as neatly as possible. ‘So...have you got any plans for the rest of the day?’

  Willow gazed at the familiar wide streets close to her apartment and realised he was preparing to say goodbye to her. What she would like to do more than anything else was to rail against the unfairness of it all. Not only had he turned her down, but he’d deliberately started talking about other women—French women—as if to drive home just how forgettable she really was. And he had done it just as she’d been speculating about his fast, international lifestyle. Thinking that he didn’t seem like the sort of man who would ever embrace the role of husband and father...the sort of man who really would have been a perfect lover for a woman like her.

  Well, she was just going to have to forget her stupid daydreams. Just tick it off and put it down to experience. She would get over it, as she had got over so much else. No way was she going to leave him with an enduring memory of her behaving like a victim. Remember how he moaned in your arms when he kissed you, she reminded herself fiercely as she slanted him a smile. Remember that you have some power here, too.

  ‘I’ll probably go for a walk in Regent’s Park,’ she said. ‘The flowers are gorgeous at this time of the year. And I might meet a friend later and catch a film. How about you?’

  ‘I’ll pick up my bag from you and then fly straight back to France.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘It’s been an eventful few days
.’

  And that, thought Willow, was that.

  She was glad of all the times when her mother had drummed in the importance of posture because it meant that she was able to walk into her apartment with her head held very proud and her shoulders as stiff as a ramrod, as Dante followed her inside.

  She pulled out the leather case from the bottom of her wardrobe, her fingers closing around it just before she handed it to him.

  ‘I’d love to see the tiara,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘Better not.’

  ‘Even though I inadvertently carried a priceless piece of jewellery through customs without declaring it?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have picked up the wrong bag.’

  You shouldn’t have been distracting me. ‘And I could now be languishing in some jail somewhere,’ she continued.

  He gave a slow smile. ‘I would have bailed you out.’

  ‘I only have your word for that,’ she said.

  ‘And you don’t trust my word?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know you well enough to answer that. Besides, oughtn’t you to check that the piece is intact? That I haven’t substituted something fake in its place—or stolen one of the stones. That this Lost Mistress is in a decent state to give to your grandfather and...’

  But her words died away as he began to unlock the leather case and slowly drew out a jewelled tiara—a glittering coronet of white diamonds and almond-size emeralds as green as new leaves. Against Dante’s olive skin they sparked their bright fire and it was impossible for Willow to look anywhere else but at them.

  ‘Oh, but they’re beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘Just beautiful.’

  Her eyes were shining as she said it and something about her unselfconscious appreciation touched something inside him. And Dante felt a funny twist of regret as he said goodbye. As if he was walking away from something unfinished. It seemed inappropriate to shake her hand, yet he didn’t trust himself to kiss her cheek, for he suspected that even the lightest touch would rekindle his desire. He would send her flowers as a thank-you, he decided. Maybe even a diamond on a fine gold chain—you couldn’t go wrong with something like that. She’d be able to show it off to her sisters and pretend that their relationship had been real. And one day she would be grateful to him for his restraint. She would accept the truth of what he’d said and realise that someone like him would bring her nothing but heartache. She would find herself some suitable English aristocrat and move to a big house in the country where she could live a life not unlike that of her parents.

  He didn’t turn on his phone until he was at the airfield because he despised people who allowed themselves to get distracted on the road. But he wished afterwards that he’d checked his messages while he was closer to Willow’s apartment. Close enough to go back for a showdown.

  As it was, he drove to the airfield in a state of blissful ignorance, and the first he knew about the disruption was when his assistant, René, rushed up to him brandishing a newspaper—a look of astonishment contorting his Gallic features.

  ‘C’est impossible! Why didn’t you tell me, boss?’ he accused. ‘I have been trying to get hold of you all morning, wondering what you want me to say to the press...’

  ‘Why should I want you to say anything to the press?’ demanded Dante impatiently. ‘When you know how much I hate them.’

  His assistant gave a flamboyant shake of his head. ‘I think their sudden interest is understandable, in the circumstances.’

  Dante frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘It is everywhere!’ declared René. ‘Absolutely everywhere! All of Paris is buzzing with the news that the bad-boy American playboy has fallen in love at last—and that you are engaged to an English aristocrat called Willow Anoushka Hamilton.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WILLOW FELT RESTLESS after Dante had left, unable to settle to anything. Distractedly, she wandered around her apartment—except that never had it felt more like living in someone else’s space than it did right then. It seemed as if the charismatic American had invaded the quiet rooms and left something of himself behind. She couldn’t seem to stop thinking about his bright blue eyes and hard body and the plummeting of her heart as he’d said goodbye.

  She slipped on a pair of sneakers and let herself outside, but for once the bright colours of the immaculate flower beds in the nearby park were wasted on her. It was funny how your thoughts could keep buzzing and buzzing around your head, just like the pollen-laden bees which were clinging like crazy to stop themselves from toppling off the delicate blooms.

  She thought about the chaste night she’d spent with Dante. She thought about the way he’d kissed her and the way she’d been kissed in the past. But up until now she’d always clammed up whenever a man touched her. She’d started to believe that she wasn’t capable of real passion. That maybe she was incapable of reacting like a normal woman. But Dante Di Sione had awoken something in her the moment he’d touched her. And then walked away just because she’d been ill as a kid.

  She bought a pint of milk on her way home from the park and was in the kitchen making coffee when the loud shrill of the doorbell penetrated the uncomfortable swirl of her thoughts. She wasn’t really concentrating when she went into the hall to see who it was, startled to see Dante standing on her doorstep with a look on his face she couldn’t quite work out.

  She blinked at him, aware of the thunder of her heart and the need to keep her reaction hidden. To try to hide the sudden flash of hope inside her. Had he changed his mind? Did he realise that he only had to say the word and she would be sliding between the sheets with him—right now, if he wanted her?

  ‘Did you forget something?’ she said, but the dark expression on his face quickly put paid to any lingering hope. And then he was brushing past her, that brief contact only adding to her sense of disorientation. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Shut the door,’ he said tersely.

  ‘You can’t just walk in here and start telling me what to do.’

  ‘Shut the door, Willow,’ he repeated grimly. ‘Unless you want your neighbours to hear what I have to say.’

  Part of her wanted to challenge him. To tell him to go right ahead and that she didn’t care what her neighbours thought. Because he didn’t want her, did he? He’d rejected her—so what right did he have to start throwing his weight around like this?

  Yet he looked so golden and gorgeous as he towered over her, dominating the shaded entrance hall of the basement apartment, that it was difficult for her to think straight. And suddenly she couldn’t bear to be this close without wanting to reach out and touch him. To trace her finger along the dark graze of his jaw and drift it upwards to his lips. So start taking control, she told herself fiercely. This is your home and he’s the trespasser. Don’t let him tell you what you should or shouldn’t do.

  ‘I was just making coffee,’ she said with an airiness which belied her pounding heart as she headed off towards the kitchen, aware that he was very close behind her. She willed her hand to stay steady as she poured herself a mug and then flicked him an enquiring gaze. ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘I haven’t come for coffee.’

  ‘Then why have you come here, with a look on your face which would turn the milk sour?’

  His fists clenched by the faded denim of his powerful thighs and his features darkened. ‘What did you hope to achieve by this, Willow?’ he hissed. ‘Did you imagine that your petulant display would be enough to get you what you wanted, and that I’d take you to bed despite my better judgement?’

  She stared at him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes. Really.’

  ‘So you have no idea why it’s all over the internet that you and I are engaged to be married
?’

  Willow could feel all the blood drain from her face. ‘No, of course I didn’t!’ And then her hand flew to her lips. ‘Unless...’

  ‘So you do know?’ he demanded, firing the words at her like bullets.

  Please let me wake up, Willow thought. Let me close my eyes, and when I open them again he will have disappeared and this will have been nothing but a bad dream.

  But it wasn’t and he hadn’t. He was still standing there glaring at her, only now his expression had changed from being a potential milk-curdler, to looking as if he would like to put his hands on her shoulders and throttle her.

  ‘I may have...’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was talking to my sister about you—or rather, she was interrogating me about you. She asked if we were serious and I tried to be vague—and my aunt overheard us, and started getting carried away with talking about weddings and I didn’t...well, I didn’t bother to correct her.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘And why would you do something like that?’ he questioned dangerously.

  Why?

  Willow met his accusing gaze and something inside her flared like a small and painful flame. Couldn’t he see? Didn’t he realise that the reasons were heartbreakingly simple. Because for once she’d felt like she was part of the real world, instead of someone just watching from the sidelines. Because she’d allowed herself to start believing in her own fantasy.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was going to get out of hand like this,’ she said. ‘And I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘You think a couple of mumbled words of apology and everything’s going to go back to normal?’ His face darkened again. ‘My assistant has been fielding phone calls all morning and my Paris office has been inundated with reporters asking for a comment. I’m in the process of brokering a deal with a man who is fiercely private and yet it seems as if I am about to be surrounded by my own personal press pack. How do you think that’s going to look?’

  ‘Can’t you just...issue a denial?’