Di Sione's Virgin Mistress

by Sharon Kendrick

  Dante stared into her soft grey eyes and felt close to exploding. ‘You think it’s that simple?’

  ‘We could say that I was... I don’t know...’ Helplessly, Willow shrugged. ‘Joking?’

  His mouth hardened, and now there was something new in his eyes. Something dark. Something bleak.

  ‘A denial might have worked, were it not for the fact that some enterprising journalist was alerted to the Di Sione name and decided to telephone my grandfather’s house on Long Island to ask him for his reaction.’ His blue eyes sparked with fury as they captured hers with their shuttered gaze. ‘And despite the time difference between here and New York, it just so happened that my grandfather was suffering from insomnia and boredom and pain, and was more than willing to accept the call. Which is why...’

  He paused, as if he was only just hanging on to his temper by a shred.

  ‘Why I received a call from the old man, telling me how pleased he is that I’m settling down at last. Telling me how lovely you are—and what a good family you come from. I was trying to find the right moment to tell him that there is nothing going on between us, only the right moment didn’t seem to come—or rather, my grandfather didn’t give me a chance to say what I wanted to.’

  ‘Dante...’

  ‘Don’t you dare interrupt me when I haven’t finished,’ he ground out. ‘Because using the kind of shameless emotional blackmail he has always used to ensure he gets his own way, my grandfather then told me how much better he’d felt when he heard the news. He said he hadn’t felt this good in a long time and that it was high time I took myself a wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She gave him a beseeching look. ‘What else can I say?’

  Dante felt a feeling of pure rage flood through him and wondered how he could have been stupid enough to take his eye off the ball. Or had he forgotten what women were really like—had he completely wiped Lucy from his memory? Had it conveniently slipped his mind that the so-called fairer sex were manipulative and devious and would stop at nothing to get what it was they wanted? How easy it was to forget the past when you had been bewitched by a supposedly shy blonde and a sob story about needing a temporary date which had convinced him to go to the damned wedding in the first place.

  He stared at the slight quiver of Willow’s lips and at that moment he understood for the first time in his life the meaning of the term a punishing kiss, because that was what he wanted to do to her right now. He wanted to punish her for screwing up his plans with her thoughtlessness and her careless tongue. He watched as a slow colour crept up to inject her creamy skin with a faint blush, and felt his body harden. Come to think of it, he’d like to punish her every which way. He’d like to lay her down and flatten her against the floor and...and...

  ‘Are you one of those habitual fantasists?’ he demanded hotly. ‘One of those women who goes around pretending to be something she isn’t, to make herself seem more interesting?’

  She put her coffee cup down so suddenly that some of it slopped over the side, but she didn’t even seem to notice. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, as if she needed its weathered wooden surface for support.

  ‘That’s an unfair thing to say,’ she breathed.

  ‘Why? Because you’re so delicate and precious that I’m not allowed to tell the truth?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I thought you despised being given special treatment just because you’d been ill. Well, you can’t have it both ways, Willow. You can’t play the shrinking violet whenever it suits you—and a feisty modern woman the next. You need to decide who you really are.’

  She met his eyes in the silence which followed. ‘You certainly don’t pull your punches, do you?’

  ‘I’m treating you the same as I would any other woman.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, because you’re not!’ she said with a shake of her head. ‘If I was any other woman, you would have had sex with me last night. You know you would.’

  Dante felt the heavy beat of a pulse at his temple and silently cursed her for bringing that up again. Did she think she would wear him down with her persistence? That what Willow wanted, Willow would get. His mouth hardened, but unfortunately, so did his groin. ‘Like I told you. I don’t sleep with virgins.’

  She turned away, but not before he noticed the dark flare of colour which washed over her cheekbones and he felt his anger morph inconveniently into lust. How easy it would be to vent his feelings by giving her what she wanted. What he wanted. Even now. Despite the accusations he’d hurled at her and the still-unsettled question of how her indiscretion was going to be resolved, it was sexual tension which dominated the air so powerfully that he couldn’t hardly breathe without choking on it. He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from her. She looked as brittle as glass as she held her shoulders stiffly, and although she was staring out of the small basement window, he was willing to lay a bet she didn’t see a thing.

  But he did. He saw plenty. He could see the slender swell of her bottom beneath the dark denim. He could see the silken cascade of her blond hair as it spilled down her back. Would it make him feel better if he went right over there and slid down her jeans, and laid her down on the kitchen table and straddled her, before feasting on her?

  He swallowed as an aching image of her pale, parted thighs flashed vividly into his mind and he felt another powerful tug of desire. On one level, of course it would make them both feel better, but on another—what? He would be stirring up yet more consequences, and weren’t there more than enough to be going on with?

  She turned back again to face him and he saw that the flush had gone, as if her pale skin had absorbed it, like blotting paper. ‘Like I said, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.’

  He shook his head. ‘But that’s where you’re wrong, little Miss Hamilton. There is.’

  Did something alert her to the determination which had hardened his voice? Was that why her eyes had grown so wary?

  ‘What? You want me to write to your grandfather and apologise? And then to give some kind of statement to the press, telling them that it was all a misunderstanding? I’ll do all that, if that’s what it takes.’

  ‘No. That’s not what’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘It’s a little more complicated than that. My grandfather wants to meet the woman he thinks I’m going to marry. And you, my dear Willow, are going to embrace that role.’

  The grey of her eyes was darker now, as if someone had smudged them with charcoal and a faint frown was criss-crossing over her brow. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Then let me explain it clearly, so there can be no mistake,’ he said. ‘My grandfather is a sick man and anything which makes him feel better is fine with me. He wants me to bring you to the family home to meet him and that’s exactly what’s going to happen. You can play the fantasist for a little while longer because you are coming with me to Long Island. As my fiancée.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A SOFT BREEZE wafted in through the open windows, making the filmy drapes at the window shiver like a bridal veil and the mocking significance of that didn’t escape Willow. She drew her hand over her clammy brow and looked around the luxurious room. She could hardly believe she was here, on Dante’s estate, or that he had persuaded her to come here for a long weekend, despite the many objections she’d raised.

  But he’d made her feel guilty—and guilt was a powerful motivator. He’d said that her lies about being his fiancée had given his grandfather hope, and it was in her power to ensure that a dying man’s hopes were not dashed.

  ‘You seemed to want to let your family believe that you were going to be my bride,’ were his exact, silken words. ‘Well, now this is your chance to play the role for real.’

  Except that it wasn’t real, because a real bride-to-be would be cherished and caressed by her fiancé, wouldn’t she? Not kept at a chil
ly distance as if she was something unwanted but necessary—like a bandage you might be forced to wrap around an injured arm.

  They were installed in an unbelievably cute cottage in the extensive grounds, but in a way that was worse than staying in the main house. Because in here there was the illusion of intimacy, while in reality they were two people who couldn’t have been further apart. She was closeted alone with a man who clearly despised her. And there was only one bed. Willow swallowed. This time it was a king-size bed, but the principle of where to sleep remained the same. Was he really willing to repeat what had happened at the wedding—sharing a bedroom, while keeping his distance from her?

  Dante had telephoned ahead to tell the housekeeper that they wished to be guaranteed privacy. She remembered the look on his face as he’d finished the call. ‘They’ll think it’s because we’re crazy about each other and can’t keep our hands off each other,’ he’d said mockingly.

  But Willow knew the real reason. It meant that they wouldn’t be forced to continue with the farce for any longer than necessary. There would be no reason for Dante to hide his undeniable hostility towards her. When they were with other people they would be sweetness and light together, while in private...

  She bit her lip, trying hard to block out the sound of the powerful shower jets from the en-suite bathroom and not to think about Dante standing naked beneath them, but it wasn’t easy. Their enforced proximity had made her achingly aware of him—whether he was in the same room, or not.

  They had flown in by helicopter an hour earlier and Willow’s first sight of the Di Sione family home had taken her breath away. She’d grown up in a big home, yes—but this was nothing like the crumbling house in which she’d spent her own formative years. This, she’d realised, was what real wealth looked like. It was solid and real, and clearly money was no object. The white marble of the Long Island mansion was gleaming and so pristine that she couldn’t imagine anyone actually living in it. She had been aware of the endless sweep of emerald lawns, the turquoise flash of a swimming pool and the distant glitter of a huge lake as their helicopter had landed.

  A housekeeper named Alma had welcomed them and told Dante that his grandfather was sleeping but looking forward to seeing them both at dinner.

  ‘And your sister is here, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Talia?’ questioned Dante as the housekeeper nodded.

  ‘That’s right. She’s out making sketches for a new painting.’ Alma had given Willow a friendly smile. ‘You’ll meet Miss Natalia at dinner.’

  And Willow had nodded and tried to look as she thought a newly engaged woman should look—and not like someone who had recently been handed a diamond ring by Dante, with all the emotion of someone producing a cheap trinket from the remains of a Christmas cracker.

  ‘What’s this?’ she’d asked as he had deposited a small velvet box on her lap.

  ‘Your number one prop,’ came his mocking response as their helicopter had hovered over the Di Sione landing pad. ‘The bling. That thing which women love to flash as a symbol of success—the outward sign that they’ve got their man.’

  ‘What an unbelievably cynical thing to say.’

  ‘You think it’s cynical to tell the truth?’ he’d demanded. ‘Or are you denying that women view the acquisition of diamonds as if it’s some new kind of competitive sport?’

  The awful thing was that Willow secretly agreed with him. Her sisters were crazy about diamonds—and so were plenty of the women she worked with—yet she’d always found them a cold and emotionless stone. The giant solitaire winked at her now like some malevolent foe, splashing rainbow fire over her pale fingers as Dante emerged from the bathroom.

  Quickly, she looked up, her heart beginning to pound. She’d been half expecting him to emerge wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips, and guessed she should be pleased that he must have dressed in the bathroom. But her overriding sensation was one of disappointment. Had she secretly been hoping to catch a glimpse of that magnificent olive body as he patted himself dry? Was there some masochistic urge lurking inside her which wanted to taunt her with what she hadn’t got?

  Yet the dark trousers and silk shirt he wore did little to disguise his muscular physique and his fully dressed state did nothing to dim his powerful air of allure. His black hair was still damp and his eyes looked intensely blue, and suddenly Willow felt her heart lurch with a dizzying yet wasted sense of desire. Because since that interrupted seduction at her sister’s wedding, he hadn’t touched her. Not once. He had avoided all physical contact with the studied exaggeration of someone in the military walking through a field studded with landmines.

  His gaze flickered to where she’d been studying her hand and his eyes gleamed with mockery. As if he’d caught her gloating. ‘Do you like your ring?’

  ‘It looks way too big on my hand,’ she said truthfully. ‘And huge solitaire diamonds aren’t really my thing.’

  He raised his dark brows mockingly, as if he didn’t quite believe her.

  ‘But they have a much better resale value than something bespoke,’ he drawled.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, and then a rush of nerves washed over her as she thought about the reality of going to dinner that evening and playing the part of his intended bride. ‘You know, if we’re planning to convince your grandfather that we really are a couple, then I’m going to need to know something about you. And if you could try being a little less hostile towards me that might help.’

  He slipped a pair of heavy gold cufflinks in place and clipped them closed before answering. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’

  She wanted to know why he was so cynical. And why his face had darkened as soon as the helicopter had landed here today.

  ‘You told me about being sent away to boarding school in Switzerland, but you didn’t say why.’

  ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

  She hesitated. ‘I’m thinking that maybe there was. And if there was, then I would probably know about it.’

  Dante’s instinct was to snap out some terse response—the familiar blocking technique he used whenever questions strayed into the territory of personal. Because he didn’t trust personal. He didn’t trust anyone or anything, and Willow Hamilton was no exception in the trust stakes, with her manipulation and evasion. But suddenly her face had become soft with what looked like genuine concern and he felt a tug of something unfamiliar deep inside him. An inexplicable urge to colour in some of the blank spaces of his past. Was that because he wanted his grandfather to die happy by convincing him that he’d found true love at last? Or because—despite her careless tongue landing them in this ridiculous situation—she possessed a curious sense of vulnerability which somehow managed to burrow beneath his defences.

  His lips tightened as he reminded himself how clever Giovanni was. How he would see through a fake engagement in the blinking of an eye if he wasn’t careful. So tell her, he thought. She was right. He should tell her the stuff which any fiancée would expect to know.

  ‘I’m one of seven children,’ he said, shooting out the facts like bullets. ‘And my grandfather stepped in to care for us when my parents died very suddenly.’

  ‘And...how did they die?’

  ‘Violently,’ he answered succinctly.

  Her eyes clouded and Dante saw comprehension written in their soft, grey depths. As if she understood pain. And he didn’t want her to understand. He wanted her to nod as he presented her with the bare facts—not look at him as if he was some kind of problem she could solve.

  Yet there had been times when he’d longed for someone to work their magic on him. He stared out at the distant glitter of the lake. To find a woman he’d be happy to go to bed with, night after night—instead of suffering from chronic boredom as soon as anyone tried to get close to him. To find some kind of peace with another human being�
�the kind of peace which seemed almost unimaginable to him. Was that how his twin had felt about Anais? he wondered.

  He thought about Dario and felt the bitter twist of remorse as he remembered what he had done to his brother.

  ‘What exactly happened?’ Willow was asking.

  Her gentle tone threatened to undermine his resolve. Making him want to show her what his life had been like. To show her that she didn’t have the monopoly on difficult childhoods. And suddenly, it was like a dam breaking through and flooding him.

  ‘My father was a screwed-up hedonist,’ he said bluntly. ‘A kid with too much money who saw salvation in the bottom of a bottle, or in the little pile of white dust he snorted through a hundred dollar bill.’ His lips tightened. ‘He blamed his addictions on the fact that my grandfather had never been there for him when he was growing up—but plenty of people have absent parents and don’t end up having to live their lives on a constant high.’

  ‘And what about your mother?’ she questioned as calmly as if he’d just been telling her that his father had been president of the Union.

  He shook his head. ‘She was cut from the same cloth. Or maybe he taught her to be that way—I don’t know. All I do know is that she liked the feeling of being out of her head as well. Or maybe she needed to blot out the reality, because my father wasn’t exactly known for his fidelity. Their parties were legendary. I remember I used to creep downstairs to find it looking like some kind of Roman orgy, with people lying around among the empty bottles and glasses and the sounds of women gasping in the pool house. And then one day my mother just stopped. She started seeing a therapist and went into rehab, and although she replaced the drink and the drugs with a shopping addiction, for a while everything was...’ He shrugged as he struggled to find a word which would sum up the chaos of his family life.

  ‘Normal?’

  He gave a short and bitter laugh. ‘No, Willow. It was never normal, but it was better. In fact, for a while it was great. We felt we’d got our mother back. And then...’