by Sara Wood
Her heart ached. She could have wept for everything they had lost. Not only those sweet, amazingly fierce explosions of erotic pleasure they’d shared, but also the intimacy, the companionship of the early years together. Even, she sighed, if that had been not real, but a clever deception on his part so that she had suspected nothing while his uncle was alive.
It had been an arranged marriage. The trouble was, she hadn’t known that. Her spirits sank lower.
‘Welcome to my home.’
He turned to her as though he might be inviting her opinion of it. She made a show of looking around as if that was what she’d been doing all along.
The palazzo—for that was what it must surely be—seemed no longer friendly, but daunting in its grandeur. In the cool darkness of the shuttered hall, glass and gold gleamed mysteriously. As they crossed the marble floor, her stilettos tapped with an intrusive echo.
Dante’s ancestors, captured in oils and enclosed in ornate gold frames, checked her out, their dark eyes following her speculatively as she and Dante approached the theatrical double staircase.
Her surroundings had the effect of making her feel uncomfortable. These were riches on a grand scale. Few ambitious men could have remained indifferent when tempted with such luxury, such power, and the prospect of heading a five-hundred-year-old dynasty.
If only she hadn’t been caught in Dante’s honey trap! Guido had explained that his brother knew she had fallen in love with him. Dante had leapt at the chance to marry hastily, before his sick uncle had carried out his threat to leave everything to a more distant, married member of the family.
She winced. The scheming Dante must have waited to hear of his uncle’s death like a vulture hovering over a sick animal. No wonder he’d enquired after Amadeo Severini’s health so often and so earnestly. Her eyes hardened. It must have been very frustrating when Amadeo had hung on to life for nearly four more years!
‘What do you think of the house?’ Dante asked coolly. ‘Does it appeal to your tastes?’
Her frosty gaze slanted chillingly in his direction. ‘I’m sure you don’t care about my opinion.’
‘It interests me to know what you think.’
Haughtily she lifted her chin. She had no intention of bolstering his inflated ego. ‘Too big for one man,’ she said in dismissal.
‘I agree,’ he said to her surprise, pausing as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘That’s why Amadeo didn’t live here and just used it for entertaining.’
‘But you will?’ she hazarded, her eyes narrowing, knowing the answer. He clearly adored his new position. He’d sacrificed a good deal for it.
‘Correct.’
The first doubt slid into her mind. If he thought it was too big for him on his own…surely he wasn’t thinking of keeping Carlo! Her pulses began to quicken with alarm but she hid her apprehension. Whatever game he was playing, he’d see no sign of weakness from her. Perhaps, she consoled herself, he was planning for his mother to join him. And Guido.
‘I was always under the impression that Amadeo’s main residence was the penthouse in Milan,’ she observed icily. ‘You didn’t tell me he owned a palazzo as well.’
And the implicit question was there: why not?
Dante regarded her with unreadable eyes. ‘I had my reasons.’
‘Which were?’ she pushed.
He hesitated and then said in a flat tone, ‘I had hoped that you would be marrying me for the person I was, not for any material benefits I could give you.’
So he’d wanted to be loved! Huh! She felt like hitting him. He’d wanted someone so wrapped up in him that he could remain in control. Someone who didn’t matter to him. What about her? Hadn’t she been entitled to love, too?
‘You were wrong,’ she snapped. Wrong to marry her for convenience. Wrong to use her.
‘So I have discovered,’ he growled.
Grim-faced, he set off again, striding so fast along the broad landing that she had to half-run to keep up.
‘Talking about houses,’ he flung back at her curtly, ‘I might as well tell you that I am selling my place in Knightsbridge. I will live here in future.’
‘Suits me,’ she muttered.
Coming to a halt in front of an enormous pair of double doors flanked by huge Chinese vases, he glanced without pity at her glacial profile.
‘I’m not sure you realise the implications. When the Knightsbridge house is sold, you will have nowhere to live,’ he informed her, clearly imagining she would gasp with horror.
So she did nothing of the kind. She’d manage. Always had. ‘I expected no less from you,’ she assured him loftily and was pleased when he flushed at the insult.
Despite Lizzie’s urging to take Dante to the cleaners, she’d decided to keep her dignity and independence. Apart from a modest maintenance for Carlo, she wouldn’t take a penny from him. She’d rather starve than be beholden to a man who’d treated her so callously.
Dante scowled at her. ‘My lawyers will see that you get nothing from me in a divorce settlement. You can support yourself.’
‘Yes. There’s always whoring,’ she said sarcastically, reminding him of his vile suggestion on the e-mail. She felt some satisfaction when he stiffened, his entire body taut with suppressed fury. Glancing at the door and with her stomach doing somersaults, she asked, ‘Is Carlo in here?’
‘No,’ he snapped. ‘It’s my study. Come in.’
Her disappointment was profound. Apparently she was to wait till Carlo woke up. And she could do nothing to hurry him. Out of sheer spite, he’d make her wait. Well, wait she would. As long as it took.
Dante opened the door and with a characteristic, gentlemanly gesture he stood to one side. But his manners were only superficial. No gentleman would have behaved so badly.
Steeling herself to perhaps an hour of hanging around, Miranda stalked into the room—only to catch her breath in wonder.
‘Oh! That’s incredible!’ she whispered in reluctant awe.
Her huge eyes were fixed on the open glass doors on the opposite side of the room, which framed the most wonderful view she’d ever seen in the whole of her life. Drawn to it, unable to resist its invitation, she crossed the Persian-carpeted floor and stepped onto the balcony outside as if in a dream. But when she placed her hands on the wrought-iron rail, she found it was hot to her hands and snatched them away with a small cry.
‘I should have warned you,’ Dante muttered.
Striding rapidly out to join her, he turned her hands over and examined her palms, frowning at the pale pink bar of heat on each one. For a moment she felt dizzy, assailed equally by heavenly perfumes from the garden and the nearness of him—his flawless olive skin, the dark brows and thick black lashes, that peaking mouth she had kissed and tasted and hungered for so many times.
‘It’s…nothing!’ she insisted huskily. ‘I’m fine!’ Shaken by her lingering desires, she stared up at him in dismay.
And, looking a little startled by her halting protest, he jerked his hands from hers, which were tingling, darn them, and that was nothing to do with the very minor marks on her palms. Because she also tingled down the entire length of her body and way, way within. Delicious. Devastating. She shifted unhappily.
‘Not hurt at all, then,’ he drawled.
‘It would take more than that to wound me,’ she retorted, hating his sarcastic tone.
‘Yes. You have a monumentally thick skin.’
‘I’d call it a determination to tough things out,’ she countered.
And, taking a deep breath, she concentrated on the reason she’d come out to the balcony: to drink in the magical view and to take a minute or two to recover her energies before she could collect Carlo and start the journey home.
As she thought of that wonderful moment, almost immediately her shoulders relaxed. And because there was nothing else to do till her son woke from his sleep, she surrendered to the enjoyment of the scene before her. Even the most uptight person would have been entranc
ed and she was momentarily spellbound, gazing at the view in rapt silence.
‘What do you think of Lake Como?’ Dante asked, close by and strangely tense.
‘I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s stunning,’ she replied softly.
‘Quite breathtaking,’ he growled.
‘It must be a glorious view to see when you wake. How long have you been here?’ she enquired curiously.
Only inches away from her, he replied, ‘A week.’ When she nodded and continued to gaze dreamily ahead, he muttered under his breath something that sounded like, ‘Irresistibile.’
Her head jerked around, her eyes wide and startled. ‘What?’
He frowned. ‘The view.’ His eyes became cruelly mocking. ‘Surely you didn’t think I meant you?’
‘Hardly!’ Hastily she dragged her brain into gear. She would keep calm. She must maintain her dignity.
‘To me,’ he said, ‘this place is more beautiful, more precious, than all the paintings on the walls, all the priceless antiques in the house. It is simply the perfection of nature.’
She wondered why he was giving the house the hard sell. To make her envious? Or… She swallowed nervously. To force her to agree that Carlo would be better off here?
Dante certainly seemed besotted with his inheritance. Though it wasn’t surprising. Like him, she gazed with appreciation across the lake at the huddle of ochre and sienna houses of the little villages nestling at the foot of wooded hills. High mountains—she presumed the Alps—rose behind them, their peaks slicing jaggedly into the sky.
Wildness and serenity combined. An extraordinary combination and one that reached deep into her and touched her heart.
Beside her, Dante shifted imperceptibly. She could feel his very warmth and detected the faint hint of vanilla, which perfumed his favoured aftershave and shower lotion. That—or tiredness—made her quiver.
‘You must be thrilled with what’s landed in your lap,’ she remarked with deliberate tartness, fighting her attraction for him.
He studied her, his gaze lingering a little too long for her comfort. ‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘Smell that air.’
‘Yes.’ She leaned cautiously over the balcony. ‘What is that wonderful scent?’
‘It comes from the fragrant ozmanthus by the pergola.’
‘It’s very intense,’ she said jerkily, bemused by the electric atmosphere. And all she could do was to utter banalities in the hope that her pulse rate would consequently fall.
Dante muttered something under his breath. ‘Yes. It’s the heat. And because there’s not a breath of wind. Como has many moods, which can change by the hour. At the moment the water could almost be a sheet of glass,’ he mused idly into the hushed, heady air, saturated with the divine scent.
Miranda despaired. Despite her suspicions about his motives for enthusing about the house, she was holding her breath again, unable to take her eyes from his rapturous face, which the late-afternoon sun had lit so that his profile looked as if it had been carved from beaten gold.
With a jolt she realised an unpalatable fact. He loved this house more than he’d ever loved her.
Tartly she hoped he’d be very happy with it. And that it would keep him satisfied at night. His love affair with the house was all-embracing. Well, she’d rather have the love of her child. She fidgeted, anxious now to turn the conversation to Carlo, but he spoke before she could do so.
‘There was a violent storm that night we first came,’ he reminisced in a low murmur, seemingly in no hurry to see if her son was awake. Impatiently she listened, watching his expressive face, loving, 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 pu
t 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.