Exotic Affairs: The Mistress BrideThe Spanish HusbandThe Bellini Bride

by Michelle Reid

  Was she talking about leaving him? On that dark thought, one of his hands found her breast, one of his legs hooked over hers to keep her close, with the curve of her lower body nestling into the cradle of his hips. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said on a heavy sigh, while willing himself not to challenge that final statement and just take his own advice and go to sleep.

  It was a crazy idea. You didn’t sleep when you’d both been through the emotional mill as they had tonight. You didn’t sleep when it was all still churning round in your head.

  And you didn’t sleep when the woman in your arms was implying that she intended to leave you.

  What you did was move closer to that same woman. You let your hand increase its pressure on what it was holding. You buried your face in the sweet scent of her hair.

  Beneath his palm he felt the tightening of her nipple, lower down, his own natural response caused the muscles in her body to flex sensually. He allowed his thumb to replace his palm and began a slow circling of that pretty rosebud tip. Her pulse began to quicken, her breathing altered pace. On a muffled groan he nuzzled deeper into silken tresses until he found her nape.

  Her response was to twist around until she was facing him. Their eyes met. He knew what his were saying, but hers were still trying to fight it.

  ‘You don’t play fair!’ she protested.

  ‘Grazie,’ he replied, as if she had just paid him a great compliment, and claimed her mouth with a kiss aimed to kill any kind of argument.

  What followed was an in-depth demonstration as to why what they had was too special to throw away. It was hot and it was good, and as his body hardened with masculine arousal hers began to soften to a sensual pliancy that invited any intimacy.

  She was beautiful. He adored her. No other woman had ever made him feel this deeply. He kissed every sweet sensational inch of her until she gave up trying to hate what he was doing and, on a helpless sigh, began to join in. What she found she couldn’t reach with her mouth, she touched with tender knowing fingers. By the time he took final possession she was his entirely; there was no doubt about it. He watched her build towards her climax, he watched her reach and tumble into it, and he held her there. With gritted teeth and burning loins he held her, held her in magical suspension for as long as he could possibly manage it. Only when she eventually opened her eyes to look at him in dazed astonishment did he surrender and give her back what she had just given him.

  Himself. He gave himself.

  It really was the perfect moment to glide past everything that had gone before it and just be content to drift into sleep on the soft cloud of knowledge that neither of them was going to throw this away.

  Lying there, with her cheek resting in the hollow of his shoulder and her hand covering the steady beat of his heart, escape into sleep was certainly all that Antonia wanted to do.

  But Marco didn’t agree. He was basking in self-confidence again, and that set his brain working. ‘Tell me what Anton Gabrielli is to you,’ he said, and very effectively shattered the peace.

  ‘You just can’t stop yourself, can you?’ she snapped, pulling away from him to sit up with a sigh.

  ‘I don’t like mysteries,’ he explained. ‘And you knew the man, cara, no matter what you try to say.’

  Knew him? A short laugh accompanied the weary shake of her head. Well, she mused bleakly, did she tell him and get it over with, or was this one secret better kept to herself? ‘My mother was his mistress years ago.’ She went for the compromise with part of the truth. ‘He set her up in an apartment in Naples, visited her regularly, and took her out with his friends. He adored her on the face of it—but forgot to tell her he was married. When she found out, she left him.’ That seemed the simplest way of saying it.

  ‘You were around to witness this?’ Quiet though it was, huskily gentle though it was, Antonia knew what he was thinking.

  Learn by example.

  ‘Yes, I was around,’ she answered, while her fingers plucked at pale blue sheeting. Then, with a toss of her head, she made herself look at him. ‘So you see, it was just another case of mistaken identity,’ she explained bitterly.

  ‘Then we will make it a priority tomorrow to correct the mistake.’

  It was just so typically arrogant of him. ‘Are you planning to put an ad in the newspaper, Marco, announcing to the world that your mistress is not the Mirror Woman? And do you honestly think anyone will believe you if you do?’

  ‘We can at least try to set the record straight.’

  ‘For what purpose?’ she asked. ‘To make you feel better? Your mother? Me? Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter who the model is; people will always look at me and see the same woman! I can’t change that. I look like her! In every way but name I could be her! Either you have to learn to accept it or we have nothing left here to—’

  Firm hands toppled her back down to him. ‘Shut up,’ he gritted. ‘I know what you were going to say, so just shut up!’

  ‘You started it,’ she sighed.

  ‘And I am finishing it!’ And he did, by launching into a second seduction.

  It was all very fierce, intense and possessive, but sex didn’t solve everything. Okay, so in bed they were as compatible as any two human beings could be. But out of it?

  Nothing could change. He wanted to fix what couldn’t be fixed. Which was why she hadn’t told him the full truth about Anton Gabrielli. She might love Marco, but some secrets you could only trust to someone who would love you enough not to care what you had to tell them.

  And Marco didn’t love her that way.

  This time her drift from satiation to sleep was allowed to happen uninterrupted. But Marco lay awake, frowning into the darkness until dawn eventually began to filter into the room, when, carefully untangling himself from Antonia, he slid out of the bed.

  Two hours later he was in a helicopter heading for his parents’ Tuscany home, intent on an interview with his father. And Antonia was just awakening to find the place beside her empty—if you didn’t count the written note waiting on the pillow.

  ‘Don’t worry me, cara,’ it said. ‘Be here when I return.’

  Don’t worry me, she read again. Be here…

  Such emotive words, she thought sadly. But what did they tell her, except that he didn’t want her to go? They didn’t solve anything. They didn’t put right what his mother had done to her self-esteem. She would have to be really brazen to go amongst his friends after last night’s public humiliation and boldly outface their new perception of her.

  And she wasn’t that brazen. Though she didn’t think Marco would understand if she tried to explain it to him. He would probably think she was angling after another marriage proposal. When in actual fact the one he’d given her had been more than enough for her.

  So was she going to ‘be here’ when he got back?

  Her indecisive sigh told its own story. She just couldn’t make up her mind. To go was going to hurt. To stay was going to hurt. Her problem was deciding which one was going to hurt more.

  Getting out of bed, she showered and dressed in a simple dusky-mauve skirt and a cerise top, then went to search out Carlotta to see if she knew where Marco had gone.

  It was Saturday, after all, and she had rarely known him to work on Saturdays. He preferred to laze around and do as little as possible.

  Carlotta was just placing a pot of coffee, a bowl of freshly sliced fruit and some toast down on the table for her when she arrived in the sunny breakfast room.

  No, she didn’t know where Marco had gone.

  The smell of the toast made Antonia realise that with last night’s drama she hadn’t eaten a scrap since late afternoon yesterday and she was hungry, which was a much simpler problem to solve.

  Or was it that she didn’t really want to look for the answer to where Marco had gone? she wondered as she sat down. He’d threatened to go and see Anton Gabrielli. He also had to smooth things out with his mother. Who else? she asked herself. Confront Stefan with what she had told
him? Demand his money back for the Mirror Woman? The list could go on and on.

  Any interview between Marco and Anton Gabrielli did not sit comfortably with her, although the man could only tell Marco more or less what she had already said, she attempted to reassure herself.

  As for an interview with his mother—the outcome of that depended entirely on which one of them was the more committed to his or her offended senses. Either way, it did not promise to be a pleasant conversation. Nor did it sit comfortably with her that she was the cause of dissension between mother and son.

  Then there was Stefan. Annoyingly unpredictable Stefan, who was likely to say anything if Marco pushed hard enough. And, since he knew just about everything about her, it was yet another confrontation she would prefer didn’t take place.

  Which leaves you with what? she asked herself as she poured a second coffee. All of these people discussing you as if you didn’t have a voice of your own? When all it would take is for you to face the man and tell him everything, warts and all, then stand back and see what the full truth brings you back by return.

  Maybe she would. Maybe she would wait around after all, do just that, and tell Marco everything.

  Carlotta appeared. ‘A Signor Gabrielli is in the foyer, signorina,’ she informed her. ‘He is asking if you can spare him a few minutes of your time?’

  Signor Gabrielli. Her stomach turned over. The coffee suddenly lost flavour. He couldn’t know—could he? No, she told herself firmly. He couldn’t know. He was here to ask about Anastasia, probably. Wanting to find out how his ex-mistress had faired in the twenty-five years since they’d last met!

  Well, she was ready to tell him that, Antonia resolved, and came to her feet. ‘Let him come up and show him into the small sitting room, Carlotta, if you please.’

  The sheer formality of her words set the housekeeper frowning. The way Antonia’s face had suddenly turned so cold caused a hesitation before Carlotta turned away without saying whatever had been on her mind.

  Alone again, Antonia made herself sit down, made herself sip at the coffee and eat a piece of toast. And she made herself ready for a meeting that was coming twenty-five years too late.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HE WAS wearing a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. And Antonia’s first impression as she stepped into the room was—stiff. In the single grainy newspaper cutting she had of him he didn’t look stiff. He looked young and vital—very much as Marco looked.

  But that had been taken twenty years ago. In twenty years maybe cynicism with life could change Marco into this man’s image. Though she hoped to goodness that it didn’t, she thought with a distinct shiver.

  ‘Good morning, signor,’ she greeted him in cool English. ‘I believe you wanted to see me?’

  Gracious, polite, giving no hint that she knew anything at all about him. She was leaving it up to him to give away as much—or as little—as he knew about her.

  He didn’t return the greeting. In fact he didn’t do anything but narrow his eyes and look her over like something in a specimen jar. Her nerve-ends began to tighten. He had a face cast from iron and a thin-lipped mouth that appeared to have forgotten how to smile. Already predisposed to dislike him, what she was feeling bouncing back from him gave her no reason to alter that view.

  ‘You are Anastasia’s daughter,’ he eventually announced, as if he’d needed that detailed scrutiny to make absolutely sure before he committed himself to the statement.

  ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘Is it about my mother that you wish to see me?’

  He shifted his stance. It wasn’t by much but it was enough for her to know that he was intensely uncomfortable at being here. ‘Si,’ he replied. ‘And—no,’ he added. ‘By your response, I have to assume that you know about me?’

  ‘Your affair with my mother? Yes.’ She saw no reason to hide it.

  He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘It was perhaps unfortunate that we should meet as we did last night.’

  Unfortunate? ‘I think I shocked you,’ she allowed. ‘And I’m sorry for doing that.’

  His eyes contained a distinctly cynical glint at her apology. ‘Until I saw you I believed the Stefan Kranst paintings were your mother. But then,’ he said curtly, ‘I did not know that you existed.’

  For the first time someone had made the correct assumption about Stefan’s model. It was ironic that he was now changing his mind to suit what everyone else believed.

  ‘We were extremely alike,’ she said. ‘Few people could tell the difference.’

  ‘Were—?’ he picked up sharply.

  ‘My mother died two years ago,’ she explained.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he murmured politely.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied. This couldn’t become any more formal if they tried.

  Shouldn’t she be feeling something? Antonia asked herself curiously. Shouldn’t she at least sense a genetic bond, even if it was only a small one? Realising she was still standing by the door, she began to walk forwards, gauging his tensing response as a man very much on his guard. What did he think she was going to do—physically attack him?

  ‘You even walk like her,’ he uttered.

  Antonia just offered a brief smile. He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. She looked like her mother. She moved like her mother.

  ‘Would you care to sit down?’ she invited politely. ‘Can I offer you a drink—espresso or—?’

  ‘I am your father,’ he ground out brusquely, bringing her to a breathtaking stop. Then, with a slash of a hand, ‘There,’ he said. ‘It is now in the open between us. So we may stop this civility. What do you want?’

  ‘I b-beg your pardon?’ Antonia blinked in astonishment.

  ‘You heard me,’ he said. ‘I want to know your price.’

  Antonia could not believe she was hearing this. ‘But you came to see me,’ she reminded him. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘It is called pre-empting your intentions,’ he cut in. ‘I decided that it would only be a matter of time before you came after me. So here I am.’ He gave a shrug. ‘All I want to know is how much your silence is going to cost me.’

  Her silence? Antonia stared at him in disbelief. He had come here to face her because he thought she was about to start blackmailing him? ‘But I don’t w-want—’

  ‘Your kind always want.’

  Suddenly it hurt to breathe. His voice held contempt. His eyes held contempt. He hated the sight of her! He didn’t even know her yet he was judging her to be mercenary. And, her kind? A flashback came to her of Marco’s mother wearing the same expression, showing the same arrogant superiority that they thought gave them the right to treat her like this!

  Glancing up, he caught her expression; his own turned graven. ‘Anastasia let me down,’ he ground out bitterly. ‘You should not be here. It is most unfortunate that we have to have this conversation at all.’

  Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Sickness began to claw at her stomach. ‘You thought my mother would go back to England and rid herself of me simply because it was what you expected her to do?’

  ‘Anastasia demanded money,’ he explained. ‘I automatically assumed she meant to use it to—rectify the problem.’

  The problem? ‘I was not my mother’s problem!’ she cried. ‘You were that! She needed money to survive!’ God, she felt so disgusted. ‘You walked away, closed the lease on her apartment, bank accounts, everything!’

  ‘It is the way these things work.’ He was callously unrepentant. ‘As you will find out yourself, no doubt, when your moment arrives.’

  Was this how he had treated her mother on that final confrontation? Was this the reason why she never really recovered her self-esteem? How could she have loved this man? How could she have not seen through him?

  ‘You make me feel sick,’ she breathed.

  ‘Don’t take the high moral ground with me, signorina!’ he suddenly barked at her. ‘For here you are, living with a man who makes you
the scornful talk of all Milan!’ His face was hard again, his accent cold and his opinion of her set in stone. ‘Think before you speak, whether you would prefer me to announce to the world that Marco Bellini’s mistress is Anton Gabrielli’s bastard daughter! And the Mirror Woman is actually her cheap slut of a mother!’

  She slapped him—hard. For which part she wasn’t sure, but the hand flew out when he insulted her mother. Standing there facing each other, both emanated intense dislike, and she did not feel even a small hint of remorse for that slap. His hand came up to cover his cheek and his eyes burned vows of revenge on her.

  ‘I heard what Isabella Bellini did to you last night,’ he said. ‘The whole gallery was buzzing with talk of the incident.’ And he smiled that thin smile again when she turned white. ‘Do you think you will still be here if this situation ever becomes public?’ he posed. ‘Do you think because you can lay claim to a father worth as much as the Bellinis they will turn a blind eye to what you actually are?’

  ‘How can you stand there and preach over me when your own sins are staring right at you?’ Antonia gasped. ‘And why come here at all, if you don’t care if I speak out? You have a wife. Don’t her feelings count for anything?’

  ‘My wife is dead,’ he said. ‘You cannot hurt her. But I can most certainly hurt your present position here in this place of luxury if you dare to make our connection public.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why you should think I’d want to!’ The whole thing had become so bewildering, she couldn’t follow his logic at all.

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘I merely wanted to be sure that you understand your position here. For you don’t have one.’ He made the point plain. ‘I am no use to you as a lever towards marriage to Bellini. In fact I am most probably your biggest danger to that goal. But I am willing to accept you possess a certain right to lay embarrassment at my doorstep,’ he conceded. ‘And, bearing in mind that one day in the future Bellini is going to tire of you, I accept I owe you some—incentive to keep your silence about me when that time comes.’