The Italian's Trophy Mistress. Diana Hamilton
bland as a slashing bone structure, a blade of a nose and a passionate mouth could ever hope to be.
‘Cesare—’ His name on the lushness of her lips was a falling sigh, as if seeing him here was more than she could hope to cope with, and as the quick flush of telltale and immediate colour receded he noted that her skin was ashy pale, her eyes dark-circled as if she’s spent the past night in wakeful worry.
He hated to see that, although he knew he shouldn’t. Compassion shouldn’t come into the equation in his dealings with the witch who had taken his ego and stamped on it. Why should she sleep easily when he’d lain awake all night, alternately plotting revenge or consumed with anger and damaged pride?
Impatiently consoling the stubborn part of himself that felt pain at her distress with the knowledge that her anxiety over her mother would soon be ended, and quelling the stab of guilt over having brought her from her bed—as evidenced by the rumpled state of her long, silky black hair, the robe hastily flung on and belted over her naked body—he responded coolly, ‘We need to talk.’
‘There’s nothing to say.’ Her voice was wary and the hand that gripped the edge of the partly open door was white-knuckled. Her heart had leapt into her throat and was staying there, beating fast enough to choke her.
She had never thought to see him again, truly believing that having been told their affair was over he would watch her walk away with little or no regret, shrug his impressive shoulders and begin the process of finding the next willing candidate to share his night-time activities. It was the sort of thing men like him did.
Eyes that had been downcast since that first split second of recognition now flicked wide to meet his head-on. And as that familiar hot excitement permeated her bloodstream she wished she’d kept her eyes firmly on the floor.
Clad in a perfectly tailored light silky grey suit, the crisp white shirt emphasising the olive tones of his skin and the tough, shadowed jawline that was always dark no matter how often he shaved, the dark charcoal of his tie that matched the broody, moody colour of his eyes, he looked exactly what he was—all-sophisticated Italian male, king of the heap, effortlessly in total command of who he was, what he did.
Bianca sucked in a sharp, much-needed gulp of air. The incredible impact of him had hit her with the usual enervating body-blow, making it impossible for her to do anything to deny him entry when he calmly walked past her into the hall.
‘Where?’ he asked succinctly, his narrowed eyes watching her with immovable cool, one dark brow elevating slightly to emphasise his question.
Wordlessly, every inch of her skin quivering beneath the covering of soft dove-grey satin, Bianca led the way to the sitting room at the back of the tall, narrow house, her mind flittering like an intoxicated gnat as she sought reasons for his presence.
To call her names because she’d ended their affair before he’d had time to grow bored with the relationship? That didn’t seem in character. To him and many other men in his position affairs such as theirs had been were ephemeral and easily forgotten.
To beg her to return to him, or to repeat his crazy proposal of marriage? Both seemed unlikely. His Italian pride wouldn’t let him beg.
But if he did, her tired mind panicked, would she be able to resist when she only had to look at him to be swamped by this incredible need?
She really didn’t want this, her weary brain shrieked in protest. To see Cesare again was more than she could handle on top of everything else.
Her boss hadn’t been one bit pleased at her inability to put a time limit on the amount of leave she needed. It was impossible to say how long it would take to find alternative, affordable accommodation and organise the move, somehow persuade a stubborn Helene to seek medical help, convince Jeanne that her presence was essential for a while longer.
Closing the sitting room door behind them, Bianca gave him what she hoped would pass as a look of impatience, desperately trying to keep the revealing mute misery from her eyes.
Cesare Andriotti should have looked out of place, his potent masculinity at odds with Helene’s choice of ultra-feminine decor. But, as always, she thought with grudging admiration, he took control, his surroundings fading into insignificance before the force field of his commanding personality as he gestured her to one of the pair of delicate Edwardian chairs flanking a rosewood tripod table in the window embrasure, before taking his time about seating himself.
His long legs loosely crossed at the ankles, his arms resting on the delicate rosewood supports, his dark head tipped back against the high, velvet-upholstered back of the chair, he looked totally relaxed, only the cold, brilliant glitter of his eyes telling her that, whatever his reason for being here, he meant business.
The silence sizzled with sexual tension, with the stinging expectation of she knew not what. The way he was looking at her now was doing her head in, his incredibly sexy, moody eyes sliding over her as if he was assessing every curve, line and hollow of her lightly clad body, awarding her desirability points out of ten.
Biting her lip, she managed thickly, ‘What do you want, Cesare?’ And in a last-ditch attempt to stamp some of her own authority on this unlooked-for meeting, she added, ‘I honestly don’t have much time; I’ve a lot to get through today.’
And watched her words misfire as he ignored her pathetic attempt to take control and listed smoothly, ‘Your lease runs out shortly and on your salary I doubt you can afford to renew it. Therefore the need to find alternative accommodation is imperative. Not easy, not when one considers the price of property in London, and Helene Sinclair’s liking for the luxuries of this life.’ He steepled his fingers, the tips resting against the sensual curve of his lower lip. ‘Am I not right?’
Gazing at him speechlessly, Bianca felt what little colour she did have drain out of her face. How did he know her mother’s maiden name? Who could have told him that the twenty-five-year lease that had been part of her mother’s divorce settlement was coming to an end?
She had been so careful to keep her personal life, her worries and concerns, out of their relationship. Not because she was ashamed of what her mother was rapidly becoming—falling in love with a wealthy sophisticate who thought it was his right to change his wives as often as he changed his cars had been to blame for the mess Helene was making of her life—but because opening up to Cesare would have made her even more vulnerable than she had been where he was concerned.
Besides, he wouldn’t have been interested in her problems. Theirs had been the sort of affair he was used to, with both partners keeping to the ground rules. No strings, no commitment and certainly no messy soul-baring to bore the socks off him.
Unaffected by her silence, he continued remorselessly, ‘A sought-after and very lovely model in her late teens and early twenties, your mother became used to admiring attention and the rewards of a big salary.’
He tilted her a look that told her he was amused by the way her mouth had fallen open with horrified disbelief at what she was hearing. ‘Of course,’ he opined smoothly, ‘after her marriage to your father she would have become used to a life of idle luxury, the glitter and glamour of the international social scene, where all she had to do was look beautiful and collect the homage of enchanted males. After the divorce,’ he continued with chilling silkiness, ‘she’d long since lost the work ethic. But that didn’t matter, did it? There was a substantial settlement.
‘However—’ his eyes impaled her, a helpless prisoner of his verbal torture ‘—the money drained away. Spent on wild parties, her racketty friends, the endless search for flattery. The excesses worsening during the last few months—places she was discreetly barred from and those she was rather too publicly thrown out of. Helene has more than a few problems.’
Again the infuriating upward drift of one eloquent brow. ‘Need I say more?’
Shaking with shock, everything she’d kept from him out in the open, she felt desperately nauseous. He was gloating over her problems, he just had to be, and in that moment she hated him with a violence that threatened to shatter her completely.