Mistress To a Latin Lover: The Sicilian's Defiant Mistress / The Italian's Pregnant Mistress / The Italian's Mistress. Jane Porter
so.”
He abruptly rose and she scooted back on the bed, watching him take several steps back. His jaw jutted, his anger was palpable. “So how much is Sobato paying you?”
“He’s not paying me anything!”
“So what then was your price? Because you must have been damn expensive. Did he offer cash? Stocks? Ownership in the company?”
“You make me sound like a prostitute!”
“Close enough in my mind. First you’re my mistress and now you’re his.”
“I’m not his mistress.” She jumped from the bed, marched on him. “I’m not his mistress. He’s paid me nothing, offered me nothing. He knew I wanted to see you, knew I needed to see you—”
“Why?”
She was angry, so angry she could hardly see straight. Her hands clenched, her chest rose and fell. “Because I thought I still cared about you. I thought there was something between us—” she broke off, shook her head, livid “—obviously I was wrong.”
“If you wanted to talk to me, you could have called me.”
“You wouldn’t have talked.” Her eyes felt hot with tears. “You never talk on the phone. You hardly say anything even when we’re together. You communicate with sex—”
“Maximos?” A young woman stood hesitantly in the doorway. Dark hair, medium height, she was very slender, almost ethereal in her pale pink slip dress, the delicate straps of the dress highlighting her perfect shoulders tanned a honey-bronze and the hint of high full breasts molded by the delicate pink fabric. “I’ve been sent to find you.”
Maximos glanced at his watch. “I’m late,” he said with a sigh.
“You are,” she agreed, smiling a little, less nervous than she’d been moments ago. “And your mother is already in the car.”
Maximos understood. He headed toward the door, and approaching the young woman, he kissed her on both cheeks. “My mother’s fretting.”
The woman’s expression was mischievous. “She is your mother after all.”
Cass’s tummy flipped at the playful, and yet intimate, exchange. They were close, Cass realized, and it crossed her mind that they might just be more than friends…
Cass looked away as Maximos dropped a kiss on the woman’s forehead. “Tell Mother I’ll be right down.”
“Okay,” she answered, before whispering something in his ear that made him laugh and then disappearing again down the hall.
But Maximos’s laugher died as he turned to face Cass. For a long moment he stared at her, his dark brows heavy, his gaze speculative. “I hope you know what you’re doing, carissima.”
His dark gaze held hers and for one second she let herself get lost in his dark eyes, in the stillness that set him apart, in the silence where he didn’t share what he thought, or wanted. At least not with her. “I hope so, too,” she answered.
A flicker of emotion passed through his eyes. “Be careful that Sobato doesn’t hurt you,” Maximos added after a moment.
“He can’t.” She struggled to smile. “My heart’s already broken.”
“Since when?”
“February.” When you left me. But she didn’t have to add the last part. He knew. She saw the realization register in his eyes and then he’d shuttered the emotion and his expression was blank again.
“I’ll see you at the dinner,” he said, before walking out.
And God, he was good at that, she thought, awash in pain, alive with feeling. No one was as good as Maximos at walking out.
For several minutes after Maximos left, Cass stood at the mirror in the ensuite bath and tried to finish getting ready for the party but couldn’t seem to muster the energy to do her hair or apply makeup.
Hair and makeup seemed so pointless. No matter how much she dressed up the outside, she’d still feel the same on the inside. And on the inside she felt old, and tired, and very sad.
Losing Maximos in February had been awful, but the miscarriage had been the final blow, the one she couldn’t seem to recover from.
And looking at her face bare of makeup she could see her age in her face, see the small creases near her eyes, the two faint grooves near her mouth. She was thirty. Single. And very much alone.
People at work called her invincible. They believed she was unemotional, unsentimental, married to her job. And maybe once upon a time she had been that tough career woman. But losing Maximos and the baby had changed all that. For the first time in twentysomething years Cass wanted something that wasn’t tied to work, achievement or material success.
She wanted to feel loved. She longed to be part of something bigger than herself, something warmer and stronger.
She craved a family.
With a self-conscious gesture, Cass touched her hair, the strands still a natural amber-gold, a color close to the shade of her eyes. In the early days of her advertising career, she’d learned to play up her rich coloring by wearing black—in leather, satin, silk—or exotic animal prints like faux leopard spots and tiger stripes. She’d always worn incredibly high heels, her boots and shoes dangerous, toes pointed, aggressively sexual. She’d liked keeping people at arm’s length, had enjoyed keeping others guessing.
Now looking at her bare face and loose wavy hair she knew she’d changed. Permanently changed. She’d finally understood—internalized—that success was a cold bedfellow, that achievement meant nothing if she wasn’t happy, and she’d never be happy if she couldn’t love and be loved in return.
Her mouth lifted in a wry, dry smile. Maybe her broken heart had actually done her some good.
Cass combed her hair, pinning it up in a sophisticated twist at the back of her head, applied her usual makeup and fastened delicate diamond drop earrings to her earlobes before slipping her feet into pale satin heels and heading downstairs.
The house was virtually empty but the butler appeared in the hall and indicated that Emilio was already outside in the car waiting.
Emilio was indeed in the car, sitting in the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the steering wheel.
She saw his face as she approached, his gray eyes narrowing, his expression critical. “What’s wrong?” she asked, opening the passenger door.
“I don’t like it,” he said flatly, fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel as he looked her up and down.
His petulant tone irritated her. “Don’t like what?”
He gestured to her dress, and then her face and hair. “Any of it. You look…too smart, too together. It’s not right. Not the image I’m looking for.”
“That’s too bad,” she said calmly, barely able to keep her irritation from showing. This man was telling her about image? Image is what she did for a living, image paid her bills. But beyond the issue of expertise, no one told her how to dress, or how to behave. Not Maximos. And certainly not Emilio Sobato. “You can change if you want to. I’m certainly not. I like this dress. I like the way I look—”
“And so does Maximos.” Emilio’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. “I heard him compliment you. When I was in the bathroom. And it’s obvious you’re dressed to please him.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out the truth—that Maximos knew the truth about her and Emilio’s charade. She pictured Emilio’s outrage and for a split second she enjoyed the idea of popping his horrible little bubble, but she knew now wasn’t the time. Not before the Guiliano reception—it was Adriana’s special night after all. For another, she didn’t want to be alone with Emilio