Mistress To a Latin Lover: The Sicilian's Defiant Mistress / The Italian's Pregnant Mistress / The Italian's Mistress. Jane Porter
should be,” he answered, remembering everything. Like the way she looked in his bed. The way she felt beneath him. The way he could never get enough of her, how he’d reach for her two, three times a night, night after night. “I know you, Cass.”
Cass took a step back, fingers damp around the stem of her wineglass. She was shaking on the inside, undone by his proximity and the intensity of her feelings.
She was still so attracted to him. Far too attracted. It was madness coming here. Stupidity. She was chasing him…chasing. God. She’d lost her mind completely.
She saw his gaze drop, sliding over her, a close and very intimate inspection as he examined her face, the pale skin between her breasts exposed by the cut of her blouse, the narrow fit of her black skirt as it skimmed her hips. He still liked her body.
But he didn’t like her.
Cass tried to ignore the horrible emotion building inside her. You can’t care, she told herself, you can’t let yourself be crushed or intimidated now. You came for closure. Get your damn closure and then get out of here.
“You knew the old me,” she said, chin tilting, expression bold. “But you don’t know me anymore.”
His dark gaze met hers, clashed, held. “And you’ve changed?”
“I’m not with you anymore, am I?”
Maximos smiled. Smiled. And she longed to knock that smug, self-satisfied expression off his face. “You would be, if you could,” he murmured.
Despite Maximos’s elegant shirt, the hint of sheen in the flawless fabric, the expensive dark suit, he looked more beast than man. Panther. Predator. And Cass flushed, feeling caught. Trapped. Exposed by a lie because of course he was right.
If he hadn’t left her, she would still be with him. There was no way she could have ever left him. She wasn’t that strong. She’d needed…wanted…him far too much.
“I hate you,” she said, the words slicing her heart into shreds.
He was not beautiful, she told herself, sucking in a defensive breath, not in any way beautiful. Yet with her eyes locked with his, she could feel the heat between them. The fire hadn’t died. Maybe there was no love here, but there was hunger. Fierce, carnal hunger. Touch, possession, desire.
Desire.
She swallowed, trying to suppress the curl of feeling in her belly, that electric sizzle of awareness, of knowledge. His touch had always lit a firestorm of need, his skin on hers warm, so warm, his body a pleasure and a torment.
“I’m not surprised.”
She blinked, gathered her composure, willing herself to be calm, regain her cool. She couldn’t lose it here, now. Not with Emilio hanging on her every word. Not with fifty-odd guests filling the palazzo’s grand salon.
She turned to Emilio, touched his arm, missing the leap of flames in Maximos’s dark eyes. “Should we get another drink?” She smiled up at Emilio, smiling to keep herself focused, to keep tears from welling in her eyes. She should have realized how hard this would be, should have remembered how intense the physical attraction had always been.
Hot. Dangerous.
“If you’re thirsty, Sobato will be happy to get you another drink,” Maximos answered. “You and I haven’t quite finished yet.”
She barely glanced at Maximos. “I think we have.”
“And I think you forget, carissima, whose home you’re in. You’ve trespassed,” Maximos answered, stepping toward her. “You’ve invaded my home, violated my privacy. Don’t think these transgressions come without a price—”
“Then name it,” she interrupted, finding the courage to stand up to him, even as she ignored the shivers racing down her spine.
“What is the penalty?” she added, furious with him, furious with herself. It was all coming back, the memories rushing through her, of love and loss, memories of him, memories of the midnight trip to the hospital, memories of intense pain, and loneliness. “Tell me what it is. I’m dying to know.”
“Do you two need a minute alone?” Emilio asked, suddenly helpful, deceptively innocent. “Because I could go get us drinks.”
“A great idea,” Maximos answered, cutting her own refusal short.
But it was all the encouragement Emilio needed, and with a casual gesture Emilio indicated he was off to find fresh drinks.
Eyes narrowed, lips thin, Maximos watched Emilio saunter off. “Your fiancé doesn’t seem too inclined to protect you.”
She, too, watched Emilio walk away and she hated the way her body suddenly felt weak, her legs flimsy beneath her. “Maybe because he knows you’re no threat.”
Maximos laughed, the sound deep, harsh, so harsh it scraped her heart, abrading her senses. “You know so little, cara, it scares me.” For a moment he was silent, and then his head turned and he considered her. “So what are you doing here?”
“I already told you—”
“No. Not that bullshit. I want the truth.”
“The truth?” Her voice cracked as his dark eyes settled on her, scorching her. He made her too aware of her own skin and body. They weren’t touching and yet his hands might as well be all over her. Her heart thudded hard and fast. Her insides felt hot and tight. Her knees shook beneath the slim skirt.
How was it possible to still feel so strongly? To still crave so much?
Cass felt wildly out of control, empty, suspended in air. Her insides felt tender, bruised, her insides felt turned out, exposed to air.
She needed peace. More than anything she craved peace. But with Maximos there was no peace. Just anger. Just pain. Just need.
“The truth,” he repeated. “Or has Sobato turned your head so completely you don’t even know that anymore?”
“Emilio’s been a perfect gentleman—”
“Impossible,” Maximos interrupted. “But go on, tell me whatever it is you and Sobato worked out between the two of you. Give me the truth…if you can remember to keep your story straight.”
Her mouth opened, shut. Shame swept her. Shame and indignation. Thank God there were no weapons here, nothing heavy to throw or swing, because otherwise she’d knock his smile away, knock his horrible arrogant smile off his face.
She hated him.
Hated.
How could she have ever felt any closeness, any sense of intimacy? Had the whole sexual aspect of their relationship colored her perceptions so thoroughly? Had his prowess in bed, his sexual expertise, made her believe there was more between them…or made her believe there could be more?
Now she wondered at it all, wondered at the idea they’d ever been anything but bed partners, that she’d been the way he satisfied his sexual needs.
A release, she taunted herself, and the taunting was like pouring acid on an open wound.
He suddenly reached out and touched a strand of her brown hair shot with honey-gold. “You’re not really with him, are you, bella?”
Bella. Beautiful. He’d always called her bella when he touched her, made love to her and the word had buried inside her, burrowing deep into her soul.
She blinked, holding back grief and tears. Shoulders lifting, she shrugged. “But I am.” She swallowed around the horrible lump filling her throat. “We’re engaged.”
“Engaged?” he repeated as if it were a word he’d never heard before.
Scalding tears burned the back of her eyes. “We’re getting married in April.”
For