Читать книгу Hired: Mistress: Wanted: Mistress and Mother / His Private Mistress / The Millionaire's Secret Mistress - Шантель Шоу, Carol Marinelli - Страница 10

‘YOU will answer me honestly?’

His smile had gone now, his deep, liquid voice low, and despite the full restaurant, despite the background noise of their fellow diners, it was as if they were the only two in the room.

His black eyes were working her face, appraising her, and she could almost imagine him walking towards her across the courtroom, circling her slowly, choosing the best method of attack. Fear did the strangest thing to Matilda, her lips twitching into a nervous smile as he again asked his question. ‘You swear to answer me honestly.’

‘I’m not on trial.’ Matilda gave a tiny nervous laugh, but he remained unmoved.

‘If we’re going to play, we play by the rules.’

‘Fine.’ Matilda nodded. ‘But I really think you’re—’

‘We’ve all got secrets,’ Dante broke in softly. ‘There’s a dark side to every single one of us, and splash it on a headline, layer it with innuendo and suddenly we’re all as guilty as hell. Take your ex—’

‘Edward’s got nothing to do—’

‘Location, location, location.’ He flashed a malevolent smile as Matilda’s hand tightened convulsively around her glass. ‘Just one more business dinner, just one more client to impress. Just one more garden to renovate and then, maybe then you’ll get his attention. Maybe one day—’

‘I don’t need this,’ Matilda said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re trying to get at, but can you please leave Edward out of this?’

‘Still too raw?’ He leant back in his chair, merciless eyes awaiting her response.

‘No,’ Matilda said tersely, leaning back into her own chair, forcing her tense shoulders to lower, forcing a smile onto her face. ‘Absolutely not. Edward and I finished a couple of months ago. I’m completely over it.’

‘Who ended it?’

‘I did,’ Matilda answered, but with renewed confidence now. She had been the one who had ended it, and that surely would thwart him, would rule out his image of a broken-hearted female who would go to any lengths to avoid confrontation.

‘Why?’ Dante asked bluntly, but Matilda gave a firm shake of her head.

‘I’m not prepared to answer that,’ she retorted coolly. ‘I had my reasons. And in case you’re wondering, no, there wasn’t anyone else involved.’ Confident she’d ended this line of questioning, sure he would try another tack, Matilda felt the fluttering butterflies in her stomach still a touch and her breathing slow down as she awaited his next question, determined to answer him with cool ease.

‘Did you ever wish him dead?’

‘What?’ Appalled, she confronted him with her eyes—stunned that he would even ask such a thing. ‘Of course not.’

‘Are you honestly stating that you never once said that you wished that he was dead?’

‘You’re either mad…’ Matilda let out an incredulous laugh ‘…or way too used to dealing with mad people! Of course I never said that I wished that he…’ Her voice faltered for just a fraction of second, a flash of forgotten conversation pinging into consciousness, and like a cobra he struck.

‘I’m calling your friend as a witness next—and I can assure you that her version of that night is completely different to yours…’

‘What night?’ Matilda scorned.

‘That night,’ Dante answered with absolute conviction, and Matilda felt her throat tighten as he spoke on. ‘In fact, your friend clearly recalls a conversation where you expressed a strong wish that Edward was dead.’ Dante’s words were so measured, so assured, so absolutely spot on that for a tiny second she almost believed him. For a flash of time she almost expected to look over her shoulder and see Judy sitting at the other table, as if she had stumbled into some macabre reality TV show, where all her secrets, all her failings were about to be exposed.

Stop it, Matilda scolded herself, reining in her over-reaction. Dante knew nothing about her. He was a skilled interrogator, that was all, used to finding people’s Achilles’ heels, and she wasn’t going to let him. She damn well wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking her.

‘I still don’t know what night you’re talking about!’

‘Then let me refresh your memory. I’m referring to the night you said that you wished Edward was dead.’ And he didn’t even make it sound like an assumption, his features so immovable it was as if he’d surely been in the room that night, as if he’d actually witnessed her raw tears, had heard every word she’d sobbed that night, as if somehow he was privy to her soul. ‘And you did say that, didn’t you, Matilda?’

To deny it would be an outright lie. Suddenly she wasn’t sitting in a restaurant any more. Instead, she was back to where it had all ended two months ago, could feel the brutal slap of Edward’s words as surely as if she were hearing them for the first time.

‘Maybe if you weren’t so damn frigid, I wouldn’t have to look at other women to get my kicks.’

He’d taunted her, humiliated her, shamed her for her lack of sexual prowess, demeaned her with words so vicious, so brutal that by the time she’d run from his house, by the time she’d arrived at Judy’s home, she’d believed each and every word. Believed that their relationship had been in trouble because of her failings, believed that if only she’d been prettier, sexier, funnier, he wouldn’t have had to flirt so much, wouldn’t have needed to humiliate her quite so badly. And somehow Dante knew it, too.

‘You did say it, didn’t you?’ It was Dante’s voice dragging her out of her own private hell.

‘I just said it,’ Matilda breathed, she could feel the blood draining out of her face. ‘It was just one of those stupid things you say when you’re angry.’

‘And you were very angry, weren’t you?’

‘No,’ Matilda refuted. ‘I was upset and annoyed but angry is probably overstretching things.’

He swirled his wine around in the glass and Matilda’s eyes darted towards it, watching the pale fluid whirl around the bottom, grateful for the distraction, grateful for something to focus on other than those dark, piercing eyes.

‘So you were only upset and annoyed, yet you admit you wished him dead!’

‘OK,’ Matilda snapped, her head spinning as the barrage continued. ‘I was angry, furious, in fact. So would anyone have been if they’d been told…’ She choked her words down, refusing to drag up that shame and certainly not prepared to reveal it to Dante. Dragging in air, she halted her tirade, tried to remember to think before she spoke, to regain some of the control she’d so easily lost. ‘Yes, I said that I wished he was dead, but there’s a big difference between saying something and actually seeing it through.’ She felt dizzy, almost sick with the emotions he’d so easily conjured up, like some wicked magician pulling out her past, her secrets, clandestine feelings exposed, and she didn’t want it to continue, didn’t want to partake in this a moment longer.

‘Can we stop this now?’ Her voice was high and slightly breathless, a trickle of moisture running between her breasts as she eyed this savage man, wondering how the hell he knew, how he had known so readily what buttons to push to reduce her to this.

‘Any time you like.’ Dante smiled, his voice so soft it was almost a caress, but it did nothing to soothe her. ‘After all, it’s just a game!’

The dessert was divine, the sweet sugary mousse contrasting with the sharp raspberry sauce, but Matilda was too shaken to really enjoy it, her long dessert spoon unusually lethargic as she attempted just to get through it.

‘Is your dessert OK?’

‘It’s fine,’ Matilda said, then gave in, putting her spoon down. ‘Actually, I’m really not that hungry. I think I’ll go home now…’

‘I’m sorry if I destroyed your appetite.’

God, he had a nerve!

‘No, you’re not.’ Matilda looked across the table at him and said it again. ‘No, Dante, you’re not. In fact I think that was exactly what you set out to do.’ Reaching for her bag, Matilda stood up and picked up the roll of plans.

‘I’ll be at your house on Sunday afternoon. I’ll look at the plans tomorrow but until I see the garden I really won’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘We’ve all said it.’ Dante’s smile bordered on the compassionate as she stood up to leave, and he didn’t bother to elaborate—they both knew what he was referring to. ‘And as you pointed out, there’s a big difference between saying it and following it through. I was just proving a point.’

‘Consider it proven,’ Matilda replied with a very tight smile. ‘Goodnight, Dante.’

Of course it took if not for ever then a good couple of minutes for the waiter to locate her jacket, giving Dante plenty of time to catch up with her. Rather than talk to him, she took a small after-dinner mint from the bowl on the desk, concentrating on unwrapping the thin gold foil as she prayed for the waiter to hurry up, popping the bitter chocolate into her mouth and biting into the sweet peppermint centre, then flushing as she sensed Dante watching her.

She’d said she wasn’t hungry just two minutes ago—well, just because he was so damned controlled, it didn’t mean that she had to be. What would a calculating man like Dante know about want rather than need? The man was utterly devoid of emotion, Matilda decided angrily. He probably peeled open his chest and pulled out his batteries at night, put them on charge ready to attack his next victim. Consoling herself that she could make a quick escape while he settled the bill, almost defiantly she took another chocolate, pathetically grateful when the waiter appeared with her jacket and helped her into it. She stepped outside into the night and closed her eyes as the cool night air hit her flaming cheeks.

‘How far do you have to go?’

She heard Dante’s footsteps as he came along behind her, recognised his heavily accented voice as he uttered the first syllable, his scent hitting her before he drew her aside, yet she’d known he was close long before, almost sensed his approach before he’d made himself known.

‘How did you…?’ She didn’t finish her question, didn’t want to be drawn into another conversation with him. She just marched swiftly on, her stilettos making a tinny sound as she clipped along the concrete pavement.

‘I eat regularly there. They send my account out once a month or so and my secretary deals with it.’

The one who’d dared to allow herself to get pregnant, Matilda wanted to point out, but chose not to, clutching the plans tighter under her arm and walking swiftly on.

‘Would you like a lift home?’

‘I have an apartment over the bridge.’ Matilda pointed to the a high-rise block on the other side of the river. ‘It’s just a five-minute walk.’

‘Then I’ll join you,’ Dante said. ‘You shouldn’t be walking alone across the bridge at this time of night.’

‘Really,’ Matilda flustered, ‘there’s absolutely no need—it’s just a hop and a skip.’

‘I’d rather walk if you don’t mind,’ Dante said, his face completely deadpan, but his dry humour didn’t even raise a smile from Matilda. Frankly, she’d rather take the chance of walking across the bridge alone than with the evil troll beside her.

‘I have an apartment near here also,’ Dante said, nodding backwards from whence they’d come, but despite the proximity to hers, Matilda was quite sure any city apartment Dante owned wouldn’t compare to her second-floor shoebox!

‘I didn’t somehow envisage you as having an apartment,’ Dante mused, and Matilda blinked, surprised he envisaged her at all. ‘I thought, given your work you would have a home with a garden.’

‘That’s the plan, actually,’ Matilda admitted. ‘I’ve just put it up for sale. I never really liked it.’

‘So why did you buy it?’

‘It was too good an opportunity to miss. And location-wise, for work it’s brilliant.’ She gave a low groan at the sound of her own voice. ‘Can you tell I spent the last couple of years dating a real estate agent?’ Matilda asked, glancing over to him and surprised to see that he was actually smiling.

‘At least you didn’t mention the stunning views and the abundance of natural light!’

‘Only because I’m on the second floor,’ Matilda quipped, amazed after the tension of only a few moments ago to find herself actually smiling back. ‘I guess the drive from Mount Eliza to the city each day would be a bit much,’ Matilda ventured, but again she got things wrong.

‘I don’t generally drive to work, I use a helicopter.’

‘Of course you do,’ Matilda sighed, rolling her eyes.

‘It is not my helicopter.’ She could hear the teasing note in his voice. ‘More like a taxi service. I would rather spend that hour or two at home than in the car. When we bought the place it was meant more as weekender, or retreat, but since the accident I have tried not to move Alex too much. It is better, I think that she is near the beach with lots of space rather than the city. A luxury high rise apartment isn’t exactly stimulating for a small child.’

Why did he always make her feel small?

‘I use the apartment a lot, though. I tend to stay there if I am involved in a difficult trial.’

‘I guess it would be quieter.’

‘A bit,’ Dante admitted. ‘I tend to get very absorbed in my cases. By the time they go to trial there is not much space left for anything else. But it is not just for that reason.’ They were walking quickly, too quickly for Matilda, who almost had to run to keep up with him, but she certainly wasn’t going to ask him to slow down. The sooner they got to her apartment block the sooner she could breathe again. ‘The press can be merciless at times. I prefer to keep it away from my family.’

They were safely over the bridge now, walking along the dark embankment on the other side of the river.

‘This is me,’ Matilda said as they neared her apartment block, and she rummaged in her bag for her keys. ‘I’ll be fine now.’

‘I’m sure that you would be,’ Dante said, ‘but you are my dinner guest and for that reason I will see you safely home.’

Why did he have to display manners now? Matilda wondered. He’d been nothing but rude since they’d met—it was a bit late for chivalry. But she was too drained to argue, just gave a resigned shrug, let herself into the entrance hall and headed for the stairwell, glad that she lived on the second floor and therefore wouldn’t have to squeeze into a lift with him again.

‘Home!’ Matilda said with false brightness.

‘Do you always take the stairs?’

‘Always,’ Matilda lied. ‘It’s good exercise.’ They were at her front door now. ‘Thank you for this evening. It’s been, er…pleasant.’

‘Really?’ Dante raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure that I believe you.’

‘I was actually attempting to be polite,’ Matilda responded, ‘as you were by seeing me to my door.’ She was standing there, staring at him, willing him to just go, reluctant somehow to turn her back on him, not scared exactly, but on heightened alert as still he just stood there. Surely he didn’t expect her to ask him in for coffee?

Surely!

How the hell was she going to spend a fortnight in his company when one evening left her a gibbering wreck? She had to get a grip, had to bring things back to a safer footing, had to let him know that it was strictly business, pretend that he didn’t intimidate her, pretend that he didn’t move her so.

‘Thank you for bringing the plans, Dante. I’m looking forward to working on your garden.’ She offered her hand. Direct, businesslike, Matilda decided, that was how she’d be—a snappy end to a business dinner. But as his hand took hers, instantly she regretted it.

It was only the second time they had made physical contact. As his hand tightened around hers she was brutally reminded of that fact, despite the hours that had passed, despite a dinner shared and the emotions he had evoked, it was only the second time they had touched. And the result was as explosive as the first time, and many times more lethal. She could feel the heat of his flesh searing into hers, as his large hand coiled around hers, the pad of his index finger resting on her slender wrist, her radial pulse hammering against it. And this time the feel of his gold wedding band did nothing to soothe her, just reminded her of the depths of him, the pain that must surely exist behind those indecipherable eyes. Never had she found a person so difficult to read, never had she revealed so much of herself to someone and found out so very little in return.

But she wanted to know more.

‘You interest me, Matilda.’ It was such a curious thing to say, such a hazy, ambiguous statement, and her eyes involuntarily jerked to his like a reflex action, held by his gaze, stunned, startled, yet curiously reluctant to move, a heightened sexual awareness permeating her.

‘I thought perhaps I bored you.’

‘Oh, no.’ Slowly he shook his head and she started back, mesmerised, his sensuous but brutal features utterly captivating. ‘Why would you think such a thing?’

‘I just…’ Matilda’s voice trailed off. She didn’t know what to say because she didn’t know the answer, didn’t know if it was her destroyed self-confidence that made her vulnerable or the man who was staring at her now, the man who was pinning her to the wall with his eyes.

‘He really hurt you, didn’t he?’ It was as if he were staring into her very soul, not asking her but telling her how she felt. ‘He ground you down and down until you didn’t even know who you were any more, didn’t even know what it was that you wanted.’

How did he know? How could he read her so easily—was she that predictable? Was her pain, her self-doubt so visible? But Dante hadn’t finished with his insights, hadn’t finished peeling away the layers, exposing her raw, bruised core, and she wanted again to halt him, wanted to stop him from going further—wanted that mouth that was just inches from hers be silent, to kiss her…

‘And then, when he’d taken every last drop from you, he tossed you aside…’

She shook her head in denial, relieved that he’d got one thing wrong. ‘I was the one who ended it,’ Matilda reminded him, but it didn’t sway him for a second.

‘You just got there first.’ Dante delivered his knockout blow. ‘It was already over.’

He was right, of course, it had been over. She could still feel the bleak loneliness that had filled her that night and for many nights before the final one. The indifference had been so much more painful that the rows that had preceded it. She could still feel the raw shame of Edward’s intimate rejections.

‘I’m fine without him.’

‘Better than fine,’ Dante said softly, and she held her breath as that cruel, sensual mouth moved in towards hers. She still didn’t know what he was thinking. Lust rippled between them, yet his expression was completely unreadable. The same quiver of excitement that had gripped her in the restaurant shivered through her now, but with dangerous sexual undertones, and it was inevitable they would kiss. Matilda acknowledged it then. The foreplay she had so vehemently denied was taking place had started hours ago, long, long before they’d even reached the garden.

He gave her time to move away, ample time to halt things, to stop this now, and she should have.

Normally she would have.

Her mind flitted briefly to her recent attempts at dating where she’d dreaded this moment, had avoided it or gone along with a kiss for the sad sake of it, to prove to herself that she was desirable perhaps.

But there was no question here of merely going along with this kiss for the sake of it—logic, common sense, self-preservation told her that to end this night with a kiss was a foolish move, that for the sake of her sanity she should surely halt this now. But her body told her otherwise, every nerve prickling to delicious attention, drawn like a magnet to his beauty, anticipating the taste of him, the feel of him in a heady rush of need, of want.

His mouth brushed her cheek, sweeping along her cheekbone till she could feel his breath warm on the shell of her ear then moving back, back to her waiting lips, slowly, deliberately until only a whisper separated them, till his mouth was so close to hers that she was giddy with expectation, filled with want—deep, burning want that she’d never yet experienced, a want that suffused her, a want she had never, even in the most intimate moments, experienced, and he hadn’t even kissed her. Her breath was coming in short, unyielding gasps, his chest so close to hers that if she breathed any deeper their bodies would touch. She was torn between want and dread, her body longing to arch towards his, her nipples stretching like buds to the sun, his hand still on the wall behind her head, and all she wanted was his touch.

As if in answer, his mouth found hers, the weight of his body pushing her down, his lips obliterating thought, reason, question, his masterful touch the only thought she could process, his tongue, stroking hers so deeply so intimately it was as if he were touching her deep inside, his skin dragging hers as his mouth moved against her, the sweet, decadent taste of him, the heady masculine scent of him stroking her awake from deep hibernation, awareness fizzing in where there had been none.

His power overwhelmed her, the strength of his arms around her slender body, the hard weight of his thighs as he pinned her to the wall and a vague peripheral awareness of a warm hand creeping along the length of her spinal column then sliding around her rib cage as his mouth worked ever on. A low needy sigh built as it slid around, his palm capturing the weight of her breast, the warmth of his skin through the sheer fabric of her dress had her curling into him, needy, wanton, desperate, swelling at his touch, her breasts engorging, shamefully reciprocating as the pad of his thumb teased her jutting nipple. So many sensations, so many responses, his tongue capturing hers in his lips, sucking on the swollen tip, his body pinning her in delicious confinement, his masculinity capturing her, overwhelming her. Yet she was hardly an unwilling participant—fingers coiling in his jet hair, pulling his face to hers as her body pressed against him, his touch unleashing her passion, her desire, flaming it to dangerous heat, a heat so intense there was no escape, and neither did she want one. His kiss was everything a kiss should be, everything she’d missed.

Till now.

And just as she dived into complete oblivion, just as she would have given anything, anything for this moment to continue, for him to douse the fire within her, he wrenched his head away, an expression she couldn’t read in his eyes as he looked coolly down at her.

‘I should go.’

Words failing her, Matilda couldn’t even nod, embarrassment creeping in now. He could have taken her there and then—with one crook of his manicured finger she would have led him inside, would have made love to him, would have let him make love to her. What was it with this man? Emotionally he troubled her, terrified her even, yet still she was drawn to him, physically couldn’t resist him. She had never felt such compulsion, a macabre addiction almost, and she hadn’t even know him a day.

‘I will see you on Sunday.’ His voice was completely normal and his hands were still on her trembling body. She stared back at him, unable to fathom that he could appear so unmoved, that he was still standing after what they’d just shared. Blindly she nodded, her hair tumbling down around her face, eyes frowning as Dante reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a handful of chocolate mints, the same ones she had surreptitiously taken at the restaurant.

‘I took these at the restaurant for you…’ Taking her hand, he filled it with the sweet chocolate delicacies. She could feel them soft and melting through the foil as he closed her fingers around them. ‘I know you wanted to do the same!’

An incredulous smile broke onto her lips at the gesture, a tiny glimmer that maybe things were OK, that the attraction really was mutual, that Dante didn’t think any less of her because of what had just taken place. ‘You stole them?’ Matilda gave a tiny half-laugh, recalling their earlier conversation.

‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head and doused any fledgling hope with one cruel sentence, cheapened and humiliated her with his strange euphemism. ‘Why would I steal them when, after all, they were there for the taking?’