Читать книгу Modern Romance November 2016 Books 1-4 - Линн Грэхем, Cathy Williams - Страница 16

CHAPTER SIX

THE STRONG SMELL of coffee filtered into her senses, waking Willow from her restless night. Slowly, her eyelids flickered open to see Dante standing by her bed with a steaming mug in his hand. He was already dressed, though looked as if he could do with a shave, because his jaw was dark and shadowed.

So were his eyes.

‘Where did you find the coffee?’ she asked.

‘Where do you think I found it? In the kitchen. And before you ask, the answer is no. Everyone else in the house must be sleeping off their hangover because I didn’t bump into anyone else along the way.’

Willow nodded. It was like a bad dream. Actually, it was more like a nightmare. She’d spent the night alone in her childhood bed, covered up in a baggy T-shirt and a pair of pants, while Dante slept on the chaise longue on the other side of the room.

Pushing her hair away from her face, she sat up and stared out of the windows. Neither of them had drawn the drapes last night and the pale blue of the morning sky was edged with puffy little white clouds. The birds were singing fit to burst and the powerful scent of roses drifted in on the still-cool air. It was an English morning at its loveliest and yet its beauty seemed to mock her. It reminded her of all the things she didn’t have. All the things she probably never would have. It made her think about the disaster of the wedding the day before. She thought about her sister laughing up at her new husband with love shining from her eyes. About the youngest flower girl, clutching her posy with dimpled fists. About the tiny wail of a baby in the church, and the shushing noises of her mother as she’d carried the crying infant outside, to the understanding smiles of the other women present, like they were all members of that exclusive club called Mothers.

A twist of pain like a knife in her heart momentarily caught Willow off-guard and it took a moment before she had composed herself enough to turn to look into Dante’s bright blue eyes.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘Still early.’ His iced gaze swept over her. ‘How long will it take you to get ready?’

‘Not long.’

‘Good,’ he said, putting the coffee down on the bedside table and then walking over to the other side of the room to stare out of the window. ‘Then just do it, and let’s get going as soon as possible, shall we?’

It was couched as a question but there was no disguising the fact that it was another command.

‘What about my parents?’

‘Leave them a note.’

She wanted to tell him that her mother would hit the roof if she just slunk away without even having breakfast, but she guessed what his response would be. He would shrug and tell her she was welcome to stay. And she didn’t want to stay here, without him. She wanted to keep her pathetic fantasy alive for a while longer. She wanted people to see what wasn’t really true. Willow with her boyfriend. Willow who’d just spent the night with a devastatingly attractive man. Lucky Willow.

Only she wasn’t lucky at all, was she?

Sliding out of bed, she grabbed her clothes and took the quickest shower on record as she tried very hard not to think about the way she’d pleaded with Dante to have sex with her the night before. Or the way he’d turned her down. He’d told her it was because he was cold and sometimes cruel. He’d told her he didn’t want to hurt her and maybe that was thoughtfulness on his part—how ironic, then, that he had ended up by hurting her anyway.

Dressing in jeans and a T-shirt and twisting her hair into a single plait, Willow returned to the bedroom, drank her cooled coffee and then walked with Dante through the blessedly quiet corridors towards the back of the house.

She should have realised it was too good to be true, because there, standing by the kitchen door wearing a silky dressing gown and a pair of flip-flops, stood her mother. Willow stared at her in dismay. Had she heard her and Dante creeping through the house, or was this yet another example of the finely tuned antennae her mother always seemed able to call upon whenever she was around?

‘M-Mum,’ stumbled Willow awkwardly.

A pair of eyebrows were arched in her direction. ‘Going somewhere?’

Willow felt her cheeks grow pink and was racking her brains about what to say, when Dante intercepted.

‘You must forgive us for slipping away so early after such a fabulous day yesterday, Mrs Hamilton—but I have a pile of work I need to get through before I go back to Paris and Willow has promised to help me.’ He smiled. ‘Haven’t you?’

Willow had never seen her mother look quite so flustered—but how could she possibly object in the face of all that undeniable charm and charisma Dante was directing at her? She saw the quick flare of hope in her mother’s eyes. Was she in danger of projecting into the future, just as Great-aunt Maud had done last night?

Kissing her mother goodbye she and Dante went outside, but during the short time she’d spent getting ready, the puffy white clouds had accumulated and spread across the sky like foam on a cup of macchiato. Suddenly, the air had a distinct chill and Willow shivered as Dante put the car roof up and she slid onto the passenger seat.

It wasn’t like the outward journey, when the wind had rushed through their hair and the sun had shone and she had been filled with a distinct sensation of hope and excitement. Enclosed beneath the soft roof, the atmosphere felt claustrophobic and tense and the roar of his powerful car sounded loud as it broke the early-morning Sunday silence.

They drove for a little way without saying anything, and once out on the narrow, leafy lanes, Willow risked a glance at him. His dark hair curled very slightly over the collar of his shirt and his olive skin glowed. Despite his obvious lack of sleep and being in need of a shave, he looked healthy and glowing—like a man at the very peak of his powers, but his profile was set and unmoving.

She cleared her throat. ‘Are you angry with me?’

Dante stared straight ahead as the hedgerows passed in a blur of green. He’d spent an unendurable night. Not just because his six-foot-plus frame had dwarfed the antique piece of furniture on which he’d been attempting to sleep, but because he’d felt bad. And it hadn’t got any better. He’d been forced to listen to Willow tossing and turning while she slept. To imagine that pale and slender body moving restlessly against the sheet. He’d remembered how she’d felt. How she’d tasted. How she’d begged him to make love to her. He had been filled with a heady sexual hunger which had made him want to explode. He’d wanted her, and yet rejecting her had been his only honourable choice. Because what he’d said had been true. He did hurt women. He’d never found one who was capable of chipping her way through the stony walls he’d erected around his heart, and sometimes he didn’t think he ever would. And in the meantime, Willow Hamilton needed protection from a man like him.

‘I’m angry with myself,’ he said.

‘Because?’

‘Because I should have chosen a less controversial way of getting my bag back. I shouldn’t have agreed to be your plus one.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘But you were very persuasive.’

She didn’t answer immediately. He could see her finger drawing little circles over one of the peacocks which adorned her denim-covered thigh.

‘There must be something in that bag you want very badly.’

‘There is.’

‘But I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is?’

The car had slowed down to allow a stray sheep to pick its way laboriously across the road, giving them a slightly dazed glance as it did so. Dante’s instinct was to tell her that her guess was correct, but suddenly he found himself wanting to tell her. Was that because so far he hadn’t discussed it with anyone? Because he and his twin brother were estranged and he wasn’t particularly close to any of his other siblings? That all their dark secrets and their heartache seemed to have pushed them all apart, rather than bringing them closer together...

‘The bag contains a diamond and emerald tiara,’ he said. ‘Worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.’

Her finger stopped moving. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘No, I’m not. My grandfather specifically asked me to get it for him and it took me weeks to track the damned thing down. He calls it one of his Lost Mistresses, for reasons he’s reluctant to explain. He sold it a long time ago and now he wants it back.’

‘Do you know why?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe because he’s dying.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly, and he wondered if she’d heard the slight break in his voice.

‘Yeah,’ he said gruffly, his tightened lips intended to show her that the topic was now closed.

They drove for a while in silence and had just hit the outskirts of greater London, when her voice broke into his thoughts.

‘Your name is Italian,’ she commented quietly. ‘But your accent isn’t. Sometimes you sound American, but at other times your accent could almost be Italian, or French. How come?’

Dante thought how women always wanted to do things the wrong way round. Shouldn’t she have made chatty little enquiries about his background before he’d had his hand inside her panties yesterday? And yet wasn’t he grateful that she’d moved from the subject of his family?

‘Because I was born in the States,’ he said. ‘And spent the first eight years of my life there—until I was sent away to boarding school in Europe.’

She nodded and he half expected the usual squeak of indignation. Because women invariably thought they were showcasing their caring side by professing horror at the thought of a little boy being sent away from home so young. But he remembered that the English were different and her aristocratic class in particular had always sent young boys away to school.

‘And did you like it?’ she questioned.

Dante nodded, knowing his reaction had been unusual—the supposition being that any child would hate being removed from the heart of their family. Except in his case there hadn’t been a heart. That had been torn out one dark and drug-fuelled night—shattered and smashed—leaving behind nothing but emptiness, anger and guilt.

‘As it happens, I liked it very much,’ he drawled, deliberately pushing the bitter thoughts away. ‘It was in the Swiss mountains—pure and white and unbelievably beautiful.’ He paused as he remembered how the soft white flakes used to swarm down from the sky, blanketing the world in a pure silence—and how he had eagerly retreated into that cold space where nothing or nobody could touch him. ‘We used to ski every day, which wore us out so much that there wasn’t really time to think. And there were kids from all over the world, so it was kind of anonymous—and I liked that.’

‘You must speak another language.’

‘I speak three others,’ he said. ‘French, Italian and German.’

‘And that’s why you live in Paris?’

His mouth hardened. ‘I don’t remember mentioning that I lived in Paris.’

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shoulders slump a little.

‘I must have read that on the internet too. You can’t blame me,’ she said, her words leaving her mouth in a sudden rush.

‘No, I don’t blame you,’ he said. Just as he couldn’t blame her for the sudden sexual tension which seemed to have sprung up between them again, which was making it difficult for him to concentrate. Maybe that was inevitable. They were two people who’d been interrupted while making out, leaving them both aching and frustrated. And even though his head was telling him that was the best thing which could have happened, his body seemed to have other ideas.

Because right now all he could think about was how soft her skin had felt as he had skated his fingertips all the way up beneath that flouncy little dress she’d been wearing. He remembered the slenderness of her hips and breasts as she’d stood before him in her bra and panties—defiant yet innocent as she’d stripped off her bridesmaid dress and let it pool around her feet. He’d resisted her then, even though the scent of her arousal had called out to his hungry body on a primitive level which had made resistance almost unendurable. Was that what was happening now? Why he wanted to stop the car and take her somewhere—anywhere—so that he could be alone with her? Free to pull aside her clothes. To unzip her jeans and tease her until she was writhing in helpless appeal.

He wondered if he’d been out of his mind to say no. He could easily have introduced her to limitless pleasures in his arms—and what better initiation for a virgin than lovemaking with someone like him? But it wasn’t his technique which was in question, but his inbuilt emotional distance. He couldn’t connect. He didn’t know how.

‘So why Paris?’ she was asking.

Make her get the message, he thought. Make her realise that she’s had a lucky escape from a man like you.

‘It’s well placed for central Europe,’ he said. ‘I like the city and the food and the culture. And, of course, the women,’ he added deliberately. ‘French women are very easy to like.’

‘I can imagine they must be,’ she said, her voice sounding unnaturally bright.

The car was soon swallowed up by the heavier London traffic and he noticed she was staring fixedly out of the window.

‘We’re nearly here,’ he said, forcing himself to make some conversational remark. To try to draw a line under this as neatly as possible. ‘So...have you got any plans for the rest of the day?’

Willow gazed at the familiar wide streets close to her apartment and realised he was preparing to say goodbye to her. What she would like to do more than anything else was to rail against the unfairness of it all. Not only had he turned her down, but he’d deliberately started talking about other women—French women—as if to drive home just how forgettable she really was. And he had done it just as she’d been speculating about his fast, international lifestyle. Thinking that he didn’t seem like the sort of man who would ever embrace the role of husband and father...the sort of man who really would have been a perfect lover for a woman like her.

Well, she was just going to have to forget her stupid daydreams. Just tick it off and put it down to experience. She would get over it, as she had got over so much else. No way was she going to leave him with an enduring memory of her behaving like a victim. Remember how he moaned in your arms when he kissed you, she reminded herself fiercely as she slanted him a smile. Remember that you have some power here, too.

‘I’ll probably go for a walk in Regent’s Park,’ she said. ‘The flowers are gorgeous at this time of the year. And I might meet a friend later and catch a film. How about you?’

‘I’ll pick up my bag from you and then fly straight back to France.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘It’s been an eventful few days.’

And that, thought Willow, was that.

She was glad of all the times when her mother had drummed in the importance of posture because it meant that she was able to walk into her apartment with her head held very proud and her shoulders as stiff as a ramrod, as Dante followed her inside.

She pulled out the leather case from the bottom of her wardrobe, her fingers closing around it just before she handed it to him.

‘I’d love to see the tiara,’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘Better not.’

‘Even though I inadvertently carried a priceless piece of jewellery through customs without declaring it?’

‘You shouldn’t have picked up the wrong bag.’

You shouldn’t have been distracting me. ‘And I could now be languishing in some jail somewhere,’ she continued.

He gave a slow smile. ‘I would have bailed you out.’

‘I only have your word for that,’ she said.

‘And you don’t trust my word?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know you well enough to answer that. Besides, oughtn’t you to check that the piece is intact? That I haven’t substituted something fake in its place—or stolen one of the stones. That this Lost Mistress is in a decent state to give to your grandfather and...’

But her words died away as he began to unlock the leather case and slowly drew out a jewelled tiara—a glittering coronet of white diamonds and almond-size emeralds as green as new leaves. Against Dante’s olive skin they sparked their bright fire and it was impossible for Willow to look anywhere else but at them.

‘Oh, but they’re beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘Just beautiful.’

Her eyes were shining as she said it and something about her unselfconscious appreciation touched something inside him. And Dante felt a funny twist of regret as he said goodbye. As if he was walking away from something unfinished. It seemed inappropriate to shake her hand, yet he didn’t trust himself to kiss her cheek, for he suspected that even the lightest touch would rekindle his desire. He would send her flowers as a thank-you, he decided. Maybe even a diamond on a fine gold chain—you couldn’t go wrong with something like that. She’d be able to show it off to her sisters and pretend that their relationship had been real. And one day she would be grateful to him for his restraint. She would accept the truth of what he’d said and realise that someone like him would bring her nothing but heartache. She would find herself some suitable English aristocrat and move to a big house in the country where she could live a life not unlike that of her parents.

He didn’t turn on his phone until he was at the airfield because he despised people who allowed themselves to get distracted on the road. But he wished afterwards that he’d checked his messages while he was closer to Willow’s apartment. Close enough to go back for a showdown.

As it was, he drove to the airfield in a state of blissful ignorance, and the first he knew about the disruption was when his assistant, René, rushed up to him brandishing a newspaper—a look of astonishment contorting his Gallic features.

‘C’est impossible! Why didn’t you tell me, boss?’ he accused. ‘I have been trying to get hold of you all morning, wondering what you want me to say to the press...’

‘Why should I want you to say anything to the press?’ demanded Dante impatiently. ‘When you know how much I hate them.’

His assistant gave a flamboyant shake of his head. ‘I think their sudden interest is understandable, in the circumstances.’

Dante frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘It is everywhere!’ declared René. ‘Absolutely everywhere! All of Paris is buzzing with the news that the bad-boy American playboy has fallen in love at last—and that you are engaged to an English aristocrat called Willow Anoushka Hamilton.’