Читать книгу A Reputation to Uphold - Victoria Parker - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

DANTE’S HAND SHOT to the ruffled bodice of Eva’s gown and he curled his fingers around the small black mike, warm from her—or should he say their—body heat and tore it free.

He dropped the plastic shell to the frosted stone and crushed it beneath his heel in a satisfying crack.

‘Please tell me...’ she whispered, standing tall, lifting her chin in the face of adversity ‘...that what just happened didn’t really happen. I’m just in some nightmare. I mean, you are here, after all.’

Dante held up one flat palm to prevent another word until he’d at least shaved the edge off his volatile mood and figured out what the hell was going on.

Nick St George paused as his viper wife tried to tug him back into the ballroom and Dante fired the spineless man with the Vitale glare before they disappeared from view. How could he have stood there and let that bitch set Eva up for a fall? What she was hurtling into he had no idea, but he was determined to find out.

As for him...Cristo, he’d bet his Lamborghini that within five minutes Rebecca would hear of his apparent indiscretion. A shaft of unease fired through his gut, yet, as quickly as it flared, he thrust it away. Rebecca would be easily placated. The good old-fashioned way.

Eva smoothed her tight sheath over her curvaceous hips, brushing the wrinkles free. ‘I have to get out of here,’ she said. ‘I have to think.’ Head swiveling, she searched the floor. ‘There’s little point going back in there; Claire will have me hung, drawn and quartered by now.’ She spotted her bag leaning against the old stone wall and bent over to snatch it up.

Dante’s heart rate kicked up a few thousand beats per minute as the heart-shaped curve of her full derrière filled his vision and brought forth a multitude of sinful images.

Cristo, she was lethal.

He tore his eyes away as she straightened up and shimmied past him, heading for the stone steps. ‘Well done, Dante; you’ve most likely just ruined me. At the ball in honour of my mother!’

Dante blinked. ‘I have ruined you? Forty minutes I’ve been in your company and already you have wreaked havoc in my life.’ Every time. Dannazione, the woman never failed.

Pausing on the edge of the top step, she swung around, mouth agape. ‘What exactly have I done to you? Just tell Rebecca Stanford the truth. I was...upset. You came for Finn and you gave me a...a...brotherly hug.’

Brotherly? He still had an erection that minus two degrees couldn’t diminish. There was nothing fraternal about that!

‘Siblings do not kiss each other,’ he bit out.

He wished the lighting were better so he could see if the flush on her chest was real. Because he was sure the woman had just propositioned him. Again. She was no innocent. She knew where kisses led. Given another three minutes, he could have taken her up against the bloody wall.

Cristo, she was like a Venus flytrap. Luring, bewitching, with that sweet, grieving vulnerability, which she knew would beguile him. Because, in a once-in-a-lifetime moment of weakness—so she’d known she was not alone—he’d told her the brief details of burying his own mother. For two minutes of time he’d resurrected the fetid blend of conflicting emotions, only to bury them back into the depths. So the siren knew exactly how to play him.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘obviously, I was of unsound mind. Because I have no interest in you. Whatsoever. In fact, you can rest assured hell will freeze over before I touch you again. Give me some credit, for heaven’s sake, I’ve got some pride.’

Something close to affront clawed down his chest. It was as unsettling as it was idiotic.

‘Just tell Rebecca you hate me,’ she went on. ‘Nothing but the truth. I promise you within seconds your stunning fiancée will tumble back onto your well-frequented bed!’

Dante almost laughed. Almost. ‘My sleeping arrangements seem to bother you, Eva.’

Her head reared. ‘Hardly. I couldn’t care less what you do. But you could’ve told me you were getting married,’ she said, her husky voice fracturing with a heartfelt anguish that made him pause mid-step, frowning at the contradiction between her words and tone. ‘I was caught completely unawares. I could’ve at least come up with a better look than a shocked guppy for a retort.’

‘Because appearances are everything, of course.’ There was truth in that sarcastic inflexion and he knew it. She knew it. Any bad press would smash his deal to kingdom come if he didn’t play it carefully. And, as for Eva...

Clip clopping down the steep stone slabs in those ridiculously high, sexy-as-hell stilettos, she continued to chatter incessantly. ‘And now they’ll all think the worst. That you...and I...’ A husky groan poured from her mouth to wrap around his self-restraint and choke it near to death. ‘That I’m a fiancée-poacher. A marriage-wrecker! Not the best marketing ploy, wouldn’t you agree, Dante?’

‘Which is why we need to talk,’ he ground out. How could he take control of the situation if he didn’t know what was at stake? His brain was still having problems processing what his ears told him. ‘Is what Claire said correct? You make wedding gowns and you won the contract for the next Duchess?’

Screeching to a halt on the lower patio, she stood stock-still...then turned around eerily slowly, bristled and nigh on exploded in front of him, arms thrusting in the air. ‘Why are you so incredulous?’

Why, indeed?

‘Maybe I pictured you drinking yourself into oblivion and sleeping till noon. Partying yourself onto the front pages every day can be exhausting, so they say.’ He gave her an unaffected shrug that tore at his spleen. Because suddenly his memories veered from Eva splashed across the headlines to his mother. Stumbling through the door half-dressed. Slurring her words. Polluting the air with the stench of whisky and vomit. Invariably with another man in tow.

‘In all honesty,’ he continued, the unwelcome memories making his stomach revolt, his voice bitter, ‘I never thought you could manage a day’s work in your life. So I am surprised. That is all.’ Surprised? She might as well have stunned him with a laser gun. He did not like the feeling. It blasted his equilibrium to pieces.

Blinking, her stunned mouth worked around words. ‘Oh, just go away, Dante, and leave me be. Go seduce your bride. I hope you’ll both be very happy. Burning in hell.’

Then off she went, swerving around the cobbled stone path. Dante rocked on his heels, tempted to let her go. The more time he spent with her, the more frustration clawed his insides. She was the most disobedient, agitating woman he’d ever met. So why was he still standing here allowing the frost to travel up his limbs?

‘Bloody woman.’ With a growl, he caught up with her as she strutted beneath the ornate lamps illuminating the gardens, and the dim glow casting her body with a warm sheen.

Thought vanished. His guts pinched with a peculiar nip. ‘Cristo,’ he burst out, making her pause mid-step. ‘Your back!’

Unthinking, he reached out, dusting his fingertips across the raw, scraped flesh marring her beautiful almond skin...felt a shudder ripple down her vertebrae before she jerked away.

‘Don’t touch me.’

Dante set his jaw—she hadn’t said that ten minutes ago. Or five years ago. But he was not going there. ‘Your skin needs treating, Eva.’

She swirled around, scepticism widening her eyes. ‘What do you care? If you didn’t hear me the first time, I’ll tell you again. I’m a big girl. I can look after myself.’

She was right. She didn’t need his help. Eva St George, the Princess of the Press, knew exactly how to play the game. And let’s not forget, she’d just stood in front of hundreds of people and made a speech from her very soul about the mother she’d adored. That kind of emotional strength was not indicative of weakness.

‘Go home, Dante.’ Chin up, Eva thrust her shoulders back with a lofty flounce. ‘You’re fired!’

A humourless laugh burst from his lips. ‘Fired?’

‘Your job as brotherly stand-in is over. Quite frankly, you’ve been appalling. I hope I never lay eyes on you again.’

Fury bubbled in his blood. Why, he had no idea, because technically she was doing him a favour.

Dante stepped forward, close enough to make out the tiny freckles kissing her pert nose, and murmured, ‘That makes two of us, tesoro.’ And he meant it. The woman reminded him of cyanide. Troublesome. Deadly potent. She’d been toxic enough years ago and her seductive allure had somehow quadrupled with age.

‘Good,’ she said, stepping backward straight onto a patch of black ice.

Dante snatched at her arms, cupping her elbows to stem her fall.

Time stilled as he trailed his gaze over her exquisite face and, the chilly eve forgotten, he pictured laying her down on a bed of grass—the same lush colour as her eyes—curving his hands around her stunning body, feeling the weight of her heavy breasts in his palms, glorying in the sweet sinful taste of her skin. He wanted to cup her face. Take her breath away with his lips. He wanted to kiss her. Properly. No. He wanted to devour that impertinent mouth.

Dante swore he could hear her thunderous heartbeat echo his own. And he knew. Her entire body thrummed with a craving so intense she vibrated with the power of it. She had just lied to him outright. Of course she had. She still wanted him. More than ever.

His mouth twisted, even as he acknowledged the revelation. It was still there. Incomparable. Extraordinary. A ferocious desire that crackled the air with tiny fireworks and wreaked havoc on the exploding senses. His own control was barely leashed, his brain a fog...until she tore from his hold. ‘Get your hands off me!’

Dante’s jaw went slack. Cristo, the way she wielded her sexual power would render a lesser man witless.

‘Next time you want to play games, cara, I suggest you choose a man unaware of your technique. Despite my reputation, I am extremely particular when it comes to the women I take to my bed. And the hot and cold routine turns me off.’

Her lips parted with a stunned smack and for one second he thought she was going to hit him. And the bizarre thing was, he wished she would.

‘I wouldn’t sleep with you if the future of civilisation depended on it,’ she hurled back before she swivelled on her heel.

A noxious blend of rage, frustration and unadulterated desire swirled behind his ribs. ‘Eva, I’m not done with you. Do not walk away from me.’

She didn’t walk. She marched. He refused to bend to her will and go after her. He was in control. Always.

So instead he watched thick clumps of vaporous air swell in front of his face long after she’d disappeared from view. And, as the anger waned, unease flooded his psyche as he asked himself the very same question he’d asked Eva hours earlier...What will I wake to find tomorrow? I wonder.

* * *

Slivers of daylight shone through the slits of her duck-egg curtains and, with one last look at the Sunday morning headlines, Eva tugged the top edge of her quilt and watched the mountain of newspaper scatter upon the parquet floor. Pulling the blankets up over her head, she nestled further into the lavender-scented warmth and closed her eyes, trying to block out the bold script etched on her brain like the tombstone of what remained of her career.

Soon-To-Be Duchess Threatens to Give St George the Royal Snip.

Is Diva up to Her Old Tricks?

Watch Out, Brides! Eva’s on the Prowl.

‘Thank you, Dante Vitale.’ Writhing against the sheets, she kicked the blankets away from her over-warm skin, half-tempted to sue him for disclosure.

Then again, what on earth was she thinking kissing him in the first place? You would think the humiliation of five years ago had been enough to last her a lifetime. The only saving grace was that Dante’s scathing one-liner about taking her up against the wall didn’t appear in print!

Her pride was an ultra-fine thread stretched so taut it threatened to snap at any second.

‘Enough.’ She was quickly forgetting her new life motto: no regrets. Move on. It was time for a plan. A strategy.

Glancing over at the clock, she groaned when she saw that the small hand had only turned a quarter since the last time she’d looked. Eight forty-five a.m. Still too early.

She needed to call Prudence West. The serene soon-to-be Duchess had left a disarmingly polite message on Eva’s answering machine last night before she’d even arrived home.

‘Thank you, Claire.’

By then it had been too late to call her back and Eva knew what was coming—‘You’re fired’, delivered with dignified, heart-cracking finality. After all, she knew how destructive bad press could be. She could hardly blame the woman, especially in her position.

The lump swelling in her chest made it hard to breathe. How many more clients would she lose? How could she ensure that business kept walking through the door? This wasn’t anything like when she’d started out on her own. This time she had other staff to think about. Her seamstress, Katie, who had two little boys to feed at home. Her assistant, who would have a nervous breakdown if she couldn’t go clubbing on Friday night. Not forgetting the rent for her boutique downstairs, which was colossal.

Responsibility tore her insides to shreds. What if she could persuade Prudence West to stick by her? Surely, everyone would follow suit. If she appealed to her, told her the truth...

The buzzer shrilled through her apartment for the hundredth time since seven a.m. and Eva yanked the blankets back over her head. ‘Go away!’ This was just like when her mother died.

Princess of the Press, Dante had called her. Four tiny words with the power to crush. Because, in all honesty, she felt ruled...almost owned by them. Blood-sucking creatures to whom decency was a foreign concept. This morning they didn’t want the truth; they wanted sensationalism. In the past, how many times had she tried to give her version of events, only for her words to be twisted beyond recognition, ensuring she was as red and fiendish as the she-devil herself?

The phone shrilled, making her temples throb, and she waited until the answering machine kicked in.

‘Eva, pick up the phone.’ Dante’s fierce bark filled the air of her apartment.

‘Oh, great.’

‘I am outside parked at the kerb, surrounded by reporters and I’m warning you, if you don’t pick up—’

Thrusting back the covers, she scrambled across the wide dark wood sleigh bed to retrieve her cordless from the bed-stand. Determined to be calm, composed and totally in control.

‘What?’ she snapped. ‘What will you do, Dante? Haven’t you done enough damage?’

‘Me?’ he said, incredulity and exasperation lacing his voice. ‘May I remind you that your reputation precedes you? And do not speak to me of damage when I have just endured thirty minutes of female temper tantrums from my ex-fiancée!’

‘Ex-fiancée?’ she repeated, her mood lifting. And in that moment Eva knew she was a horrible, horrible person. The man undoubtedly brought out the worst in her. But why shouldn’t he at least feel a smidgeon of the turmoil she was in?

A long sigh poured from her lips. ‘For heaven’s sake, just tell the woman you love her.’ Where was the man’s famed intelligence? No wonder his marriage hadn’t lasted long.

A stunned silence, then, ‘Love? What has love got to do with it?’

‘Ah, well, say no more,’ she said sardonically. ‘It’s usually why people get married, didn’t you know?’

‘In your world, maybe,’ he growled down the line. ‘Let me up, Eva, we need to talk. There’s only one way out of this mess.’

‘I don’t want you here. It’ll make things look worse.’

‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘Things could not possibly get any worse.’

Oh, yes, they could—he could come up here and she could murder him for the unforgivable things he’d said to her last night. He could witness sleep-deprived Eva, eyes heavy with fatigue. But, more importantly, ‘I refuse to provide the wolf pack with even more fodder.’ And how could she approach Prudence then? Oh, it’s okay, he always calls for a friendly brunch early on a Sunday morning? Yeah, right.

She heard him exhale and swore she could feel his warm breath trickle over her collarbone. Reaching up, she stroked the goose-pimples dotting her skin...and then yanked her hand away. What was wrong with her? How could she still crave the man’s touch? A man so cynical. So savagely brutal.

‘I have the answer to everything,’ Dante said in a shiver-inducing low tone. A rich velvet she’d never heard before, didn’t trust. It was luring, almost spellbinding.

‘You do?’ she asked, drawn in against volition.

‘Sì,’ he said, silky as sin. ‘The perfect plan.’

‘What, like a miracle?’ And hold on a minute, why did he want to help her all of a sudden? Yesterday she’d been an alcoholic tramp. Goodness and hearts didn’t generally figure in the Vitale phrase book. ‘Did Finn send you?’

‘No, I have not spoken to him since yesterday. The lines are down. It’s either me or nothing.’

Lips parting, she almost told him nothing sounded wonderful but something stopped her. The business. Katie’s two little boys. The rent.

She thrust her hands through her hair, tugged at the roots, tried to shake out the kinks.

If Dante could help with the press in some way, maybe she should hear him out. The man wore power as comfortably as other people wore shoes and thinking of herself was selfish, right? In reality, she had nothing left to lose.

Dipping her chin, she glanced down and winced at the cosy, ratty PJs. Hardly the uber-chic designer look.

Drat. There was that pride again.

‘Okay. Give me five minutes.’

‘Three,’ he said before disconnecting.

Mouth agape, she stared at the phone...realised she was wasting valuable dressing time and tossed it across the pearly-pink throw. ‘Odious, obnoxious, offensive snake. I must be mad.’

* * *

Gripping the thick knot of his dove-grey tie, Dante pushed the silk further up his throat and straightened the lapel of his black jacket. Tension pumped through his blood, making him hard all over—energised, taut, inordinately satisfied he’d given the press the perfect picture of ruthless determination by upending every last one of them from Eva’s doorstep.

In one respect he questioned why she hadn’t given them the boot herself but on the other hand he was grateful she hadn’t unleashed her tongue. He had plans for Miss St George and the sooner he brought her round to his way of thinking the better. Obstinate to the nth degree, he knew he’d have a fight on his hands but the predator in him could already smell the scent of glory.

And why the hell was she taking her own sweet time opening the door?

A seed of a sinister thought detonated and a strange emotion settled in the pit of his stomach, curdling thick and black. Did she have someone in there? In her bed. Entertaining. Was that why she was ignoring the press?

Dannazione, he’d never thought of that. And for the man who was renowned for meticulous planning, that should’ve told him something. Yes, he assured himself, it told him his deal was hanging in the balance and if she...

Sweat bubbled on his nape and trickled down his spine at the thought of walking in there. Seeing another man in her bed. Her full do-me lips meshed with his.

Heart twisting, it tore from his chest and dropped into the well of his stomach.

The sound of metal sliding across metal filtered from inside and scored his suddenly sensitized skin like talons down a chalkboard.

Rolling his shoulders, he inhaled slow and deep. Yet when the solid oak door swung open he realised the intense lung workout had been an utter waste of energy resources.

There she was. Tousled. With that adorable sleepy look about her. The one he remembered from sleeping over at Finn’s and watching an eighteen-year-old Eva tumble down the stairs on legs so long it had taken her an age to fathom the art of walking gracefully. It would’ve just turned noon and she’d mooch round the kitchen wearing huge earphones and skimpy cotton pyjamas, the small, tight shorts leaving nothing to the imagination.

For a moment he wondered what she wore to bed these days and then cursed inwardly as his blood pressure spiked through the roof.

So he focused on the now. This Eva. Twenty-seven years old and more beautiful than ever. All that gorgeous hair falling down around her face and caressing her bare shoulders. A tiny vest-top in a soft blush colour that threw her dense cleavage into stunning effect and a long dark pink skirt that reminded him of a gypsy. But Cristo, it was the bare feet that really snagged him. Perfect little toes painted pearly-white as if she walked on heavenly clouds. And there it was again. That hint of innocence he knew to be fake.

‘Are you entertaining in your bed?’ he asked, his voice so hard it almost cracked his skull. And, just to make sure there was no misunderstanding, he rephrased. ‘Are you sleeping with anyone at all?’

‘Did you really just say that?’

‘Yes.’ After all, it would ruin all his plans if she had a multitude of boyfriends all over the place. Was her rock star still on the scene? A man with a perpetual hangover. The perfect couple.

Dante ground his back teeth. ‘Just answer my question, Eva.’

His don’t-mess-with-me tone was met with an arch of her delicate blonde brows.

‘Good morning to you too,’ she said, hand braced on the door frame as if she was half-tempted to slam it in his face. ‘You’re in a lovely mood this morning.’

He smiled. It was an evil twist, he knew it. ‘I’ll be in an even better mood when you answer me.’

Firing darts of ire, her eyes drifted to the wall above the door frame, breasts rising and falling as she grappled for control. ‘No. I don’t... I haven’t...’ Chin down, she straightened to her full impressive height. ‘What exactly does my private life have to do with you, anyway?’

‘Plenty, considering the newspapers this morning,’ he said, striding past her, not entirely convinced by her claims to single status but willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. For now. ‘Haven’t you heard? We’re the new golden couple.’

She laughed—a hollow sound that serrated his spine. ‘There’s nothing golden about you. Anyway, I haven’t managed to get past the front page yet.’

‘Then I assure you, you’re in for a real treat.’

Dante heard the door click shut and her mocking remark, ‘Come in, why don’t you,’ as he strode down the narrow hallway and found himself in a...cosy lounge flooded with light.

Cream muslin hung in swathes at the wide windows, softening the stark glare of December and bleaching the dark oak floors. Huge, squashy gold sofas—the curling up with a book type—framed a large coffee table and took centre stage around a black Edwardian fireplace. Frames in every shape and size covered the hessian-covered walls—large gilt mirrors and reprints of times gone by—brides of every era and the accompanying fashions. There wasn’t a moneyed feel at all. It was tastefully eclectic with a subtle romantic ambience. But, maledizione, the clutter sent ants crawling across the back of his neck as if marching down a vine.

‘You are still messy,’ he said. It used to drive Finn insane. Between Eva and her mother, their family home had been a constant artistic chaos. It was a sure bet you’d be pricked by a sadistic pin or three from sitting on a perfectly innocent-looking chair.

‘So shoot me.’

Reluctantly his mouth curved at the petulance in her voice, until his eyes fell on a dressmaker’s dummy filling one corner of the room with a voluminous frothy tulle skirt tacked around the waist. Stepping closer, his breath snatched—the retail connoisseur in him enchanted by the sight of delicate pearls stitched into the weave.

‘By hand?’ he asked. Knowing it to be impossible because it would have taken her—

‘Yes, of course. Took me almost a week.’

Every day he was shown a multitude of beautiful clothing, but this... ‘It’s exquisite. I see you have inherited your mother’s eye for detail. Her unmistakable genius with fabric.’

Even as she stood behind him he could sense frank bewilderment that he’d complimented her work.

Having been subjected to his father’s particularly vicious brand of criticism since the day he’d been torn from his mother’s graveside, he had no problem with dishing it out. No longer did it make him angry to hear; it only made him strive to be harder, stronger, more powerful than ever before. But the beauty in Eva’s raw talent stopped him dead in his tracks for there was not one fault in any stitch or placement of pearl.

‘Why didn’t you tell me the extent of your success last night? Your boutique?’

She gave a little huff. ‘Oh, come off it, Dante. You had no interest in my life or anything I had to say.’

He didn’t mistake the touch of hurt in her voice and he was man enough to admit he deserved it. One desperate phone call from Finn, one look into those dazzling green eyes and he’d known trouble was coming. Deflecting it, however, hadn’t brought out the best in him and in the end it had been a pointless pursuit.

‘I had no idea about your work.’ Now he wished he hadn’t closed his ears to Finn’s animated renditions. Without them, he’d been left with one possible avenue.

So this morning he’d ignored every flammable headline and had his investigators expose her business interests. She’d built her small bridal couture company from nothing. Nothing. Laser gun time. Stunned would be an understatement. Where was her inheritance—her mother’s legacy? Blowing millions of pounds within a few years on the party scene must’ve been one hell of a joyride. He assumed that when the money had run out she’d had to make a trade of some kind.

At first glance he’d thought Finn would have provided capital but no, she’d done it all herself, through banking loans and hard work. And he felt something he’d never thought he’d feel for her. A measure of respect.

‘Now you do,’ she said. ‘Except do me a favour and lay off the congratulations regarding Prudence. She’s already left one message and I shouldn’t think the next royal wants an engagement-wrecker to bless her gown.’

The anguish in her voice sliced at his throat. He knew what it is was like to work night and day with recognition continuing to be far from reach. At twenty-three he’d fought for the chance to save the ailing Vitale empire. The battle had been endless until desperation had forced his father to hand him the reins. It had taken Dante almost six months of working 24/7 to operate back into the black. So he knew the determination, the frustration, the rage.

‘Won’t stop me trying to change her mind, though,’ Eva said with a dose of grit that made his mouth tilt. Ah, there it was. The fight.

‘So why are the shutters locked downstairs?’ he asked.

‘Luckily, I only open the last Sunday of every month. I wanted to contact some of my clients before facing the hounds.’

‘It is best you do not speak with them until we get our story straight,’ he said, hearing his autocratic tone ricochet off the walls.

A small frown creased her brow. ‘Our story? There is no story, Dante, only the truth. If that doesn’t set me free I’ll just have to wait until the furore dies down. There’ll always be other jobs.’ But she wanted this. Desperately. Oh, she tried to hide it, but the stiff smile she tried on for size visibly cracked her composure.

She wanted it, just as much as he wanted Hamptons. Neither could afford tittle-tattle. Yakatani not only preferred committed family men but he was inordinately disturbed by tabloid fodder. With plenty of multi-billionaires in the running, he had his pick of the auspicious crop.

Dante considered the tartan wingback chair, decided not to take the risk and walked over to the windows to inspect the street below. Decent enough area for a boutique, he supposed. Mayfair or Bond Street would be better.

Rolling his neck, he breathed deeply. Truth time. Explanations he wasn’t very good at because as a rule he answered to no one. ‘I had an arrangement with Rebecca.’

He allowed her to soak up the admission, wrestle her thoughts into some kind of order. When her words came they were doused with intrigue. ‘What kind of arrangement?’

‘I needed a fiancée to close the Hamptons business deal.’ And with that one strategic purchase he would make Vitale the biggest retail phenomenon in the world. Then his father would have no choice but to acknowledge his first son—his bastard son—as the rightful heir. Finally he would prove to the old man that he was worthy of the Vitale name. That he was no longer a dirty stain on a virtuous thousand-year legacy. That he wasn’t tarnished by his mother’s bad blood. That he was strong enough to live only for Vitale and nothing, nothing would stand in the way of his success.

Fingers delving into his hair, he thrust the memories back into the dark depths. Locked down his emotions with ruthless efficiency.

‘I had no intention of marrying the woman,’ he said. One stab at the marital state had been enough to inoculate him against the institution for life. ‘I only bumped into her a couple of weeks ago in Singapore.’ Dante had known Rebecca from Cambridge days. A striking brunette who had a tendency to flirt with him outrageously. But she had chosen the wrong day and the wrong man to play with.

She’d cornered him and while he’d been sorely tempted to take what was on offer that night, to lose himself, drive out the anger, something had stopped him. Despite her overt sexuality, she’d turned him to stone.

While he’d never been the small-talk type, he had listened. To dampen his fury. To forget his father, his half-brother. It soon became apparent she was neck-deep in debt and needed funds—astronomical amounts. She was desperate. And, like a shark smelling bait, Dante’s killer instincts had kicked in and within seconds he’d pounced on that weakness and a business arrangement had been born.

‘Oh,’ Eva said, ‘you must want Hamptons very much.’ Warm, understanding, her husky voice wrapped around him, taking the edge off the chill that had been pervading his bones for so long.

And, before he knew it, need hit him with the force of a jet, tearing through his body. It took all of his restraint not to walk over there and slide his fingers across her deep silken cleavage, over her décolletage, up the sweet column of her throat. He wanted to sink into that gorgeous thick blonde hair, tilt her head for his kiss and drown in the sinfully erotic taste of her tongue.

Which was inconceivable for so many reasons; his brain refused to wrestle one to the fore. Putting her troublesome tempestuous nature and loose morals to one side, Finn would never forgive him for slaking his lust on his little sister. And this, whatever this was, had turned into business and never the twain shall meet.

So he narrowed his focus, his desire, on the only thing that mattered to him. ‘I need this deal, Eva. Except now my business relations with the owner are heading for the toilet. Rebecca claimed it is embarrassing enough for me to be seen embracing ‘the likes of you’ without her friends believing her a fool in unrequited love.’ She’d even hinted that she’d fallen for him and such lies inflamed his gut.

Dante turned from the view, leaned against the sill and caught Eva stuffing some letters under the plush cushion of the sofa before she sat down. The hunch she was hiding something expired as she curled her long legs under her bottom and writhed to find comfort.

How different she seemed in her own surroundings. She looked sumptuous and snuggly and... He shook his head. Appearances meant nothing. Business, Dante—focus.

‘I assume all her friends thought it was a love-match?’ she asked.

‘Her words. Certainly not mine.’

‘So what do you plan to do now?’

Crossing his arms over his chest, he locked on his target. To eyes narrowing warily. He responded to that glimpse of suspicion by raising a dark eyebrow. ‘I’ve already done it.’

‘Of course you have, Action Man. Care to elaborate?’

He ignored the sarcasm; she’d thank him soon enough. Instead his mind drifted to earlier that morning. When he’d stood in his office listening to Rebecca’s histrionics, mouth shaping to quieten her with a lucrative financial bonus. And all the while his eyes kept drifting to the front page headlines. To Eva. And he knew. Even if Rebecca took another cool million and stood by him, Eva would suffer. A good business reputation was something money couldn’t buy and, regardless of fault, of the past, they were in this together. Finn had always stuck by him, whatever the storm, and Dante owed him. He could help Eva while ensuring Yakatani remained happy.

There had been moments; Cristo, there still were moments of doubt, of reason—telling him not to trust her. Putting her business acumen to one side, he wasn’t convinced she would come over as ‘wife’ material in front of Yakatani. His investigators might have failed to unearth any recent inflammatory stories but that meant nothing when her weekends could be made up of secluded private parties and dangerous liaisons.

Slowly, inexorably, his gaze roamed over her apartment, the blatant romanticism of her career choice. Something didn’t make sense. She did not make sense.

Dante scrubbed his jawline with the back of his hand. He’d just have to keep an extra-close eye on her. If only to ensure she played by the rules. His rules.

The tension in his midsection eased, just a touch. This plan could work. It had to work.

They could have it all.

‘I’ve given the press a story that will melt their cynical little hearts,’ he said, knowing his tone was sending the temperature in the room into a rapid decline. ‘The real thing.’

The frown in her brow deepened, even as she focused on the fireplace. As if she were somewhere else. In thought so deep her expression was almost dream-like in its intensity.

‘The real thing?’ she asked, her voice as softly decadent as whipped cream.

‘Sì. Love.’ The word was like poison on his tongue, making it swell, his next words sounding thick. ‘For surely there is only one reason I could be torn from the bonds of an engagement. The fact that I’ve fallen madly in love with someone else. I’ve provided them with a true romantic fairy tale.’

Without looking up, Eva gave a little huff of disbelief and began to scratch at the arm of the sofa, making patterns of what looked like love-hearts. ‘And who is the heroine in this fabricated tale?’

Dante smiled. The half smile that never failed to make women weak at the knees and tumble backward onto a satin drenched mattress.

‘You are, tesoro.’