‘Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I thought that you were as frustrated by your sister’s interruption as I was. I was under the distinct impression that our fake relationship was about to get real, and in a very satisfying way. It would certainly be more convincing if we were properly intimate instead of just pretending to be. So, are we going to play games with each other? Or are we going to give in to what we both clearly want?’
A search for truth and the promise of passion!
For nearly sixty years Italian billionaire Giovanni Di Sione has kept a shocking secret. Now, nearing the end of his days, he wants his grandchildren to know their true heritage.
He sends them each on a journey to find his ‘Lost Mistresses’—a collection of love tokens and the only remaining evidence of his lost identity, his lost history…his lost love.
With each item collected the Di Sione siblings take one step closer to the truth…and embark on a passionate journey that none could have expected!
Find out what happens in
The Billionaire’s Legacy
Di Sione’s Innocent Conquest by Carol Marinelli
The Di Sione Secret Baby by Maya Blake
To Blackmail a Di Sione by Rachael Thomas
The Return of the Di Sione Wife by Caitlin Crews
Di Sione’s Virgin Mistress by Sharon Kendrick
A Di Sione for the Greek’s Pleasure by Kate Hewitt
A Deal for the Di Sione Ring by Jennifer Hayward
The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize by Maisey Yates
Collect all 8 volumes!
SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition by describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring often stubborn but always to die for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life...
For Sarah-Jane Volkers, who will know exactly why this book is dedicated to her when she reads it!
And to the brilliant Rafael Vinoly, whose words painted such a perfect vignette of Long Island life...
DANTE DI SIONE FELT the adrenaline pumping through his body as he walked into the tiny airport terminal. His heart was pounding and his forehead was beaded with sweat. He felt like he’d been running. Or just rolled away from a woman after a bout of particularly energetic sex. Even though it was a long time since he could even remember having sex. He frowned. How long?
His mind raced back over the past few weeks spent chasing across continents and flitting in and out of different time zones. He’d visited a dizzying array of countries, been presented with a whole shoal of red herrings and wandered up against several dead ends before arriving here, in the Caribbean. All in pursuit of a priceless piece of jewellery which his grandfather wanted for reasons he’d declined to share. Dante felt the tight clench of his heart. A dying man’s wish.
Yet wasn’t the truth that he had been tantalised by the task he’d been given and which he had taken on as a favour to someone who had given him so much? That his usually jaded appetite had been sharpened by a taste of the unusual. Truth was, he was dreading going back to his high-octane world of big business and the slightly decadent glamour of his adopted Parisian home. He had enjoyed the unpredictability of the chase and the sense that he was stepping outside his highly privileged comfort zone.
His hand tightened around the handle of his bag which contained the precious tiara. All he needed to do now was to hang on to this and never let it go—at least, not until he had placed it at his grandfather’s sickbed so that the old man could do what he wanted with it.
His mouth felt dry. He could use a drink, and...something else. Something to distract him from the fact that the adrenaline was beginning to trickle from his system, leaving him with that flat, empty feeling which he’d spent his whole life trying to avoid.
He looked around. The small terminal was filled with the usual suspects which this kind of upmarket Caribbean destination inevitably attracted. As well as the overtanned and ostentatiously wealthy, there seemed to have been some photo shoot taking place, because the place was full of models. He saw several giraffe-tall young women turn in his direction, their endless legs displayed in tiny denim shorts and their battered straw hats tilted at an angle so all you could see were their cute noses and full lips as they pouted at him. But he wasn’t in the mood for anyone as predictable as a model. Maybe he’d just do a little work instead. Get on to René at his office in Paris and discover what had been going on in his busy and thriving company while he’d been away.
And then his gaze was drawn to a woman sitting on her own. The only pale person in a sea of tanned bodies. Her hair was blond and she looked as fragile as spun sugar—with one of those pashmina things wrapped around her narrow shoulders which seemed to swamp her. She looked clean. He narrowed his eyes. Like she’d spent most of her life underwater and had just been brought up to the surface. She was sitting at the bar with an untouched glass of pink champagne in front of her, and as their eyes met, she picked up her glass, flustered, and began to stare at it as if it contained the secret to the universe—though he noticed she didn’t drink any.
Was it that which made him start walking towards her, bewitched by a sudden demonstration of shyness which was so rare in the world he inhabited? With a few sure strides he reached her and put his bag down on the floor, right next to a remarkably similar brown leather carry-on. But then she lifted her head and all he could think about was the fragile beauty of her features.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ she said in a very English accent as she blinked up at him through thick lashes.
‘Have we met before?’ he questioned.
She looked startled. Like someone who had been caught in an unexpected spotlight. She dug her teeth into her lower lip and worried them across the smooth rosy surface.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, then shook her head so that the strands of fair hair shimmered over her narrow shoulders like a silky cascade of water. ‘No, we haven’t. I would have remembered.’
He leaned on the bar, and smiled. ‘But you were staring at me as if you knew me.’
Willow didn’t answer—not straight away—her head was too full of confusion and embarrassment combined with a powerful tug of attraction which she wasn’t quite sure how to handle. Yes, of course she had been staring at him because—quite honestly—who wouldn’t?
Beneath the pashmina, she felt the shiver of goose bumps as she met his mocking gaze, acknowledging that he
