figure for what it was—a woman.
Before the showerhead in her hand could connect with Dante’s head, Lino, the quicker of his men, grabbed hold of the woman and engulfed her in his meaty arms.
Immediately she started kicking out, hurling a string of obscenities in what sounded like English, but with a strong accent he had trouble placing.
Dante stared with amazement at this struggling intruder dressed only in a thick maroon robe.
Her eyes fell on him. There was a wild terror in the returning stare.
‘Let her go,’ he ordered.
Lino removed the showerhead from her hand and released her.
As soon as she was free from his hold, she backed away from them, her eyes going from Dante, to Lino, to Vincenzo and back to Dante, the terror still there.
He quite understood her fear. Dante was tall and physically imposing. Lino and Vincenzo were mountains.
‘Leave,’ he barked at his men. ‘Wait downstairs for me.’
Her eyes settled on him.
This woman might be an intruder, her reasons for being there to be revealed but, unless she had a gun hiding beneath that robe, which she would have already used if she’d had one, she posed no danger.
His men were too well trained to argue and left the room. Stealth no longer being needed, they thumped down the stairs like a herd of wildebeest.
Now that he was alone with her, Dante’s senses became more attuned. A wonderful scent filled the room, a soft floral smell that clung around the intruder, who had backed herself into the corner of the room. The only sound to be heard was her ragged breathing.
He stepped slowly towards her.
She pressed herself more tightly into the corner of the room and hugged her arms across her seemingly ample chest, strikingly angled eyes ringing with fear at him. If she hadn’t broken into his property and made herself at home, he could feel sorry for her.
He guessed her to be in her early twenties, petite yet curvy, snub nose, plump lips, freckles covering a face that was either naturally pale or white from fright. The colour of her long, wet hair was impossible to judge. Whatever the colour, nothing could detract from the fact that this was one beautiful woman.
Under any other circumstance he would be tempted to let a whistle escape his lips.
Her long, swanlike neck moved but she didn’t speak. Those strange eyes did not leave his face.
He stopped a foot away from her and asked in English, ‘Who are you?’
Her lips tightened and she hugged herself even harder, giving a quick shake of her head.
‘Why are you here?’
But still she didn’t speak. If he hadn’t caught the obscenities she’d screeched when she’d exploded out of the bathroom, he could believe she was mute.
If she hadn’t broken into his property, he would feel bad for her obvious fright.
‘You know this is private property? Sì?’ he tried again, speaking slowly. Dante’s English was fluent but his accent thick. ‘This cottage is empty but it belongs to me.’
The strange yet beautiful eyes suddenly narrowed and in that slight movement he realised fear wasn’t the primary emotion being thrown at him, it was loathing.
‘My backside does it belong to you.’ She straightened. Her strong accent registered in his brain as Irish. ‘This cottage is part of your father’s estate and should be shared with your sister.’
Anger swelled in him.
So that was what this was all about? Another charlatan pretending to be Salvatore Moncada’s secret love-child in the hope of grabbing a portion of Dante’s inheritance. What did this make? Eight or nine fraudsters since his father’s death three months ago? Or was this someone Dante’s lawyer had already sent packing but thought they would chance their luck one more time and try and convince Salvatore’s legitimate child herself?
As a means of getting his attention this woman had played a master stroke.
What a shame for her that it would end in her arrest and deportation.
‘If I had a secret sister I’m sure I would be open to sharing a portion of my father’s estate with her, but—’
‘There’s no if about it,’ she interrupted. ‘You do have a sister and I have the proof with me.’
Something in her tone cut the retort from his tongue.
Dante stared even harder at the beautiful face before him as his veins slowly turned to ice.
Did this truculently sexy woman really believe she was his...sister?
* * *
So this was Dante?
Aislin had seen many pictures of the cruel Sicilian intent on denying her sister what was morally hers but nothing could have prepared her for the sculptured reality stood before her.
In the flesh he was much taller than she’d expected, his hair thicker and darker. He had a lean, wiry muscularity she hadn’t expected either. Nor had the pictures done justice to the rest of him. His thick, dark beard couldn’t hide the chiselled jawline or downplay the firm, sensuous lips resting below a straight nose that could have been carved by a professional sculptor. Thick black brows rested above green eyes that could only be described as beautiful, and those eyes were staring at her with a combination of disgust and disbelief.
It hadn’t escaped her attention that Dante was a good-looking man but she had not been prepared in the slightest for the raw sexiness that oozed from him.
His black shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and, while she kept her gaze fixed on his eyes, she’d glimpsed the dark hair poking through at the base of his throat.
Dante Moncada was the sexiest, most handsome man she had ever set eyes on and it thrilled with the same intensity that it repelled.
Despite the warmth she’d managed to inject into the walls from the log fire, a shiver ran up her spine, and she drew her towelling robe more tightly around her, wishing she could glue it to her body. It fell to her ankles but, with that green stare on her, she might as well have forgone it. She felt naked.
Beneath it she was naked.
It had been two days since she’d broken into this cottage. Two days she’d been living here, waiting for her presence to be noted and for the certain confrontation with this man to take place. But, seriously, did it have to occur the minute she stepped out of the shower?
So much for the cool, calm, no-nonsense first impression she’d hoped to make. In her head she’d created a scene where he stormed into the cottage and found her sitting serenely at the table studying, preferably wearing her reading glasses. Whenever Aislin wore those glasses, men tended to speak to her as if she had more than a single brain cell floating in her head.
Hearing
