what now?’ she asked, a small furrow lining her brow. ‘Why come to London?’
‘Why not?’ he said with a careless shrug that tore at his stiff muscles as he tamped down on the dark current of unwanted, loathsome feeling.
‘There’s more to it than that. I can see it in your face.’
She saw far too much.
Dante cleared his throat and glanced around the room, content that she would drop the conversation when he wasn’t forthcoming. Seconds blurred into minutes of warding off the waves of sensuality that poured effortlessly from the woman beside him, which only served to heighten his determination in what now felt like an enjoyable exercise in self-restraint.
So he focused on the towering glass vase taking centre stage on the table, overflowing with cream and dusky pink blooms, each rose delicately wrapped in ivory voile to cup the open bud, and streams of pearls cascading from a lofty hydrangea to pool upon the tablecloth. And, before he knew it, his mind’s eye trailed those very pearls over every inch of Eva’s body, skimming up those long satiny legs and teasing them between her thighs, where she was hot and wet—
Cristo, for the life of him he could not understand why fatal attraction still poured through his blood...scoring his cheekbones. For a second he wondered if he’d made a sound.
‘Dante, are you okay?’
There, he had his answer, Dante noted, without allowing himself to react.
Lazily, he shifted in his seat. Turned and raised one dark brow. ‘Sì. Of course.’
‘Well, you didn’t answer me,’ she said. And for a second he was thrown, his back nudging the velvet pad of the chair. When was the last time someone had the audacity to demand an answer from him? Then again, this was Eva and he should’ve expected nothing less. Any woman who could turn sweet grieving vulnerability into an all-out seductive war on mankind took daring to a whole new level.
Dante yanked at the sleeves of his white dress shirt until shards of diamond light bounced off his platinum cufflinks. He didn’t suppose Eva would be a risk to his deal. She was more front page scandal than the business section type and he needed to talk about something before he touched her.
‘I was considering your question: why London?’ He drew his answer out. Waited until he had her rapt attention. Waited to feel the power of the word on his tongue, the weight of it lifting his spirits. ‘One word. Hamptons.’
‘Nooo,’ she breathed, evidently interested. Although he guessed it was merely the conditioned response of a practised woman.
Still, he allowed himself a small smile. It was almost his. He could feel the power of ownership fizzing in his blood.
‘Hamptons have the most beautiful departments I’ve ever seen,’ her voice now wistful.
Dante cottoned on to the reason for her enthusiasm. Shopping. Every woman’s idea of nirvana. To someone like Eva, he imagined the experience akin to an orgasm.
With mind-blowing speed and precision, his imagination inflamed, offering him an erotic image of Eva exploding under his fingertips...beneath his mouth...coating his tongue. Her glorious body arching like a bow...
A loud female voice shot through the haze and Dante winced. Maledizione, he needed sex—to drive out the tension of the last few weeks that had slowly, surely pervaded his body. That was the issue here. It had nothing to do with her.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to our co-founder, Eva St George.’
Rapturous applause filled the air and Dante watched the rose hue drain from Eva’s cheeks. Watched her throat work, the slender column pulsing.
‘Eva? What is it?’
‘Nothing. I’m fine,’ she said with such ease that he realised his imagination was playing tricks on him. Again.
‘Of course you are,’ he said as he nodded towards the podium where the operatic beauty who was tonight’s entertainment stood waiting. If the card she’d slipped him earlier was anything to go by, she was more than willing to perform personally at his request. ‘Show them Eva St George, the Princess of the Press.’
She looked at him then. Properly. For the first time since he’d arrived. Her eyes were swirling tempests which spoke of barely concealed anger. Was she still vexed with him? Even after he’d sat and spoken to her for at least ten minutes?
Dante almost asked what more she expected of him, but each guest now stood waiting. Watching.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘What are you waiting for? Go.’
‘It’s not that,’ she said, scratching at her lower lip. His eyes narrowed on her short, unpolished fingernails. ‘Dante, listen. If I only ever ask this one thing of you, will you do it?’
He didn’t like the sound of this. Women and favours were a risky business. There were only three things to be certain of in this life. Ownership, power and control.
‘Ask me,’ he said.
‘Will you leave? Now. Please.’
* * *
Eva stepped down from the podium, willing her ribbon-like legs to keep her upright. She’d never thought it was physically possible to want to cry and whoop at the same time but now she knew. All she’d had to do was stand on a stage—in front of hundreds of people—on her own, and pour her heart out.
But she’d done it. She’d actually done it!
Slightly deaf from a thundering show of hands, she gripped the hand rail and tottered down the steps from the stage. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father beckoning and the temptation to go to him was so strong her feet altered course. But the sight of Claire, wife number six, tugging on his arm stopped her mid-step and she feigned ignorance. There was a happy bubble floating in her chest and no way was that woman popping it.
After a few obligatory handshakes, Eva spotted the heavy gold brocade curtains shrouding the double doors leading onto the terrace. She’d prefer a hot bath and eight hours’ sleep, but in her position leaving early was out of the question. So she’d take ten minutes’ peace instead. Escape beckoned and, like a prowling cat, she edged around the room, slinking around the guests. She slithered through the small gap in the curtains onto the terrace beyond and quietly closed the door behind her....
And walked into a dense wall of nipping icy air. The fight left her body in one long rush and her shoulders slumped. ‘It’s over.’ Done. For the girl who’d always found large crowds intimidating, she wished her mother could’ve seen her standing tall.
Wrapping her hands around her upper arms to ward off the chill, she tipped her head skyward, gazing at the beauty of nature’s palette—the richest blue imaginable, sparkling with diamanté-studded brilliance. Focused on the biggest, the brightest star and revivified the words she spoke every year, only on this night. ‘I miss you. I’ve made mistakes—so many mistakes—but I’m trying to move on. Make something of my life. Be the person you knew I could be. And I swear I’ll make you proud if it’s the last thing I do.’
Closing her eyes, she became lost in time, remembering the sight of her mother teaching her how to
