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
