his heart, and sometimes he didn’t think he ever would. And in the meantime, Willow Hamilton needed protection from a man like him.
‘I’m angry with myself,’ he said.
‘Because?’
‘Because I should have chosen a less controversial way of getting my bag back. I shouldn’t have agreed to be your plus one.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘But you were very persuasive.’
She didn’t answer immediately. He could see her finger drawing little circles over one of the peacocks which adorned her denim-covered thigh.
‘There must be something in that bag you want very badly.’
‘There is.’
‘But I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what it is?’
The car had slowed down to allow a stray sheep to pick its way laboriously across the road, giving them a slightly dazed glance as it did so. Dante’s instinct was to tell her that her guess was correct, but suddenly he found himself wanting to tell her. Was that because so far he hadn’t discussed it with anyone? Because he and his twin brother were estranged and he wasn’t particularly close to any of his other siblings? That all their dark secrets and their heartache seemed to have pushed them all apart, rather than bringing them closer together...
‘The bag contains a diamond and emerald tiara,’ he said. ‘Worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.’
Her finger stopped moving. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘No, I’m not. My grandfather specifically asked me to get it for him and it took me weeks to track the damned thing down. He calls it one of his Lost Mistresses, for reasons he’s reluctant to explain. He sold it a long time ago and now he wants it back.’
‘Do you know why?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe because he’s dying.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly, and he wondered if she’d heard the slight break in his voice.
‘Yeah,’ he said gruffly, his tightened lips intended to show her that the topic was now closed.
They drove for a while in silence and had just hit the outskirts of greater London, when her voice broke into his thoughts.
‘Your name is Italian,’ she commented quietly. ‘But your accent isn’t. Sometimes you sound American, but at other times your accent could almost be Italian, or French. How come?’
Dante thought how women always wanted to do things the wrong way round. Shouldn’t she have made chatty little enquiries about his background before he’d had his hand inside her panties yesterday? And yet wasn’t he grateful that she’d moved from the subject of his family?
‘Because I was born in the States,’ he said. ‘And spent the first eight years of my life there—until I was sent away to boarding school in Europe.’
She nodded and he half expected the usual squeak of indignation. Because women invariably thought they were showcasing their caring side by professing horror at the thought of a little boy being sent away from home so young. But he remembered that the English were different and her aristocratic class in particular had always sent young boys away to school.
‘And did you like it?’ she questioned.
Dante nodded, knowing his reaction had been unusual—the supposition being that any child would hate being removed from the heart of their family. Except in his case there hadn’t been a heart. That had been torn out one dark and drug-fuelled night—shattered and smashed—leaving behind nothing but emptiness, anger and guilt.
‘As it happens, I liked it very much,’ he drawled, deliberately pushing the bitter thoughts away. ‘It was in the Swiss mountains—pure and white and unbelievably beautiful.’ He paused as he remembered how the soft white flakes used to swarm down from the sky, blanketing the world in a pure silence—and how he had eagerly retreated into that cold space where nothing or nobody could touch him. ‘We used to ski every day, which wore us out so much that there wasn’t really time to think. And there were kids from all over the world, so it was kind of anonymous—and I liked that.’
‘You must speak another language.’
‘I speak three others,’ he said. ‘French, Italian and German.’
‘And that’s why you live in Paris?’
His mouth hardened. ‘I don’t remember mentioning that I lived in Paris.’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shoulders slump a little.
‘I must have read that on the internet too. You can’t blame me,’ she said, her words leaving her mouth in a sudden rush.
‘No, I don’t blame you,’ he said. Just as he couldn’t blame her for the sudden sexual tension which seemed to have sprung up between them again, which was making it difficult for him to concentrate. Maybe that was inevitable. They were two people who’d been interrupted while making out, leaving them both aching and frustrated. And even though his head was telling him that was the best thing which could have happened, his body seemed to have other ideas.
Because right now all he could think about was how soft her skin had felt as he had skated his fingertips all the way up beneath that flouncy little dress she’d been wearing. He remembered the slenderness of her hips and breasts as she’d stood before him in her bra and panties—defiant yet innocent as she’d stripped off her bridesmaid dress and let it pool around her feet. He’d resisted her then, even though the scent of her arousal had called out to his hungry body on a primitive level which had made resistance almost unendurable. Was that what was happening now? Why he wanted to stop the car and take her somewhere—anywhere—so that he could be alone with her? Free to pull aside her clothes. To unzip her jeans and tease her until she was writhing in helpless appeal.
He wondered if he’d been out of his mind to say no. He could easily have introduced her to limitless pleasures in his arms—and what better initiation for a virgin than lovemaking with someone like him? But it wasn’t his technique which was in question, but his inbuilt emotional distance. He couldn’t connect. He didn’t know how.
‘So why Paris?’ she was asking.
Make her get the message, he thought. Make her realise that she’s had a lucky escape from a man like you.
‘It’s well placed for central Europe,’ he said. ‘I like the city and the food and the culture. And, of course, the women,’ he added deliberately. ‘French women are very easy to like.’
‘I can imagine they must be,’ she said, her voice sounding unnaturally bright.
The car was soon swallowed up by the heavier London traffic and he noticed she was staring fixedly out of the window.
‘We’re nearly here,’ he said, forcing himself to make some conversational remark. To try to draw a line under this as neatly as possible. ‘So...have you got any plans for the rest of the day?’
Willow gazed at the familiar wide streets close to her apartment and realised he was preparing to say goodbye to her. What she would like to do more than anything else was to rail against the unfairness of it all. Not only had he turned her down, but he’d deliberately started talking about other women—French women—as if to drive home just how forgettable she really was. And he had done it just as she’d been speculating about his fast, international lifestyle. Thinking that he didn’t seem like the sort of man who would ever embrace the role of husband and father...the sort of man who really would have been a perfect lover for a woman like her.
Well, she was just going to have to forget her stupid daydreams. Just tick it off and put it down to experience. She would get over it, as she had got over so much else. No way was she going to leave him with an enduring memory of her behaving like a victim. Remember how he moaned in your arms when he kissed you, she reminded herself fiercely as she slanted him a smile. Remember that you have some power here, too.