but for Dante’s. Because if he married her, he would have a lifetime of regret.
Yet how could she possibly convey that? She didn’t want to disclose her own dark secret and have him kiss away her fears and tell her it didn’t matter. Because it did. Maybe not now, when they were in the first flush of this powerful feeling which seemed to have crept up on them both—but later, almost certainly it would matter. When the gloss and the lust had worn off and they were faced with the reality of looking at the future. Would Dante still want her then? Wouldn’t he long for his heart’s desire, knowing she could never give it to him?
She couldn’t give him the choice and have him decide to do something out of some misplaced sense of selflessness, or kindness. She had to make the choice for him, because it was easier this way. She drew in a deep breath and knew she had to dig deep into the past, to remember how best to do this. To recall the way she’d managed to convince her weeping parents that no, of course the treatment didn’t hurt. She’d worked hard on her acting ability when she’d been sick and realised it was the people around her who needed comfort more than she did. Because in a funny way, what she had been going through had been all-consuming. It was the people who had to stand and watch helplessly from the sidelines who suffered the most.
So use some of that acting talent now. Play the biggest part of your life by convincing Dante Di Sione that you don’t want to marry him.
‘I can’t marry you, Dante,’ she said, aware that his blue eyes had narrowed. Was that in surprise, or disbelief? Both, probably. He may have just made the most romantic declaration in the world but that hadn’t eradicated the natural arrogance which was so much a part of him.
He nodded, but not before she had seen that look of darkness cross over his face, and Willow had to concentrate very hard to tell herself it was better this way. That it might hurt him a bit now—and it would certainly wound his ego—but in the long run it would be better. Much better.
She knew he was waiting for an explanation and she knew she owed him one, but wouldn’t all the explanations in the world sound flimsy? She couldn’t say that she thought their lifestyles were incompatible, or that she’d never want to live in Paris, or even New York—because she suspected he would be able to talk her out of every single one.
There was only one way to guarantee Dante Di Sione’s permanent exit from her life and it was the hardest thing to say. Hard to say it like she really meant it, but she knew she had to try.
So she made her features grow wooden and her voice quiet. Because, for some reason, quiet always worked best. It made people strain towards you to listen. It made them believe what you said.
‘I can’t marry you because I don’t love you, Dante.’
DANTE’S EYES WERE shards of blue so cold that Willow could feel her skin freezing beneath that icy gaze. ‘You don’t love me?’ he repeated slowly.
Willow nodded, hanging on to her composure only by a shred. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
She began to babble, as if adding speed to her words would somehow add conviction. ‘It was just a part we were both playing for the sake of your grandfather,’ she said. ‘You know it was. It was the sex which made it start to seem real. Amazing and beautiful sex—although I’ve got nothing to compare it to, of course. But I’m guessing from your reaction that it was pretty special, and I guess that’s what made us get carried away.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Made me get carried away, you mean?’
Keep going, she told herself. Not much longer now. Make him think you’re a cold hard bitch, if that helps. ‘Yes,’ she said with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘I guess.’
A strange note had entered his voice and now his eyes had grown more thoughtful. ‘So it’s only ever really been about sex, is that what you’re saying, Willow? You decided early on that I was to be the man who took your virginity, and you were prepared to do pretty much anything to get that to happen, were you?’
All she had to do was agree with him and very soon it would be finished. Except that something in the way he was looking at her was making her throat grow dry. Because the softness had left his face and her breasts were beginning to prickle under that new, hard look in his eyes. Willow licked her lips. ‘That’s right.’
Dante stared at her, wondering how he could have got it so wrong. Had he been so bewitched by her proximity that he had started believing the fantasy which they’d both created? Had his reconciliation with his brother made him overly sentimental—making him want to grab at something which up until recently hadn’t even been on his agenda? Perhaps his grandfather’s illness had stirred up a primitive need inside him and he had made a bad judgement call. She didn’t want him, or his babies. She didn’t love him. She didn’t care.
A smile twisted his lips. Ironic, really. He could think of a hundred women who would fight to wear his ring for real. Just not Willow Hamilton. And just because she’d never had sex with anyone before him didn’t make her a saint, did it? He’d turned her on in a big way and it seemed he had liberated her enough to want to go out there and find her pleasure with other men. He felt a savage spear of something else which was new to him. Something he automatically despised because deep down he knew it would weaken him. Something he instinctively recognised as jealousy.
And suddenly he knew that in order to let her go, he had to have her one last time. To remind himself of how good she felt. To lick every inch of her soft, pale skin and touch every sinew of her slender body. To rid himself of this hateful need which was making his groin throb, even though he told himself he should be fighting it. But he couldn’t. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t. His sexual self-control was legendary and he had walked away from women when they’d been begging him to take them. Willow was not begging—not any more. His bitter smile returned. But pretty soon she would be.
‘Well, if it’s only ever been about sex, then maybe we ought to go out with a bang.’ He smiled as her head jerked back, her shock palpable. ‘If you’ll pardon the pun.’
Willow’s heart pounded as she looked into his eyes and saw the smoulder of intent there. She told herself that this was dangerous. Very dangerous. That she needed to get out of here before anything happened.
‘Dante,’ she whispered. But the words she’d been about to say had died on her lips because he was walking towards her with an expression on his face which was making her blood alternatively grow hot and cold. She could see the tension hardening his powerful body as he reached her. She could smell the raw scent of his arousal in the air. As he stroked a finger down over her arm, she began to shiver uncontrollably. This was wrong. It was wrong and dangerous and would lead to nowhere but pain and she knew she had to stop it. She had to. ‘Dante,’ she whispered again.
‘One for the road,’ he said in a cruel voice.
And then he kissed her in a way which shocked her almost as much as it turned her on. It was hard and it was masterful—an unashamed assertion of sexual power. It was all about technique and dominance—but there was no affection there.
So why did she kiss him back with a hunger which was escalating by the second? Why didn’t she just press her hands against that broad chest and push him away, instead of clinging on to him like some sort of limpet? He was strong enough and proud enough to accept her refusal. To just turn and walk away. They could end this strange relationship without stoking up any more emotional turmoil and then try to put the whole affair behind them.
But she couldn’t. She wanted him too much. She always had and she always would. She wanted—how had he put it?—one for the road.
Did he see the sudden softening of her body, or did her face betray her change of feelings? Was that why he reached down to her delicate silk nightdress and ripped it open so that it flapped about her in tatters? His eyes were fixed on hers and she wanted to turn her head away, but she was like