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 work with her nimble fingers. How to stitch another beautifully perfect pearl on dense shot silk and create someone’s dream, fill it with romance and beauty and love—all the things she would never have. Only gift. Just as her mother had for women the world over. Until the dark shadows had come knocking and the world went black, everyone left.
Dante.
Thank God he’d left earlier. The thought of him watching her. His beautiful, intense gaze was like a brain-wiping device—
‘Eva.’
She flinched and spun around as her hand flew up to her chest to stop her heart bursting through her skin.
‘Dante,’ she breathed. ‘I thought you’d gone. I asked you to.’
He stood in the shadows, face dark, body rigid, his hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets. ‘I gave my word to Finn. Let us call it a compromise.’
‘So you sat out here the entire time?’
‘Like I said, I promised Finn I would be here if you needed me.’
I needed you once. You left.
As if the last five years had disappeared, the same thoughts began to run through her head, the pictures replaying like an old black and white movie. Hold me. Touch me. Take me.
‘I don’t need anyone.’ Not any more. Her warm breath filled the air like a puffy cloud but her voice, icy and brittle, didn’t sound as if it belonged to her.
No words. He simply looked out towards the gardens where the cool mist lay like a thick veil, swirling as if beckoning its master back into the Cimmerian lair. And that air of danger seemed to thicken further still, become seductive in its intensity as Dante turned back and closed the short distance between them. Through the dim light she couldn’t make out his expression but the heat pouring from his body wreaked chaos on her senses.
‘It was a good speech, Eva,’ he said, his deep voice imbued with warm sincerity—a hint of the man she once knew. No, Eva, that man did not exist. ‘Your mother would be proud of you.’
Oh, God. Hold it together. Hold it together. ‘Thank you,’ she said, but it was a choked sound that tore from her soul and if he didn’t leave right now, she was going to...
He growled, long and low, as if he understood, and hauled her into his arms. And the past crashed into the present with heart-stopping brutality. No thought, no hesitation, she buried her face in Dante’s neck, drank in his expensive, darkly sensual cologne and luxuriated in the lashing strength of his arms around her, his long fingers fanning the bare skin on her back....yet he said nothing. He was just there. Where she needed him.
No. No! She didn’t need him. She didn’t need any man. Never had, never would. They let you down, left. Brought nothing but heartache and pain.
So pull away—you have to pull away.
Except...where once cold, she could now feel Dante’s hot breath caressing the underside of her ear, whispering over the highly sensitised skin of her neck and she trembled from tip to toe. Pull away, Eva—do it now. So why did she ignore the screaming in her head and answer the flaming shrill in her blood to sink her fingers into his gorgeous thick hair and pull him closer still?
Another husky, cursing groan rumbled up his hard chest, vibrating over her aching breasts, and her heart began to thrash against her ribcage. This was not good. It felt good but it was a bad, bad idea. He hated her, for Chrissakes. And hadn’t she already learned her lesson with this man?
Loosening her grip on his neck, she eased down from her tippy toes, her fingertips scoring down his sculpted shoulders, unfurling to push him away. But when her palms smoothed over red-hot silk and she felt the carved perfection of his body, heat splashed through her midriff, flooding her core,