Childhood in Portsmouth meant grubby knees, flying pigtails and happiness for Sara Wood. Poverty drove her from typist and seaside landlady to teacher, until writing finally gave her the freedom her Romani blood craved. Happily married, she has two handsome sons: Richard is married, calm, dependable, drives tankers; Simon is a roamer – silversmith, roofer, welder, always with beautiful girls. Sara lives in the Cornish countryside. Her glamorous writing life alternates with her passion for gardening which allows her to be carefree and grubby again!
At Her Latin Lover’s Command
THE ITALIAN COUNT’S COMMAND
by
Sara Wood
THE FRENCH COUNT’S MISTRESS
by
Susan Stephens
AT THE SPANISH DUKE’S COMMAND
by
Fiona Hood-Stewart
MILLS & BOON
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THE ITALIAN COUNT’S COMMAND
by
Sara Wood
CHAPTER ONE
‘BAD news. You’d better brace yourself.’ Unusually, his brother sounded sympathetic, his tone low and concerned.
Dante’s fingers closed more tightly on his mobile phone. ‘For what?’ he shot, his heart going crazy in case his worst fears were realised.
‘I’m sorry, Dante. I’m afraid that I have proof your wife is playing around.’ Guido paused but Dante was too shocked to speak. ‘I’m at your house now. She’s upstairs. Drunk, out cold—and…well, I have to tell you that she’s not wearing anything. There’s concrete evidence that she’s been entertaining a lover…’
His brother murmured on but Dante heard nothing. He had retreated into a world of stunned horror that slowly and surely turned to a white-hot fury till his Italian blood was boiling with volcanic rage.
It was true, then. All this time he’d been defending his wife of four years to his brother, insisting that she hadn’t married his bank balance and that she did love him despite her cool reserve. It seemed he’d been wrong. Blinded by her beauty and her modesty.
Modesty? He gave a cynical laugh. Maybe even that had been assumed. Miranda’s reserve had disappeared in a spectacular way whenever they’d made love. Fire hit his belly as he grimly acknowledged that he’d never known such pleasure. She was sensational in bed.
He drew in a sharp breath, pain searing through him as he reflected that maybe she’d had a lot of practice in the art of pleasing a man.
‘Where’s Carlo?’ he jerked, praying that his son was safely with the nanny in some English park.
‘Here in the house,’ Guido said, to Dante’s horror. ‘Yelling his head off. I can’t calm him.’
A burning sickness lurched in his stomach and he swore volubly in gutter Italian. Impotent rage began to cloud his judgement and wild, half-formed plans of revenge played havoc with his normally clear and balanced mind. Appalled by what was happening to him, he shook himself free of the red mist that demanded revenge for his wounded manhood and tried to hang on to his sanity.
He could hardly breathe but he managed to growl out, ‘I’m in a taxi not far from my house. I’ll be home in ten minutes or less.’
‘Ten…! What?!’ gasped Guido. ‘B-but…you can’t be! You’re not supposed to be due back at Gatwick for two hours!’
‘I caught an early flight… Santo cielo! What the hell does it matter?’ he roared, losing his cool.
Guido seemed to be panicking about something but Dante had enough to worry about. Overwhelmed by helpless fury, he turned off his mobile and told the cabbie to drive like hell.
She was rocking. Being shaken. It hurt her head to move and she tried to ward her attacker off but her arms wouldn’t do as they were told.
She groaned. Someone had put her entire skull in a pot and brought it to the boil. It was swelling inside, driving her mad. But at least the awful screaming had stopped at last. It had sounded like a child…
‘Miranda! Miranda!’
Rough fingers gripped her arm as the grating tones pierced the chaos of her brain. She must be sick. That was it. Flu.
‘Helllp mmme,’ she mumbled through a thick and lolling tongue.
And found herself being lifted. Frightened, she found she could do nothing because her limbs had become paralysed. With a horrible swoop she was lowered onto the cold, hard tiles of what must be the shower.
‘Open your eyes!’ snarled a furious voice.
She couldn’t. They’d been superglued. Oh, God! What was happening to her? She felt her stomach heave. And was suddenly sick.
Words whirled around her. Bitter, vicious words that she didn’t understand. Her brain just wouldn’t process them.
‘Aaah!’
She choked and spluttered as a fierce spray of ice-cold water jetted straight into her face. It continued mercilessly, punishing her slumped body until she finally managed to open her eyes a fraction.
‘Dante!’ Seeing him, she felt a rush of sheer relief and gave a little sob. Everything would be all right now. His face hovered above hers, her fever making his features look threatening and distorted. Frightened, she clutched at the rim of the shower. ‘Ill,’ she muttered weakly.
‘I wish. You’re drunk, you whore!’ he flung in disgust. And walked out.
Struck dumb by his reaction, she stayed crouched in the shower, incapable of making sense of this nightmare. That was it. A dream. She had a fever and this was an hallucination. If she closed her eyes she might wake up feeling better…
His mouth tightened as he strode off to check out the master bedroom thoroughly. Tangled sheets. Two bottles of champagne, two glasses. Miranda’s clothes scattered haphazardly about the room. He swallowed. On the floor was a pair of men’s briefs. And they weren’t his.
There was the final proof. He felt his hand shaking as he accepted a glass of brandy from Guido.
‘I did try to warn you a long while ago,’ his brother said gently.
‘I know.’
His own voice startled him. It had been nothing more than a whisper. The shock of Miranda’s infidelity had taken away all his strength, all his pride and confidence. Rammed them both down his throat. Sat there laughing at him for being such a fool.
Knocking back the brandy, he returned to his son, who had been yelling his head off when he’d arrived. He’d gone to him first, of course. It had taken him several minutes to calm Carlo down. Finally his son had fallen asleep, utterly