Victoria Parker: A Reputation to Uphold

‘Which is why we need to talk,’ he ground out. How could he take control of the situation if he didn’t know what was at stake? His brain was still having problems processing what his ears told him. ‘Is what Claire said correct? You make wedding gowns and you won the contract for the next Duchess?’

Screeching to a halt on the lower patio, she stood stock-still...then turned around eerily slowly, bristled and nigh on exploded in front of him, arms thrusting in the air. ‘Why are you so incredulous?’

Why, indeed?

‘Maybe I pictured you drinking yourself into oblivion and sleeping till noon. Partying yourself onto the front pages every day can be exhausting, so they say.’ He gave her an unaffected shrug that tore at his spleen. Because suddenly his memories veered from Eva splashed across the headlines to his mother. Stumbling through the door half-dressed. Slurring her words. Polluting the air with the stench of whisky and vomit. Invariably with another man in tow.

‘In all honesty,’ he continued, the unwelcome memories making his stomach revolt, his voice bitter, ‘I never thought you could manage a day’s work in your life. So I am surprised. That is all.’ Surprised? She might as well have stunned him with a laser gun. He did not like the feeling. It blasted his equilibrium to pieces.

Blinking, her stunned mouth worked around words. ‘Oh, just go away, Dante, and leave me be. Go seduce your bride. I hope you’ll both be very happy. Burning in hell.’

Then off she went, swerving around the cobbled stone path. Dante rocked on his heels, 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.