Jane Porter - Mistress To a Latin Lover

Maximos reached for her, brushed Emilio’s hand from her arm, and brought her toward him, brought her close enough so she could feel his warmth, smell the subtle scent of his elegant cologne. Even built as hard, as rough as Maximos was, she found him impossibly attractive. She loved his eyes, his cheekbones, his jaw, his mouth.

His mouth.

Her gaze clung to his mouth, to his incredible mouth, and his firm lips that always softened against hers…

“Your dress,” Maximos repeated, his hands firm on her shoulders, his hands both comforting and a torment, a pleasure and a tease. She remembered the way his hands used to caress her, hold her, touch her. She loved his hands. Loved the way he’d made her feel. Because he’d made her feel…and feel…

“How did it rip?” he asked again.

She looked up at him, feeling blind, exposed. “Stepped on it, I think.”

“You think?” Maximos’s eyebrows lowered.

“It’s been a long day.” She tried to smile, but her lips quivered with the effort. She was fighting emotion, fighting passion, fighting memory. At that moment she thought she’d give just about anything for one more night with him. She’d give anything to be loved…wanted…cherished.

But he didn’t cherish her. He liked sex. Because the sex was good. No, the sex was fantastic. But it wasn’t really her that kept his attention. It was just her body.

Blinking back tears, Cass tried to lift her chin. “It’s hard to keep everything straight.”

“The stories, you mean?” he asked gently, but the question was perceptive. Maximos was sharp. Too sharp. She felt her smile slip and the grittiness returned to her eyes.

“It’s a warm night,” he added, “but not that warm.” And before she knew what he was doing, Maximos was shrugging out of his black dinner jacket and draping it around her shoulders.

She bit her lip as she felt his hands clasp her shoulders, a brief touch but comforting, especially after the awful day she’d had.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unable to look up and meet his eye. This was Maximos, her Maximos, the man who’d been her heart, her soul, her world for three years…

And then he was turning away, returning to Sophia where she waited for him near the front of the restaurant.

The seating for the dinner had been preassigned and Emilio and Cass had been given seats at the end of the table farthest from the members of the wedding party.

As they sat down, their end of the table fell silent and everyone turned to look at them. Despite Maximos’s coat wrapped around her, Cass still felt exposed as she sat down and drew her chair closer to the table, pretending to be oblivious of the pointed stares.

No one wanted them there.

It was worse than awkward, she thought, glancing at Emilio.

“Ever feel like everyone hates you?” Emilio asked, propping his elbows on the table and leaning toward Cass.

“ Yes .” She felt like an intruder, and she hated forcing herself on the Guiliano family now. Weddings were special occasions, once in a lifetime celebrations to be shared with those nearest and dearest not with strangers or family enemies.

But Emilio chuckled as he whispered in Cass’s ear. “Isn’t it great?”

“No,” she answered, lifting a shoulder, puzzled by Emilio’s behavior.

Emilio didn’t care that no one wanted him there. In fact, the more people excluded him, the more people whispered, the happier he became. He’d come to inflict pain and misery and he was succeeding brilliantly.

“God, I hate these people,” he said abruptly, savagely. “They’re a bunch of hypocritical snobs.”

“And yet you came for the weekend.”

“I came to make a point.”

Cass took a nervous sip from her wineglass before carefully placing it back on the linen tablecloth. “And what point would that be?”

“That they can’t touch me.” His expression cleared and he looked almost good-humored and boyish again. “That they’ll never be able to touch me. Because I’m smarter than they are. At least I’m smarter than good old Max.”

She glanced down the table to look at Maximos, and just then, Maximos lifted his head, met her gaze. For a moment she and Maximos stared at each other, sizing the other up, the way they had that first night at the reception in New York.

They’d met at a business function in New York and the attraction had been immediate and intense. They’d barely made it out of the reception and into a taxi before Maximos’s hand had slid beneath her dress to find her hot, feverish skin.

There’d been no looking back after that. She wanted him, and she’d wait for him, and she did.

In the beginning, the waiting had been a game. She’d see how well she could fill the time between his calls. She knew he’d eventually call—he always did—but it was her game that helped her survive.

It helped that she knew when he’d—and when he wouldn’t—call. He never phoned early in the morning. He never phoned before early afternoon, and even then, it was unlikely. If he called, it would be late afternoon, from his limo, on the way to someplace, or late at night when he’d returned to his penthouse. But otherwise, he didn’t call.

She wouldn’t just sit there. She’d go do her own thing. But in the back of her mind, she’d know when he should call, or when he possibly might, and despite her best intentions, she’d try to be available. Which meant keeping phones on, available. Which meant being only so engaged with something that she could drop all when he did call.

It hadn’t seemed so bad at first. She’d been genuinely busy that first year but it had gotten worse. Harder. It had gotten to the point that the nights between calls became a point of madness. Pain. Call me. Call me. Call me. She’d watch the clock, watch the minutes slowly change and think, I could have weeks of this…I might not hear from him for weeks still.

And that’s how the anger began to build. That’s when she realized becoming his mistress had been the most dangerous, self-destructive thing she could have done. Because waiting for him, waiting on him, waiting to be loved made her doubt everything about herself. Including her self-worth.

The waiting created need, and anger, and resentment. But then, when Maximos did finally call, he’d be so warm, so interested, so devoted. She’d agree to see him and being with him, alone with him, would make her throw caution to the wind. She loved making love with Maximos, loved everything about the sex and the emotion and the intimacy, and she’d lose herself, lose control.

The lovemaking was unreal in its intensity. The lovemaking made her believe in love.

And then there were the trips they took together. He’d book her into a lavish resort and he might or might not stay with her. He might or might not have business. He might or might not spend an entire night with her and the uncertainty of it all became an obsession. Why did she have so little of him? Why was their life together so brief, so short, so rigidly controlled?

As her frustration grew and her anger mounted, she knew she needed to get out of his life and back into hers. But it had been so long since she’d really thought about what she needed—other than more of Maximos—that when she looked inside herself it was just a big black hole.

“You can’t take your eyes off him.” Emilio’s hard voice sounded in her ear.

Cass jumped guiltily. “What did you say?”

“You’ve been staring at him ever since we sat down.” Emilio turned her chair to face his. “He’s got you in the palm of his hand again, doesn’t he? One night in his house and you’re his little plaything again. God, how pathetic!”

“You know nothing.”

He laughed, his expression bitter, brutal. “I know women like you. Women that pretend to be smart and strong until you get them in bed. Women who act independent, but find their hot button and make them come and they’re your slave for life.”