Jane Porter - Mistress To a Latin Lover

JANE PORTER

CATHY WILLIAMS

MELANIE MILBURNE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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BY

JANE PORTER

Jane Portergrew up on a diet of Mills & Boon ®romances, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight, and spent many of her school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now Jane has settled down in rugged Seattle, Washington, with her gorgeous husband and two sons. Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, USA. Or visit her website at www.janeporter.com

Don’t miss Jane Porter’s exciting new novel, Duty, Desire and the Desert King, available in November 2009 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

For Kim Young,

a fantastic editor who understands the writer and

the writing process. I love working you with you! Jane

SHE was sleeping with the enemy now .

With his gut clenched, muscles rock hard, Maximos watched Cassandra, his woman, his lover, take Emilio Sobato’s hand as she stepped from the low sports car onto the sun dappled drive.

Torn between fascination and revulsion, Maximos saw Emilio’s arms close around Cass’s slender frame, watched as Emilio’s dark head tipped, watched his enemy’s mouth brush Cass’s beautiful ear.

Maximos swallowed roughly, bile rising in his throat.

You shouldn’t be surprised, he told himself, trying to make himself move from the palazzo window. Women are just as treacherous as men .

If not more so .

But Cass hadn’t seemed like the type to play a man for a fool. Cass had been different.

Or had she?

His gut burned. He felt like he’d drunk a liter of battery acid.

Why had he thought she was different? How well did he know her? For that matter, how well did any man really know a woman?

The door to his study opened. He heard footsteps, and then a light hand touched his back. “Emilio’s here.”

It was Adriana, his baby sister, and this was the weekend of her wedding. Tonight was a reception at the palazzo honoring the bride and groom. “So I see,” Maximos answered, his deep voice betraying none of his anger.

“He’s brought one of his tramps with him, too,” Adriana continued in the same hushed, furious tone. “How dare he do that to you? To Mama? To any of us? What kind of man is he?”

Maximos’s lips curved as he stared out the window, but he wasn’t looking at Emilio. He was studying Cass, taking in her chic high heels, her formfitting black lace blouse, the cut of her elegant black knit skirt which showcased the most incredible legs he’d ever seen in his life.

He knew those legs intimately.

For nearly three years he’d owned those legs, parted them, tasted them, wrapped them around his waist as he’d taken her, made her his.

And he’d made her his, many, many times over the two and a half years they were together.

She’d been the ideal lover, the perfect mistress—until she broke the agreement. And then he’d done what they’d agreed they’d do. He left. Moved on.

Now it’d seemed she’d moved on, too.

Maximos glanced at his sister, his rueful expression concealing more than it revealed. “What kind of man is he?” Maximos repeated his sister’s question. “We already know the answer to that.” He reached out, strummed Adriana’s flushed cheek, her beautiful features tight with indignation. “A backstabber—”

“A snake,” Adriana interrupted hotly.

“And a thief,” he concluded evenly.

For a moment neither spoke, both lost in thought before he turned back to the window to gaze out on the palazzo’s entrance where Emilio and Cass were now climbing the front steps.

Adriana stepped closer to him, pressing her face into his shoulder. “I hate him,” she whispered, voice muffled. “I hate him. I’ll hate him forever for what he did to you.”

He reached up, cupped the back of her head. “He’s not worth it, baby.”

Maximos felt her tense, felt her press even closer and when her entire body shuddered he realized she was crying. “But you are,” she answered, her face still buried in the crook of his arm, her voice rough, thick, the words nearly indistinguishable. “You’ve been Maximos, my big brother, my very own hero, for as long as I can remember.”

For a split second he couldn’t breathe. His chest squeezed, compressed, lungs squashed viselike while his vision went black and suddenly he was thrust back in time, back somewhere so wretched he couldn’t see, think, feel. And in that moment there was no past, no future, no present—just blackness, the blackness that dwelled within the heart of man.

My big brother, my very own hero…

His sister’s innocent words penetrated the darkness shrouding his mind.

Gradually the pressure on his chest eased, and his bursting lungs filled with air. He drew a breath and his vision cleared. The darkness receded and Maximos was able to laugh. “There are no heroes anymore, Adriana. Only men.”

Adriana pulled away, looked up into his face, her dense black lashes damp, matted, with silent tears. “You’re wrong. You’re Sicilian. You’re one of the great ones.” Then with a kiss on his chin, she wrapped an arm around his elbow. “Come, let’s go to my party. I need you there to help us celebrate.”

CHAPTER ONE

“YOU’RE certain you want to do this?” Emilio asked, his tone mocking. “It’s not too late to leave.”

Cass stood perfectly still on the palazzo’s steps, briefly blinded by the intense light of the setting sun, and refused to let herself see-think-feel beyond the moment.

She had to do this.

She didn’t have a choice.

“The second you walk through the doors it’ll be too late.” Emilio was still talking, his words rushing over her like the warmth of the dazzling Sicilian sun. “If you’re going to run scared, do it now.”

Cass’s head jerked up and she forced herself to look at him, focus on his face. Emilio’s lips were curved and yet his eyes were hard. This was no game.

“Once inside those doors, you’re committed.” Emilio leaned toward her, dominating her. He’d once been Maximos’s best friend and former business partner but the two were enemies now. “Don’t think you can run away then.”

The ugliness in his eyes repelled her. She turned her head, smoothed her black skirt, made sure her fitted lace blouse lay flat over the waistband of her narrow skirt. “I’m not running,” she said huskily, before glancing up at the imposing face of the palazzo, the Giuliano family villa. The tall slender stone columns flanking the doorway supported a lovely iron balcony. Smaller iron balconies framed each of the white painted French doors overlooking the medieval piazza. It was a beautiful impressive home.