Diana Hamilton - The Italian's Trophy Mistress

She had ended their affair because he bored her?

Dio! But he would teach her differently! By the time he decided to end it she would be begging him to let her stay, clinging, pleading, promising him the earth, moon and stars if only he would keep her with him.

Or his name wasn’t Cesare Gianluca Andriotti!

She’s his in the bedroom,

but he can’t buy her love…

The ultimate fantasy becomes a reality

in

Harlequin Presents ®.

Live the dream with more

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The Bedroom Surrender by Emma Darcy

(#2356) on sale in November

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

‘DARLINGS—have you heard? Henry Croft is divorcing his third wife and moving on to number four!’

Across the candlelit dinner table Claudia Neill’s black eyes sparked with what Bianca Jay could only describe as malicious glee, and a shiver inched coldly down her spine as Cesare’s younger sister continued, the sympathetic curve of her mouth at odds with the spiteful relish of her tone. ‘Amanda’s absolutely gutted, of course. The poor thing’s been living on a knife-edge since Henry was photographed at the Oscars with that busty little film star—whose name escapes me for the moment—but you know the one. Bit parts, mostly, huge blonde hair down to her waist. Used to sing in a pop group. Mind you, poor Amanda will get lots of lovely alimony—’

Claudia gave a languid shrug, her naked shoulders smooth as silk above the little black slip dress she was wearing. ‘However big the settlement, it won’t make up for being dumped for a younger, flashier model, will it? But what did poor Amanda expect? Marry a man with a roving eye, an image to live up to and more money than he knows what to do with and you can think yourself lucky if you last more than a couple of years!’

Was she supposed to answer that? Bianca wondered grittily as she tried to ignore the sudden lurch of her stomach. For the hundredth time she wished she hadn’t so weakly agreed to come. But Cesare had told her, ‘I’m sorry about this, especially as it’s my first night back in London. But it’s my little sister’s birthday and I promised to give her dinner at my apartment. There’ll only be the four of us. You, me, Claudia and Alan. And they won’t stay late; I believe their babysitter won’t stay beyond eleven—she can’t take the strain of trying to get those two little monsters to stay in bed! And then there will be just the two of us.’

And, as always, she had found him dangerously impossible to resist.

Throughout the evening she’d been thinking of that danger. It was a subject that had been occupying her mind almost constantly over the past few weeks. To tell him their six-month relationship was over before she got in too deep, did herself some serious damage. Or go on as they were, knowing that the day would inevitably come when he would tell her their affair was over. It was a decision she simply had to make.

‘Of course—’ Claudia was practically purring now, smiling sideways at her doting husband, one hand dipping a silver spoon into her strawberry sorbet, the other playing with the sapphire pendant that had been Cesare’s birthday gift to her ‘—Alan’s not wealthy enough to trade me in, so I guess I’m pretty safe.’ A fluting laugh, as artificial as tinsel, then her dark eyes fed on Bianca’s suddenly pale face. ‘And at least you and Cesare know where you stand, don’t you, my darlings? All the fun of a temporary affair with none of the chores of marriage.’

‘Chores?’ Alan lifted one sandy brow in an imitation of pained outrage, and Claudia rolled her dark eyes.

‘Oh, you know, caro—squabbling over my dress allowance, dealing with the twins’ tantrums, organising babysitters—’

But Bianca wasn’t listening. That had been a direct dig at her mistress status. It wasn’t a status she was remotely proud of. A rich man’s trophy, to be paraded around all the right places, casually introduced to his circle of exalted friends, and just as casually dropped when someone new and exciting piqued his interest.

She had met Cesare Andriotti through her PR work, organising the opening shindig for the latest in the string of luxury hotel, leisure and conference complexes owned by his illustrious family and bearing the Andriotti name.

It had been lust at first sight, she recalled, ignoring the friendly bickering going on between Claudia and her husband.

She’d known it was dangerous, not what she wanted. She was career-driven, independent, and had no time for a steady personal relationship—a husband and family wouldn’t fit in with the largely unsociable hours she worked, with the often draining emotional commitments she already had.

And how many times had she told herself that Cesare Andriotti was the kind of man she had most reason to despise?

Countless.

Wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, drop-dead handsome, with barrow-loads of Italian charisma and the almost indefinable touch of arrogance that sent delicious shivers down the spine of any female in his vicinity. The kind of men who had everything, who took mistresses, showered them with gifts, and felt they had the perfect right to drop them flat—very politely, with oodles of charm, of course—just when they felt like it.

She had tried to keep him at arm’s length—at least, that was what she had told herself she’d been doing—but within a month of first meeting him she’d become his mistress. She simply hadn’t been able to help herself. He had overwhelmed her, ridden roughshod over each and every one of her objections—moral, practical and self-preserving.

His eyes were on her; she could feel them. Her spine tingled. He’d been watching her ever since his sister had made that barbed comment about them having only a temporary affair.

She refused to turn her head and look at him, meet those incredibly sexy, slate-grey moody eyes, let her own eyes linger on that passionate mouth or devour the lean and whippy lines of that elegantly clad, seemingly indolent body. To do so would mean she would be lost, the ever-hardening resolve to end their affair blown apart in her body’s consuming need for him.

‘Might I ask a favour, sir?’ Alan asked gruffly, reddening as he amended, ‘Cesare.’