CAROL MARINELLI - Hired - Mistress - Wanted - Mistress and Mother / His Private Mistress / The Millionaire's Secret Mistress

Till now.

And just as she dived into complete oblivion, just as she would have given anything, anything for this moment to continue, for him to douse the fire within her, he wrenched his head away, an expression she couldn’t read in his eyes as he looked coolly down at her.

‘I should go.’

Words failing her, Matilda couldn’t even nod, embarrassment creeping in now. He could have taken her there and then—with one crook of his manicured finger she would have led him inside, would have made love to him, would have let him make love to her. What was it with this man? Emotionally he troubled her, terrified her even, yet still she was drawn to him, physically couldn’t resist him. She had never felt such compulsion, a macabre addiction almost, and she hadn’t even know him a day.

‘I will see you on Sunday.’ His voice was completely normal and his hands were still on her trembling body. She stared back at him, unable to fathom that he could appear so unmoved, that he was still standing after what they’d just shared. Blindly she nodded, her hair tumbling down around her face, eyes frowning as Dante reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a handful of chocolate mints, the same ones she had surreptitiously taken at the restaurant.

‘I took these at the restaurant for you…’ Taking her hand, he filled it with the sweet chocolate delicacies. She could feel them soft and melting through the foil as he closed her fingers around them. ‘I know you wanted to do the same!’

An incredulous smile broke onto her lips at the gesture, a tiny glimmer that maybe things were OK, that the attraction really was mutual, that Dante didn’t think any less of her because of what had just taken place. ‘You stole them?’ Matilda gave a tiny half-laugh, recalling their earlier conversation.

‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head and doused any fledgling hope with one cruel sentence, cheapened and humiliated her with his strange euphemism. ‘Why would I steal them when, after all, they were there for the taking?’

WHAT she had been expecting, Matilda wasn’t sure—an austere, formal residence, surrounded by an overgrown wilderness, or a barren landscape perhaps—but with directions on the passenger seat beside her she’d found the exclusive street fairly easily and had caught her breath as she’d turned into it, The heavenly view of Port Phillip Bay stretched out for ever before her. Chewing on her lip as she drove, the sight of the opulent, vast houses of the truly rich forced her to slow down as she marvelled at the architecture and stunning gardens, tempted to whip out her faithful notepad and jot down some notes and deciding that soon she would do just that. The thought of long evenings with nothing to do but avoid Dante was made suddenly easier. She could walk along the beach with her pad, even wander down to one of the many cafés she had passed as she’d driven through the village—there was no need to be alone with him, no need at all.

Unless she wanted to be.

Pulling into the kerb, Matilda raked a hand through her hair, tempted, even at the eleventh hour, to execute a hasty U-turn and head for the safety of home. Since she’d awoken on Saturday after a restless sleep, she’d been in a state of high anxiety, especially when she’d opened the newspaper and read with renewed interest about the sensational trial that was about to hit the Melbourne courts and realising that it wasn’t just her that was captivated by Dante Costello. Apart from the salacious details of the upcoming trial, a whole article had been devoted solely to Dante, and the theatre that this apparently brilliant man created, from his scathing tongue and maverick ways in the courtroom to the chameleon existence he’d had since the premature death of his beloved wife, his abrupt departure from the social scene, his almost reclusive existence, occasionally fractured by the transient presence of a beautiful woman—anodynes, Matilda had guessed, that offered a temporary relief. And though it had hurt like hell to read it, Matilda had devoured it, gleaning little, understanding less. The face that had stared back at her from the newspaper pages had been as distant and as unapproachable as the man she had first met and nothing, nothing like the Dante who had held her in his arms, who had kissed her to within an inch of her life, who had so easily awoken the woman within—the real Dante she was sure she’d glimpsed.

Matilda had known that the sensible thing to do would be to ring Hugh and tell him she couldn’t do the work after all—that something else had come up. Hell, she had even dialled his number a few times, but at the last minute had always hung up, torn between want and loathing, outrage and desire, telling herself that it wouldn’t be fair to let Hugh down, and sometimes almost managing to believe it. As honourable as it sounded, loyalty to Hugh had nothing to do with her being there today. Dante totally captivated her—since the second she’d laid eyes on him he was all she thought about.

All she thought about, replaying their conversations over and over, jolting each and every time she recalled some of his sharper statements, wondering how the hell he managed to get away with it, how she hadn’t slapped his arrogant cheek. And yet somehow there had been a softer side and it was that that intrigued her. Despite his brutality she’d glimpsed something else—tiny flickers of beauty, like flowers in a desert—his dry humour, the stunning effect of his occasional smile on her, the undeniable tenderness reserved exclusively for his daughter. And, yes, Matilda acknowledged that the raw, simmering passion that had been in his kiss had left her hungry for more,

‘Careful.’ Matilda said the word out loud, repeated it over and over in her mind as she slipped the car into first gear and slowly pulled out into the street, driving a couple of kilometres further with her heart in her mouth as she braced herself to face him again, her hand shaking slightly as she turned into his driveway and pressed the intercom, watching unblinking as huge metal gates slid open and she glimpsed for the first time Dante’s stunning home.

The drive was as uncompromising and as rigid as its owner, lined with cypress trees drawing the eye along its vast, straight length to the huge, Mediterranean-looking residence—vast white rendered walls that made the sky look bluer somehow, massive floor-to-ceiling windows that would drench the home in light and let in every inch of the stunning view. She inched her way along, momentarily forgetting her nerves, instead absorbing the beauty. The harsh lines of the house were softened at the entrance by climbers—wisteria, acres of it, ambled across the front of the property, heavy lilac flowers hanging like bunches of grapes, intermingled with jasmine, its creamy white petals like dotted stars, the more delicate foliage competing with the harsh wooden branches of the wisteria. The effect, quite simply, was divine.

‘Welcome!’ Hugh pulled open the car door for her and Matilda stepped out onto the white paved driveway, pathetically grateful to see him—not quite ready to face Dante alone. ‘Matilda, this is my wife Katrina.’ He introduced a tall, elegant woman who stepped forward and shook her hand, her greeting the antithesis of Hugh’s warm one. Cool blue eyes blatantly stared Matilda up and down, taking in the pale blue cotton shift dress and casual sandals she was wearing and clearly not liking what she saw. ‘You’re nothing like I was expecting. I expected…’ she gave a shrill laugh…‘I don’t know. You don’t look like a gardener!’

‘She’s a designer, Katrina,’ Hugh said with a slight edge.

‘I’m very hands-on, though,’ Matilda said. ‘I like to see the work through from beginning to end.’