Hired: Mistress: Wanted: Mistress and Mother / His Private Mistress / The Millionaire's Secret Mistress. Carol Marinelli

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.’

      ‘Marvellous,’ Katrina smiled, but somehow her face remained cold. ‘Come—let me introduce you to Dante…’

      Matilda was about to say that she’d already met him, but decided against it, as clearly both Hugh and Dante had omitted to mention the dinner to Katrina. She wasn’t sure what to make of Katrina. She was stunning-looking, her posture was straight, her long hair, though dashed with grey, was still an amazing shade of strawberry blonde, and though she had to be around fifty, there was barely a line on her smooth face. But there was a frostiness about her that unsettled Matilda.

      The interior of the house was just as impressive as the exterior. Hugh held open the front door then headed off to Matilda’s car to retrieve her bags and the two women stepped inside and walked along the jarrahfloored hallways, Matilda’s sandals echoing on the solid wood as she took in the soft white sofas and dark wooden furnishings, huge mirrors opening up the already vast space, reflecting the ocean at every turn so that wherever you looked the waves seemed to beckon. Or Jasmine smiled down at you! An inordinate number of photos of Dante’s late wife adorned the walls, her gorgeous face captured from every angle, and Matilda felt a quiet discomfort as she gazed around, her cheeks flaming as she recalled the stinging kiss of Dante.

      ‘My daughter.’ Katrina’s eyes followed Matilda’s and they paused for a moment as they admired her tragic beauty. ‘I had this photo blown up and framed just last week—it’s good for Alex to be able to see her and I know it gives Dante a lot of comfort.’

      ‘It must…’ Matilda stumbled. ‘She really was very beautiful.’

      ‘And clever,’ Katrina added. ‘She had it all, brains and beauty. She was amazing, a wonderful mother and wife. None of us will ever get over her loss.’

      ‘I can’t even begin to imagine…’ Despite the cool breeze from the air-conditioner, despite the high ceilings and vastness of the place, Matilda felt incredibly hot and uncomfortable. Despite her earlier misgivings, she was very keen to meet Dante now—even his savage personality was preferable to the discomfort she felt with Katrina.

      ‘Dante especially,’ Katrina continued, and Matilda was positive, despite her soft words and pensive smile, that there was a warning note to her voice, an icy message emanating from her cool blue eyes. ‘I’ve never seen a man so broken with grief. He just adored her, adored her,’ Katrina reiterated. ‘Do you know, the day she died he sent flowers to her office. It was a Saturday but she had to pop into work and get some files. She took Alex with her—that was the sort of woman she was. Anyway, Dante must have rung every florist in Melbourne. He wanted to send her some jasmine, her namesake, but it was winter, of course, so it was impossible to find, but Dante being Dante he managed to organise it—he’d have moved heaven and earth for her.’

      It was actually a relief to get into the kitchen. After Katrina’s onslaught it was actually a relief to confront the man she’d been so nervous of meeting again. But as she stepped inside it was as if she was seeing him for the very first time. The man she remembered bore little witness to the one she saw now. Everything about him seemed less formal. Of course, she hadn’t expected him to greet her in a suit—it was Sunday after all—but somehow she’d never envisaged him in jeans and a T-shirt, or, if she had, it would have been in dark, starched denim and a crisp white designer label T-shirt, not the faded, scruffy jeans that encased him, not the untucked, unironed white T-shirt that he was wearing. And she certainly hadn’t pictured him at a massive СКАЧАТЬ