At Her Latin Lover's Command: The Italian Count's Command / The French Count's Mistress / At the Spanish Duke's Command. Susan Stephens

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      Except, she sighed, those feelings had always been one-sided. He’d never loved her. And of course now she understood what lay behind his autocratic bearing and the air of perfect grooming, the perfectly tailored silk suit in a discreet honey colour, the made-to-measure casual cream shirt, and those expensive leather shoes.

      Money. Buckets of it. And breeding.

      She’d been ignorant of all this. When they’d lived in London their lifestyle had been comfortable but not excessively so. Now she knew that he and his family were in a different league altogether, that of the mega-rich.

      She gulped, intimidated by this because he had become a stranger, just by stepping into the higher echelons of Italian society.

      The chauffeur hurried up the steps to meet Dante and was gesticulating and talking rapidly. Probably, Miranda thought uncomfortably, complaining about Lizzie’s high-decibel shrieks and embarrassing remarks. Dante’s eyes narrowed in a suspicious stare and her composure wilted like her body in the blazing sun as she blushed with shame.

      ‘You’d think Carlo would be waiting for you,’ Lizzie complained. ‘Unless Dante’s teaching you a lesson and we’ve come on a wild-goose chase.’

      Fear rooted Miranda to the ground. Had she been dragged here for revenge? To be given hope, only to be told that she could whistle for her son?

      ‘He’ll…be asleep,’ she said, not very convincingly.

      Carlo…where? When? she thought desperately, trying to contain herself. In panic, she listened for the sounds of a child but heard nothing, only a tension-filled silence.

      Feeling chilled to the core despite the hot sun, she waited for Dante to come to her because she couldn’t move an inch. Eventually he dismissed the chauffeur and his long, impeccably clad legs slowly began to descend the steps.

      With infuriating nonchalance, Dante paused on the bottom step, reaching out casually to fiddle with a cascade of geraniums in an antique copper urn.

      Drat him, he must know what she was going through! She’d wring his neck if he continued to play with her feelings!

      ‘Miranda.’ He gave her a mocking bow. No kiss. No handshake. No touching. So she just nodded back, managing to seem cool and contained. ‘Greetings, Elizabeth,’ he murmured to his star-struck sister-in-law. ‘Perhaps you would enjoy touring the house. Make yourself at home, and help yourself to champagne and pastries in the salon.’

      ‘Cool! You bet!’ Eyes sparkling and with her mobile still clamped to her ear, Lizzie leapt up the steps, blissfully unaware that Dante had skilfully got her out of the way.

      His mocking dark eyes followed her sister and his lips curved in a faintly contemptuous smile, the sensual, cresting wave of his mouth sending shivers of remembrance down Miranda’s back.

      She closed her eyes briefly as her body felt the cascade of kisses he used to shower on her. All carefully calculated, she thought bitterly, to keep her sweet until his uncle died! Cured of her stupid mooning, she snapped open her eyes again.

      With a total lack of urgency, Dante turned to Miranda. His gaze slid up her taut body in an arrogant assessment of her graceful figure in the classically cut silk dress and jacket. In Dante’s favourite cornflower-blue, it matched her eyes. Into which, she’d thought with a pang of anguish when she’d selected it, he’d gazed with such devastating results.

      ‘You are thinner,’ he announced, his frown registering his disapproval.

      She bridled immediately. Once she’d loved his intrinsically Italian interest in her body and clothes. Now his interest was insulting and intrusive. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent uninterest.

      ‘My appearance is none of your business. Naturally I’ve been busy. Rushing here, dashing there…’

      And from feeling sick at the sight of food. With agonising cramps in her stomach. Damn you, Dante! she inwardly seethed. Where is my son?

      He corrected the frown which had drawn his brows together.

      ‘You’re right. Your appalling lifestyle in England is no concern of mine any longer, I am glad to say. Tea has been brought to my study,’ he said icily. ‘Follow me.’ When he began to climb the steps again she made no reply but stomped along behind him in silence, trying not to rise to his insult. ‘Nothing to say to me?’ he shot back at her.

      ‘No.’ She’d bide her time. See what he had to say—

      ‘I thought as much,’ he scorned as she caught him up. ‘You’ve just proved something to me.’

      ‘Oh? What might that be?’

      ‘That when I was around you only pretended that you loved Carlo.’

      ‘How on earth do you arrive at that conclusion?’ she demanded indignantly.

      ‘You’ve been separated from him for two weeks. But you haven’t bothered to ask where he is,’ he said with bitter contempt.

      So much for his intuition, she thought, intensely irritated. Didn’t he know her whole mind was screaming for information?

      ‘I saw no point in wasting my breath. I imagined,’ she retorted drily, proud that there was hardly a tremor in her voice at all, ‘that you would tell me when you’re good and ready and not before.’

      He gave a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘How well you know me, Miranda!’ he muttered, indicating that they should enter the building.

      Know him? On the contrary. How could you know a devious, deceitful snake? She would never trust him again. Suddenly, doubts as to his motive for bringing her here filled her head and she came to a halt.

      ‘Just tell me one thing,’ she said evenly, ‘otherwise I see no reason to go any further. Am I going to see my son soon?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ Dante’s eyes flickered. ‘I give you my guarantee that the two of you will be reunited. Please enter. We will talk inside.’

      Her breath shuddered out. It seemed that her fears were groundless and all she needed to do was keep her dignity until Dante relented and let her take Carlo into her arms. Only then would she risk giving way to joy. And tears. She could hardly believe it. The nightmare was almost over.

      CHAPTER THREE

      SUDDENLY she felt unbelievably tired. It was as though all her mental and physical energies had carried her through to this moment. Now she and Carlo were about to be reunited, she could begin to let go.

      Exhaustion washed over her as she followed his tall figure through the huge carved doors. If anything, he seemed better-looking than ever. Her resentful eyes noted the perfect curve that his neat black hair made on the rich, dark skin of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders in the crisp Milanese jacket.

      And in her mind’s eye she could see his sensational back as if he were naked: the firmness of its triangular shape, the slender hips and tight, neat buttocks. The smooth flesh golden and inviting her touch, muscles moving beneath the well-fitted clothes, the thick cords on either side of his spine proclaiming his athleticism and physical power.

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