Forgotten Mistress, Secret Love-Child. Annie West

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      She shivered and sat up straighter, berating herself.

      ‘Please identify yourself,’ she said tersely.

      It couldn’t be him. He’d never follow her to Australia. He’d made that clear when she’d left with her tail between her legs.

      But the memory of the stranger tonight at the ball, the masked man who’d made her think of him, battered at her disbelief. Wildly she shook her head, trying to clear a brain overloaded by exhaustion and stress.

      Was she going mad? Seeing him, even hearing him, when she knew perfectly well he was ensconced in his oh-so-exclusive world of rich, elegant, aristocratic friends. Of high-flying business deals and blue blood and glamour.

       Where people like her only provided brief amusement.

      ‘Don’t pretend not to know me, Carys. I have no time for puerile games.’ He paused as if waiting for her to rush into speech. ‘It’s Alessandro Mattani.’

      Silence throbbed as she clutched the receiver. Her heart crashed against her ribs. She would have slid to the floor if she hadn’t already been sitting.

      ‘Alessandro…’

      ‘Mattani. I’m sure you recognise the name.’ His voice was sharp as a razor.

      Recognise the name! Once she’d even hoped to share it with him.

      A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to explode from her stiff lips. Carys slapped her palm across her mouth, concentrating on deep breaths. She needed oxygen.

      The room spun crazily and dark spots whirled in her vision.

      A clatter jerked her back to full awareness, and she looked down as if from an enormous distance to see the phone had slipped from her nerveless fingers onto the table.

      Alessandro Mattani.

       The man she’d loved.

       The man who’d broken her heart.

      A sound caught her attention and Carys looked up, suddenly aware again of her surroundings. The last of the staff were leaving and waving goodnight.

      Belatedly she lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

      Dazedly she looked around. The stage was set for tomorrow’s fashion show. Enormous jardinières with arrangements of exotic orchids and jungle greenery had been strategically positioned as she’d instructed. The lights were dimmed and she was alone.

      But for the voice on the other end of the line. The voice of her dreams.

      Tentatively, as if reaching out to touch an untamed animal, Carys stretched her fingers to the phone. She lifted it, and a deep voice barked in her ear.

      ‘Carys?’

      ‘I’m here.’

      Silence, but for the impatient hiss of indrawn breath.

      ‘No more games. I want to see you.’

      Well, bully for him. She was past the stage of worrying what Alessandro Mattani wanted.

      Besides, she wasn’t foolish enough to go near him again. Even now she didn’t trust her hard-won defences against the man who’d only had to smile and crook his finger to get what he wanted from her. She’d surrendered her job, all her plans, even her self-respect to be with him.

      Carys stiffened her spine and braced her palm on the table beside her.

      ‘That’s not possible.’

      ‘Of course it’s possible,’ he bit out. ‘I’m just twelve floors away.’

      Twelve floors? Her heart galloped faster. Here, in Melbourne? At the Landford?

      Her gaze swerved to the edge of the dance floor, instinct and disbelief warring.

      ‘That was you tonight? At the ball?’ If she’d been less stunned, she might have cared about how much her strained voice revealed. But she was battling shock. She had no thought to spare for pride.

      He didn’t answer.

      Heat sparked low in her abdomen and washed through her like a flood tide. It had been him. He’d held her in his arms.

      How often had she yearned for his embrace? Despite what she’d told herself about forgetting the past.

      He’d held her and she hadn’t known him?

      But she had, hadn’t she? Despite the new cologne, the paleness of his once-golden skin, the scar.

      Fear jolted through her, stealing her breath.

      He’d been hurt! How badly? Urgent questions clamoured on her tongue.

      Shakily Carys gathered the tattered remnants of control. She ignored the unspoken questions, opting for the most important one.

      ‘What do you want?’ Her voice sounded stretched too thin, like beaten metal about to snap under pressure.

      ‘I’ve already told you.’ Impatience threaded his words. ‘To see you.’

      She couldn’t prevent a snort of disbelief at his words. How times had changed.

      Finally pride came to her rescue.

      ‘It’s late. I’ve had a long day and I’m going home. There’s nothing more to say between us.’ Tentatively she slipped her feet to the floor, waiting to see if her legs would collapse under her.

      ‘Are you sure?’ His words, soft and deep like the alpine eiderdowns they’d once shared, brushed across her senses. His voice was alive with erotic undercurrents.

      She jerked upright.

      Flame licked that secret needy place deep inside her, the place that had been cold and empty ever since she’d left him. The realisation drew her anger.

       No, she wasn’t sure. That was the hell of it.

      ‘I’m in the presidential suite,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ll expect you in ten minutes.’

      ‘You have no right to give me orders.’ Belatedly she found her voice.

      ‘You don’t wish to meet me?’ Incredulity coloured his tone.

      Had he never had a knock-back from a woman?

      Certainly not from her. She’d been putty in his elegant, powerful hands from the instant she’d fallen head over heels for him.

      ‘The past is the past.’ At the last moment she prevented herself saying his name. She didn’t want the sound of it on her lips. It was too intimate, evoked too many memories.

      ‘Perhaps so. But I wish to meet you.’ СКАЧАТЬ