Mistress To a Latin Lover: The Sicilian's Defiant Mistress / The Italian's Pregnant Mistress / The Italian's Mistress

“Brainpower, too, I’m sure.”

“He’s not as smart as he thinks.”

Cass studied Emilio coolly as he discarded his shirt. It sounded as if Emilio had a sizable chip on his shoulder, too. “If you’re going to continue undressing, can you please go into the bathroom?”

“It’s just a body.”

“A body I don’t want to see.”

He made an exasperated sound. “We’re supposed to be engaged.”

He was really going to try to milk that one for as much as he could, wasn’t he?

Irritably she stood, pointed to the bathroom, refusing to be drawn into another verbal skirmish. “Go, now, or I’m leaving. You choose.”

He shrugged. “Whatever.” But he disappeared into the bathroom and with relief she heard the shower turn on.

Cass was just stepping into her turquoise gown when a knock sounded at the door. She managed to get the zipper in the back halfway up when the knock sounded again, harder, louder.

Clutching the gaping dress to her breasts, she opened the door a crack and peeked out. Maximos. “Ciao,” she said awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

“Ciao.” He mocked her casual greeting.

Silence fell. She stared at him. He’d also showered and changed, dressed now in a dark suit with a stunning charcoal shirt and matching tie. He looked elegant, powerful, untouchable.

“I’ve come to apologize,” he said stiffly.

She nodded once, her body growing hot, heat rising, flooding her face and for a moment there was just silence, but the silence wasn’t quiet. She could feel his intensity, feel his tension.

There was something about him, something about his size, his stillness, his intentness that made her hopelessly aware of him, as well as herself. He made her too aware of her feelings, and her attraction.

She shouldn’t be attracted. She shouldn’t still feel so much and the danger was—she felt everything. Felt even more than she had before: hurt, anger, fear, need, desire. Love was gone but somehow the absence of love didn’t dim the physical craving.

She wanted him.

Craved his skin, hands, mouth, body.

Needed him against her.

Taking her.

The desire whipped through her, a torment of the senses.

The sex had always been hot, explosive. Maximos’s hunger had a raw edge, a primitive desire that thrilled her.

She hated him now but wanted relief.

From the memories.

From the pain.

From the impossible need.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated stiffly, curtly. “That shouldn’t have happened. It was wrong. Please accept my apology.”

Was an apology the same thing as asking for forgiveness? No. And he knew it. Because he didn’t need or want forgiveness—he was too detached, too powerful, to care what another thought, or felt.

Her eyes searched his, trying to see past the rigid shield he kept before him, but his mask was too strong, the habit of hiding himself too engrained.

“Of course,” she answered just as stiffly.

His dark head inclined, the inky strands neatly combed back from the strong planes of his face, his jaw freshly shaven smooth, and just like that she felt a strange flutter in her middle, the wings of fear and need, hope and desire and the intense emotions made her hate herself, hate him.

She wished she didn’t feel so much around him.

Desperately wished she didn’t still feel so much for him.

Maximos abruptly turned his head, listening to something. The shower had just turned off. Maximos glanced past her, to the closed bathroom. “He’s here?” he guessed.

“In the bathroom.”

“In the bathroom,” he repeated tightly, disapprovingly.

“We’re sharing a room.”

His brow lowered, his expression dark. “Not in my house.”

“Maximos—”

“Not in my house,” he repeated, standing in the hallway thinking the worst sort of thoughts.

Cassandra here. Cassandra engaged to Emilio. Cassandra sleeping with Emilio.

He saw red, blood-red, and happily contemplated murder. Emilio would pay. Emilio should pay. Finally. He’d committed inexcusable crimes and he’d never even been punished.

But Cassandra wasn’t intimidated and she wasn’t backing down. Instead she tilted her head, met his gaze squarely. “It was the room given to me. The room given to us,” she said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world for her and Sobato to be together.

“I’m changing your room,” he said tersely. “Sobato will stay here.”

“That’s silly. I’ve already unpacked.”

“Repack.”

She gave him a disdainful look, one that said he might be Sicilian and he might be the don of this castle, but she wasn’t accustomed to begging, and she wasn’t going to start groveling now. “No.”

And that, he thought was a most interesting answer. She’d never refused him anything before. She was a changed woman now.

“Turn around,” he said, distracted by her gaping gown, which gave him a glimpse of her full breasts. He knew her body so well, knew the shape and satin texture of the breast, the even silkier texture of the aureole and nipple. “Let me get your zipper.”