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

“Yes.”

“For the entire two years?”

She felt rather than saw him step closer, felt the sudden sizzle of energy, the electric sexual tension that always hummed between them. “Yes.”

Yes. Her heart did a double thump, hard, uneven, fast. Too fast. He was now standing too close. “And there’s been no one since?”

“Cass—”

“I have to know.”

“Why? What good will it do? If I had a one-night stand with some nameless woman, will it change anything between us?”

“Maybe. Possibly.” She gave him her most evil eye. “No.”

“So?”

“But did you?”

He made a hoarse sound, part exasperation, part amusement. “No.”

She breathed in, breathing in the achingly familiar scent of him, feeling his warmth, his sheer physical strength. Even without him touching her she could remember the caress of his hand, the heat of his palm, the way his fingers wrapped around hers.

With him she’d known a life no one else had ever shown her. Known emotion, passion, a scope of feeling that had been everything she’d ever wanted—and more and the desire returned full force.

Her belly clenched. Her legs felt odd, and she kept crossing her legs, holding the emptiness in, fighting the ache as if desire could be so easily answered.

She wanted him.

She needed him to drag her to him, make her straddle his lap, sinking deeply into him.

She remembered it all, remembered the way he’d bury himself in her, remembered the way she’d wrap herself around him. Remembered how slowly he’d take her, love her, remembered how he’d drag the pleasure out.

She wanted him now. She wanted release. A reprieve.

But it wasn’t going to happen. It couldn’t. Not with things so complicated between them now. “You should go back to the restaurant,” she said, trying to be practical, do the right thing. “Sophia’s waiting—”

“She’s not. She’s going home with her parents. Her family lives not far from here. Besides, as I told you, we’re not together, not the way you think.”

“But Emilio said—”

“And you believed him?”

She licked her bottom lip carefully. “I wasn’t sure what to believe.”

Maximos looked at her, no emotion anywhere in his dark eyes, on his face, and again the silence stretched, the tension growing. “You should have never come here.”

Cass swallowed the knot of desire burning in her throat, matching the fire in her lower belly. She ached all over, hot with want, hot with need. “You’re probably right.”

“Maybe you’re the one that should leave,” he added. “Maybe you should run.”

Run, she repeated silently, thinking it was the same word Emilio had used earlier on the palazzo’s front steps. Run.

Run to whom? There was no one to go to.

Run where? Back to Rome where she still lived and worked? Back to the luxurious, sprawling penthouse suite Maximos had bought for her three years ago when he’d wanted her more than life itself? When he’d been determined to have her—no matter the cost?

“Yes,” she agreed, knowing intellectually that she had to leave this place and never come back, never speak to Maximos again, never have contact with him because she’d never get over him, never recover from him, if she thought, hoped, believed she might still have a chance.

“This isn’t what we should be doing.” His voice was quiet, but she sensed the storm beneath the calm. “We shouldn’t be alone, not like this.”

“I know. I’m a wicked woman, and bad for your reputation.”

He grimaced. “That’s the problem. I like wicked women. And I don’t trust myself alone with you.”

It was what she wanted, what she needed to hear, and it should have made her feel victorious but it only made her afraid. If he made love to her now, he’d blame her. If he lost control, it would be because of lust, not love. And she wanted love, his love. She’d had his body but God help her, this time she wanted his heart.

“Then you better go now.” Her voice cracked. “Because I won’t be the bad girl anymore. I’m actually not that bad.”

“You want me to go?”

Yes. No.

No.

No.

Acid tears filled her eyes and she drew a breath that cut her from the inside out. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

He’d done this to her, she thought, struggling to nod even as she stared up into his hard beautiful face, losing herself in his dark silent eyes. He’d brought her to this. He knew her better than anyone—had made love to her—and still he’d cast her off.

She had to get over him, had to get rid of him. If she were smart she’d take his heart out.

But first she’d have to rip out her own.

The bitterest of emotions filled her and she looked away, precariously close to losing control.

Either he needed to go or she did, but this couldn’t continue, not a minute longer. She missed him—Maximos—the man she loved and that was the man she wanted, not this hard distant stranger.

Silence filled the room, and then the sound of footsteps, Maximos’s footsteps and then came the firm but distinct closing of the bedroom door.

Cass jerked around, turning swiftly toward the door, tears flooding her eyes.

But Maximos wasn’t gone. He was there, at the door, and he was turning the antiquated dead bolt, locking them in.

“What now?” he asked, watching her.