His Cinderella's One-Night Heir

‘Say goodbye to the dog, Belle,’ Dante told her. ‘It’s only for a few days.’

‘He’s scared,’ Belle whispered shakily. ‘He’s never been in a cage before.’

‘Put him in the cage. How are you planning to get him into the UK?’ Dante enquired. ‘Presumably at some point of the journey he will have to tolerate a cage. This will be good practice for him.’

Charlie went into the cage and cowered at the back of it like a dog expecting to be beaten. Stifling a sob, Belle handed over the paperwork Charlie had arrived in France with two years earlier. ‘He looks so pathetic,’ she muttered wretchedly.

‘Yes, he’s feeling very sorry for himself,’ Dante agreed, thinking that Charlie should be onstage because he certainly knew how to work an audience. ‘But you’ll be reunited very soon. Pull yourself together.’

Belatedly, Belle registered that Dante looked very different. No longer casually clad in jeans, he sported an exquisitely tailored dark grey business suit that showcased his tall broad, narrow-hipped physique to perfection. Staring for a moment longer than she was comfortable with, she hurriedly twisted her head away. ‘I am perfectly together. I was just upset,’ she proclaimed defensively.

‘Crying in public is not acceptable unless you’re attending a funeral or a wedding. Saying goodbye momentarily to a dog is not a good enough excuse,’ Dante informed her as her single bag was dropped in the capacious boot of the car and the driver yanked open the passenger door for them.

‘S-sorry,’ Belle said in a wobbly voice, turning her tear-stained face away from him as she climbed into the opulent car.

The car ferried them at speed to Toulouse-Blagnac Airport, where they were rushed through the VIP channel at speed to board Dante’s private jet. Eyes wide from her first glimpse of the opulent oyster-coloured leather seating and the sumptuous interior, Belle accepted the pile of high-fashion magazines the stewardess brought to her and tried not to stare while the same woman flirted madly with Dante with loads of hair flicking, smiles and a provocative wriggle in her too-tight pencil skirt that would’ve caught the attention of a dead man. Dante, however, remained remarkably untouched by the display and flipped open a laptop to work. Belle wondered if women always vied for his attention so blatantly and then asked herself why she was even interested.

He was a breathtakingly handsome guy, rich and sophisticated, as alien to her as snow in the summer heat. Her hormones went all out of kilter around him and she felt uncomfortable in her own body as it betrayed her in ways she hadn’t expected. It had never occurred to her before that she could be attracted to someone she didn’t like, that a mere flashing glance from tigerish dark golden eyes could make her breasts swell and her nipples tighten and a hot dull ache blossom at the junction of her thighs. That weakness was a revelation because it was new to her, but it wasn’t something that particularly worried her.

She was convinced that she would never give way to that kind of temptation because she was painfully aware that sex meant very little unless it was accompanied by genuine feelings. None of her mother’s many affairs had lasted or cured Tracy’s essential dissatisfaction with her life. And Belle wanted much more for herself than a fleeting sexual thrill or a luxurious lifestyle. She wanted love, a man who would make her feel whole and safe, and when she finally found him, she would have a family with him, recreating the family she had both lost and never really had, she thought fondly. He wouldn’t be a commitment-phobe like Dante, who saw women as clingy and probably didn’t like children much more than he liked dogs. He would be an ordinary guy, willing to settle down when he met someone who made him happy.

‘Have you ever been to Paris before?’ Dante asked, watching Belle peer out of the limo windows like a child on a school trip, afraid of missing out on a single sight.

‘No.’

‘And yet you’ve been in France for...how long?’

‘Almost three years.’

‘Why didn’t you travel around?’

‘I couldn’t leave Mrs Devenish or Charlie to look after themselves and, to be honest, I never really had enough money to go off exploring.’

‘Then why did you lumber yourself with a dog into the bargain?’ Dante enquired drily.

‘He wasn’t mine initially. Mrs Devenish’s niece brought Charlie out here as a gift for her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t well enough to look after a puppy, but she did enjoy seeing him round the house,’ Belle confided ruefully. ‘She was a lovely old lady but her relatives didn’t want to accept that she was ill. They liked coming out here in the summer for their holidays and they insisted that I was exaggerating her condition. It took the doctor to convince them otherwise and by that stage, as it turned out, she only had a few more weeks to live.’

‘You need to learn how to stand up for yourself more effectively,’ Dante censured.

Belle shrugged. ‘Only if you can afford to take the consequences and I had neither another job to go to nor anywhere else to live.’

‘You shouldn’t have put yourself in that position.’

‘Haven’t I just done the same thing again with you?’

Dante frowned at her in bemusement. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, I don’t have an employment contract or any safeguards with you either...and you’ve now got Charlie to hold over me,’ she pointed out, lifting her chin.

‘You can’t think I’m likely to hold Charlie hostage? Or ditch you in Paris without money?’ Dante breathed in a raw undertone, insulted beyond belief by her suspicions.

‘Isn’t that what I’m saying?’ Belle murmured gently. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve had to take the risk of trusting you.’

Dante released his breath in a pent-up hiss of displeasure and said nothing, his lean dark face grim. He didn’t enjoy being taxed with the truth.

Belle stepped out of the limousine onto one of the most exclusive streets in Paris and stared wide-eyed at the even more exclusive hotel that Dante was striding towards. Her strained face flushed, and she smoothed down her floral skirt and studied her scuffed boots with embarrassment. She followed him into the foyer, careful to stay behind him and out of sight, almost skidding on the highly polished floor tiles and horribly conscious of the plush silence and the dulled murmur of well-bred voices. She looked up above the atrium entrance to the serried ranks of colonnaded floors above. Never had she been so aware of her shabby appearance and at any moment, if she wasn’t careful enough and drew the wrong person’s attention, she expected a hand to fall on her shoulder and someone to ask her what she was doing there, because she felt like an intruder.

‘You’ve got very quiet,’ Dante remarked as she shot into the lift on his heels and immersed herself in a corner. ‘You have a busy schedule this afternoon.’

Belle looked up at him in bewilderment. ‘Doing what?’

‘Visiting the spa for beauty treatments. Don’t ask me what’s included,’ Dante advised. ‘I told my PA you needed a makeover, especially in the defective nail department. I’m afraid that perfect grooming goes with the territory.’

‘I’m afraid you’re stuck with my defective nails,’ Belle countered snidely. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do with them.’

‘Belle...if I was willing to pay the surcharge,’ Dante murmured silkily, ‘they’d cut off your hands and give you new ones!’

Belle paled and linked her hands together tightly, wanting to nibble nervously but afraid of the reaction she might ignite if she succumbed to temptation. The lift doors whirred silently back and a man in a white jacket began to bow and scrape.

‘Our butler. Anything you want or need, you ask him,’ Dante informed her, walking out into the vast space awaiting them.

Dumbstruck, Belle wandered across the floor and straight out onto the balcony to lean against the elaborate wrought-iron balustrade and stare in awe at the superlative view of the slender silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, the glass roofs of the Grand Palais and the bell tower of Notre Dame Cathedral.

‘Madam...?’

She swivelled to register that the butler held a silver tray and was offering her a glass of champagne. She swallowed hard, only just resisting an urge to pinch herself to see if she was dreaming and grasped the champagne. Her glass in her hand, she was ushered back inside and up the swirling staircase to her bedroom, which was the last word in over-the-top glamour, from its brocaded walls to its soft and inviting velvet seating and subtle eau-de-Nil colouring. Far above her, ornate lace mouldings decorated the ceiling. She hastened into the bathroom and was disappointed to discover that it contained only a shower, although it was a vast wet-room affair that could have coped with a party and took up a good half of the room.

When she came downstairs again, lunch was being served and a young woman in a very stylish suit was using a tablet at Dante’s elbow. ‘Belle...this is my executive PA, Caterina. She will be scheduling your appointments here because I have meetings to attend.’

Belle sat down opposite Dante to have lunch. Not having eaten since breakfast, she was starving. Dante and his PA talked in Italian while she ate, and she watched Dante’s eyes shimmer pure gold in the sunlight before his ridiculously long black lashes skimmed down to shade them. Her mouth ran dry, her throat tightening, sudden nerves assailing her. Her fingers lifted to her mouth and at the exact same moment, Dante flashed a warning look at her. ‘Try it and I’ll plunge your hands into bowls of ice water!’ he threatened impatiently.

Her colour rising, Belle dropped her hand back to her lap. ‘Stop threatening me!’ she snapped back at him.

‘You have to learn sometime,’ Dante told her while Caterina watched the byplay in seeming fascination. ‘I’ll take you out to dine somewhere tonight...’ He turned back to his PA. ‘Make sure she’s camera-ready.’

‘Why would I need to be camera-ready?’ Belle demanded.

‘Because I expect that we will be papped at some stage of the evening.’

‘Papped?’

‘The paparazzi,’ Caterina explained. ‘Dante’s social life is always hot news in Italy.’

Caterina escorted her downstairs to the spa facilities. Belle endured one treatment after another, finally relaxing into the procedures when the less pleasant experiences were behind her. She flexed her fake nails, now long and shaped and a pale, barely noticeable pink. She reckoned not a single hair now existed anywhere on her body aside from her brows and her head. The facial and the massage that followed were soothing and the treatments concluded with an appointment with a hair stylist, who lamented at length over the sun damage to her bountiful tresses and then quietly and efficiently transformed her unmanageable mane into a sleek fall as smooth and straight as silk.

Back in her bedroom she was greeted by three women with mobile racks of clothing and cases of other items. Her size established, she didn’t get away with being shy. She donned elaborate silky lingerie while the most senior woman muttered about a good foundation for clothing being very important to an elegant appearance. Then she had to model outfit after outfit while the women argued amongst themselves about which colours and designs best suited her. She had never seen such beautiful, expensive material before or garments put together with so exceptional a finish and fit. But considering that Dante only required her to play his girlfriend for one weekend, she couldn’t credit the sheer size and diversity of the wardrobe that he evidently deemed necessary. She recalled that she would have to live her role in his home for a few days beforehand but still rolled her eyes at his extravagance. Only when she saw her unfamiliar reflection in a mirror did she stop rolling her eyes and stop worrying about what he had chosen to spend.

There she was garbed in a very slightly sparkly blue dress that might have been specially designed for her, shoestring straps adorning her shoulders, a superbly designed backless bra restraining her exuberant breasts, the hemline swirling well above her knees, her feet shod in perilously high sandals. She looked taller, slimmer, less overwhelmingly busty and she breathed a little easier, grabbing up the clutch that toned with the shoes to go down the stairs.